She was whisked upstairs to an elegant bedchamber. They bustled about until the bed was aired and the fire lit, then fussed and soothed a dazed Lucy into a soft, warm night rail, and tucked her under the covers.
They were kind to her. Too kind to ask any questions, though Lady Iris did pause on her way out the door and turn back to Lucy, her expression thoughtful.
Lucy waited, resisting the urge to dive under the coverlet.
“We trust Ciaran,” Lady Iris murmured, her deep blue gaze holding Lucy’s dark one. “If he’s brought you here, Lady Lucinda, he’s done so for a reason.”
Then she was gone, the door closing with a soft click behind her.
Lucy stared at it for a moment, then flopped back onto the bed and tugged the coverlet up under her chin. Ciaran had his reasons, yes, each one more noble than the last.
She was his best friend. She needed his protection. He’d compromised her.
So many reasons, but not one of them the right one.
He’d never said a word about love.
He’d held her in his arms last night. She shivered as she remembered how his warmth had surrounded her, the strong, steady thump of his heart echoing against her cheek. It had felt so real—so close to being what she’d always imagined love should be.
She’d felt as if she belonged there, wrapped in his arms.
The entire ride from Windsor to Huntington House, her head had been trying to convince her heart it was enough.
It almost worked.
Almost.
Lucy let her eyes fall closed on a deep sigh. She expected sleep to prove elusive, but for once, her body overruled her mind and heart. The faint crackle of the fire faded as sleep stole over her, gathering her into its soothing embrace.
Tomorrow. She’d think about what to do tomorrow…
She woke with a start some time later. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep, but the bedchamber was lost in shadows. Still nighttime, then. She blinked into the dark. Why had she woken?
There’d been a noise—
“Lucy.” Ciaran’s voice was the quietest whisper, but he was so close she could feel him, the softest tickle of his breath against her face.
Lucy struggled to sit up, but Ciaran stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Lie back down, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
His voice was so soft when he said it, almost reverent, and a delicious shiver drifted down Lucy’s spine. He’d never spoken to her in quite that tone before, his voice like fingertips dancing over her skin.
It didn’t occur to her to wonder why Ciaran was in her bedchamber in the middle of the night. She simply reached for him, her fingers slipping into his hand. “Ciaran? Is everything all right?”
He stared down at her without answering, then he sank onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. “Well, I’m still breathing. My brothers haven’t killed me yet, so I suppose that’s a good sign.”
Lucy winced. “I imagine they aren’t pleased.”
“They’re concerned, and they have reason to be. I’m concerned too, Lucy.”
“Me, too.” Not about the same things Ciaran was, though. She was concerned about heartbreak, loneliness, a lifetime of being haunted by the man sitting beside her, the faint glow of moonlight on his beautiful face.
Ciaran was concerned with honor, duty, friendship, obligation. All worthy things, but none of them enough, no matter how much she loved him. She’d spent years of her life locked inside a gilt cage, all in the name of love. She knew the truth.
You couldn’t trap love inside a closed fist.
She sighed. “What did you tell them? Your brothers, I mean.”
