“That’s not how I’d describe it.” He raised one dark eyebrow at her, sat back against the squabs, and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t say another word, but fixed Lucy with a stare that had her squirming against her seat.
She frowned. He wasn’t much like the dashing Scottish heroes she’d read about in Sir Walter Scott’s novels. That is, she didn’t deny he’d acted bravely, but he wasn’t a bit gallant or charming. It was a pity, because he had the look of a hero. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, strong jaw and chin, and, of course, those blue eyes.
Surely, no man with such pretty eyes could be so utterly unappealing. She gave him a hopeful smile and tried again. “Fate has made herself clear on this matter, sir. She demands we become friends.”
For a moment she would have sworn a corner of his lip twitched, but the flash of humor was there and then gone. He didn’t respond, but continued to stare at her. The dim light in the carriage chased the blue from his eyes, leaving them a deep, shadowy gray.
As lovely as his eyes were, Lucy didn’t care to have them fixed on her with such damning intensity. “We may not like it much, but I don’t see we have any choice in the matter.”
Not a word fell from those stubborn lips. The silence in the carriage dragged on until Lucy couldn’t bear it any longer. “You look rather like a rakish sort, but that doesn’t concern me. I’m certain rakes make the most amusing friends.”
He let out an irritable sigh, jerked his hat from his head and tossed it onto the seat beside him. “Is that why you came here today, lass? For amusement? You nearly got a good deal more than you bargained for. Whoever is responsible for you should never have let you out of their sight.”
Lucy lifted her chin and met his stony gaze with a defiant look. “I’m responsible for myself.”
Legally speaking, that wasn’tquitetrue. She wouldn’t reach her majority for several weeks yet. Until then her Uncle Jarvis was responsible for her. Her, and her fortune. He was her guardian, he administered her trust, and he’d continue with both until she turned twenty-one.
Bitterness coated her throat, just as it always did when she thought of the terms of her father’s will. His affection for her was equal parts fear and love—too much of both, perhaps. It smothered her even now, nearly a year after his death.
The Scot ran a hand through dark hair matted with sweat. “If you’re so responsible, how did you end up in the midst of a brawl?”
Lucy bit back her retort and settled for an angry twitch of her skirts instead. It was provoking indeed to be accused of carelessness when she’d be safely tucked away in her villa even now if it weren’t for his tedious heroics. “I had a perfectly good plan in place to protect myself from harm, but you were so determined to rescue me you dragged me right into the middle of the chaos before I had a chance to execute it.”
His dark eyebrows shot up, and he let out an incredulous laugh. Now he’d found his tongue, he had plenty to say. “Ah, so it’s my fault you were nearly trampled to death, is it? Plan or no, I can’t think of a single good reason why you’d be—” He broke off as his gaze fell on the sketchbook and pencil still clutched in her hand. “Were youdrawing?”
Lucy looked down. She was so used to carrying her notebook about she’d forgotten she was still holding it.
She’d only had time to make a series of quick, bold strokes on a blank page of the small sketch book, but a few more rough lines—a gaping mouth here and a clenched fist there—and it was done.
She was no artist, but long ago she’d gotten into the habit of scratching out rough sketches on little bits of paper. It amused her father, who’d been a great admirer of James Gillray’s satirical prints. Her sketches were unremarkable. She lacked skill, and she’d never had much in the way of inspiring subject matter.
But this sketch was different.
Two sweating, bloody combatants at the center of the ring and the jeering crowd surrounding them…yes, she could already see how it would take shape on the page.
“You were drawing a sketch of the bout,” he repeated, his voice flat.
She turned the page toward him with a tentative smile. “Well, yes. You see, I’ve never been to a bout before, or to a brawl, or anywhere, really, and there’s no telling if I ever will be again, so I thought I’d better seize my chance while I had it.”
It seemed like a perfectly reasonable explanation to her, but he didn’t seem to agree. His mouth opened, then closed. Finally, he shook his head. “You must be mad.”
Lucy stiffened, and resentment rose like a dark cloud in her breast.
Mad. Dear God, how she detested that word.
She turned her head away as her face heated with a painful mix of shame and embarrassment. Half of England likely did think her mad, or they would soon enough.
As soon as they knew her name.
Her father’s name.
No one ever said the word “mad” in her presence. Not her father, not the servants, and not the few friends they’d had left at the end. Indeed, they’d all done their utmostneverto say it.
Mad.Daft. Insane. Dicked in the nob. Bedlamite. Lunatic.
To hear this handsome, blue-eyed Scot say that word so boldly, right to her face…
Lucy knew he didn’t mean anything by it. He couldn’t know that of all the things he might have said, it was exactly the wrong one. She didn’t blame him, really, but at the same time any urge she’d had to befriend him faded into nothingness.
