But now, here was the stark evidence, standing before her in the queue for the carriages. Cass and Derek were courting. They were. Lucy might have said she wanted this, but she couldn’t take it. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever, but she certainly wasn’t strong enough now. Oh, why had she allowed Jane to needle her into coming to the theater tonight?
She whirled around in a panic to enter their coach, which had just pulled up, and nearly knocked poor Christian over. “May we go immediately, please?” she begged, looking up into the viscount’s angelic blue eyes.
Christian nodded. “Of course. Immediately.” He snapped his fingers and the footmen attending his coach came to help. Christian himself handed Lucy into the carriage. Jane and Garrett soon followed and the carriage took off quickly, rattling down the muddy street.
***
Derek helped Cassandra and her mother into the interior of his coach, but his mind kept replaying the moment he’d seen Berkeley’s hand on Lucy’s back. Derek clenched his jaw. He wanted to tear Berkeley limb from limb.
Derek had hoped coming to the theater tonight with Lady Cassandra would help him learn something about Lucy, but Cassandra had been surprisingly tight-lipped about her friend. Every question he’d attempted to ask about Lucy had been met with the unwelcome news that Cassandra and Lucy apparently hadn’t spoken since they’d returned from Bath.
“Every time I’ve tried to pay a call or send a missive, Lucy’s said she wasn’t feeling well or made some other excuse. I’m not certain what’s wrong with her. I’ve been worried, Your Grace,” Cassandra told him.
Cassandra’s mother, however, seemed positively delighted to have the opportunity to accompany her daughter and the duke to the theater, despite his constant inquiries about Lucy.
“Oh, Your Grace. Why, I don’t know when Cassandra and I have had a better time.”
Derek winced. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in asking Cassandra to the theater tonight. The way Lady Moreland was staring at him like a soldier presented with his ration of rum, he got the distinct impression that the woman was raising her hopes quite high that an offer from a duke was forthcoming for her daughter. Very well. He must face it. It had been wrong of him to ask Cassandra to accompany him tonight, but how else was he to learn anything about Lucy? She’d made it quite clear she didn’t want to see him again.
While he waited for word from Wellington in France, telling him whether he’d be allowed to return to the Continent to help search for Swifdon and Rafe, Derek had taken up his issues with Lucy again full force. He’d paid a call to Cass that afternoon, intending that to be the extent of their interaction. When Lady Moreland had come in carrying the tea tray herself and joining the conversation, Derek had been forced to abandon his questioning about Lucy. Instead, they’d had a perfectly boring conversation about the weather and a small variety of other socially acceptable topics before Lady Moreland had asked after his plans this evening. When he’d mentioned he intended to attend the theater, she’d practically leaped across the settee at him in her extremely ill-concealed attempts to invite herself along. “Oh, Cassandra and I love Shakespeare’s comedies, Your Grace. We think our butler may be related to him, you know? We’ve so wanted to attend the theater. We would simply adore it.”
Derek had expelled his breath, resigned to his fate. He remembered his own rude behavior weeks earlier when Cass had told him about her trip to Bath. He’d invited himself along then. Surely Lady Moreland’s self-invitation to the theater wasn’t as egregious as following someone to another town. Accompanying the lady and her daughter to a play would be a pleasant enough way to spend an evening.
He’d been wrong. At least on the last count. Lady Moreland had dropped unsubtle hints the entire night about her desire to see her daughter marry well. For her part, poor Cassandra had mentioned Swift more times than Derek could count, and the entire evening had been beyond awkward. To make matters worse, he’d learned practically nothing about Lucy.
Lucy.
When she’d seen him tonight, she’d gone as white as a sheet and turned away. Derek clenched his fist against the velvet squabs in his coach. Then he’d noticed Berkeley. White-hot anger had flashed before Derek’s eyes. Why did he have to see her with Berkeley of all people? Berkeley? Fine. Berkeley and her cousin Garrett were mates, but it didn’t make it any easier to watch the viscount touch Lucy. It fact, it incensed Derek. Had Berkeley got some other poor sop to agree to write her letters in his stead?
Derek pressed the side of his fist against the coach’s window. Everything about the way things had been left with Lucy incensed him. First, he’d finally decided exactly what he must do to make everything right and she’d refused to cooperate, telling him he must marry Cass. He couldn’t marry Cass. How could Lucy not understand that? And second, she’d unilaterally decided exactly how their entire future would go without consulting him. It couldn’t be that easy for her, could it? She’d felt something when she’d been in his arms. He knew it. There had to be something more going on. Lucy was scared. Scared of her feelings, scared enough to run away from him and use Cassandra as an excuse to ignore the budding relationship they’d obviously begun together. Damn it. It wasn’t fair of her.
And why had she been with Berkeley? She’d told Derek once she had no intention of marrying. Or didn’t think she would. He’d tried to ask about Berkeley then but she’d abruptly changed the subject. Was she using Berkeley to try to erase Derek from her mind? Berkeley. A simpering fool who couldn’t even write his own letters? By God, the next time he saw the viscount, Derek would pound him into pulp.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
When the door to her bedchamber flew open the next afternoon, Lucy blinked in surprise. She’d been sitting at her desk, writing her obligatory weekly letter to her mother. She assured her mother that she was in good health—not that her mother cared—well chaperoned—not that her mother cared—and still entirely without the prospect of a husband—not that her mother cared, much. But still, Lucy wrote. Hoping one day her mother might show some interest.
At the loud crack of the door against the wall, Lucy dropped the quill and snapped up her head.
“There you are!” Cass stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips looking like a beautiful, angry, blond virago.
Lucy half rose from her writing desk. “Why… What? Cass, what are you doing here?”
Cass’s breath came in deep pants, and she pressed her hands against her belly. “As usual, the butler tried to tell me that you were indisposed but I raced up here. He tried to chase me, poor fellow. I find I’m actually quite fast. I had no idea.” She proudly lifted her chin in the air.
As if on cue, the butler arrived just then in the doorway. He was panting as well, and he looked to Lucy with a guilty countenance. “My lady, I do apologize, but…”
“It’s all right, Milhaven,” Lucy said. “It seems Lady Cassandra has found me.”
Cass aimed a triumphant smile at the butler. Milhaven bowed to them both and took his leave.
“That’ll teach him to try to outrun me again.” Cass trotted over, pulled off her gloves, and took a seat next to the window. “I must say, I believe Shakespierre would have caught me, however.”
Lucy couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t try to outrun Shakespierre. Not on a dare. But I cannot help but think your association with me has taught you bad manners, Cass. Outrunning the butler? That’s more like something I would do.”
Cass slapped her gloves onto the writing desk and braced her elbows atop it, still working her breathing back to rights. “Enough about running from the butler. Now do you deny hiding from me the last three sennights?”
Wincing, Lucy twirled the quill around the parchment and forced herself to look at her friend. “No. I’ve been awful. Can you forgive me? I have no excuse.”
