So why shouldn’t Lucy hold out for love?
She’d still believed there was a chance she would come home to England and The Gentle Rogue would set eyes on her and fall into her arms.
And there was the other thing that was bothering her about this evening’s horrid conclusion.
Thornecliff had called her “Lively.”When he came out of The Grand Hotel to chase her down in the street and make sure he was able to triumph over her up close and in person, he’d called out to stop her, and he’d shouted, “Lively!”
Exactly what The Gentle Rogue used to call her.
It wasn’t a nickname anyone else in Lucy’s life had ever used, though she supposed it wasn’t impossible that two men could have come up with it independently.
That made more sense than the alternative, though there had been another moment, when Thornecliff’s lips touched hers for the first time and Lucy could have sworn— But it couldn’t be.
It couldn’t be true.Therefore, it must not be true.
You’re trying to justify your poor judgment, Lucy told herself with scathing clarity.You had the bad taste to lust over the Duke of Thornecliff, so you’re trying to make your lapse less awful by wallpapering over Thornecliff with the identity of a man who isn’t a dissipated rake.
Just then, she heard atap-tap-tapat her window.
The storm had blown itself out hours ago, but it was still windy enough to toss the branches of the willow tree in the back garden against the panes of glass in Lucy’s bedroom window at the rear of Ashbourn House.That was all it was.
But then it came again.Tap-tap-tap.Just a little too regular and rhythmic to be a tree branch.
Tossing aside the counterpane, Lucy slid out of bed and plucked her dressing gown off the chair in front of the vanity.She drew it around herself on the way to the window, where she threw open the heavy, tasseled velvet curtains to search the shadowed garden below.
The rows of rose bushes sparkled in the moonlight, their tightly furled petals and glossy leaves still wet from the rain shower.Lucy peered down at the trailing branches of the weeping willow…and caught her breath when a dark figure stepped out of the shadows and tilted his head up toward her.
He was dressed all in black, with a black mask covering the top half of his face and a black scarf obscuring his hair.
The Gentle Rogue.
He came.Lucy’s heart leapt into her throat, her pulse racing, and for the merest second, the thought flitted through her head that The Gentle Rogue wasn’t the man she wished to see at her window tonight.
Cursing herself and shoving that stupid thought away with all her might, Lucy lifted the sash and leaned out the window.
“Shall I come down?”she whisper-shouted at him, but he shook his head.
“It’s damp.I’ll come up.”
The low voice, gruff and velvety, sent a very welcome shiver through Lucy.But how did he propose to get up to her window?The willow tree wouldn’t hold him.
Ought she to go down and unlock the front door for him?The prospect of smuggling six-plus feet of highwayman through her brother’s home made Lucy bite her lip in consternation, but she couldn’t leave him standing out there.
Oh, God.What if Sir Colin was having her brother’s house watched?The Rogue needed to get inside, immediately.
Before Lucy could panic and race downstairs to drag him into the house, The Gentle Rogue tilted his head, appearing to study the rose trellis under her window.
He set his boot to one of the bottom rungs to test it.And it must have held, because in less time than it took for Lucy to hurriedly tie the satin sash on her dressing gown, The Gentle Rogue had scaled the trellis and was climbing in her open window.
ChapterTwelve
Moonlight streamed through the casement behind him, which Thorne knew cast his face into the deepest of shadows while illuminating every line of Lucy’s tall, slim form.
He hovered with a hand still on the window frame, full of unaccustomed hesitation.
The sight of her struck the sense from his head.All he could do was stare.
Lucy stared back at him, eyes wide and lit from within by whatever life force it was that made her seem to crackle with energy, even when standing still.Swathed in a saffron velvet brocade dressing gown, she glowed in the dim bedchamber.
