“Well, well. You’re a good girl, Lucinda.” Aunt Jarvis settled her arm more comfortably against Lucy’s. “Shall we go, then?”
Lucy could feel a pair of blue eyes boring into her back as they made their way out the door of the New Assembly Rooms and toward the line of waiting coaches. She shivered as the hair on her neck rose, but she didn’t turn around.
With any luck, she’d never lay eyes on the man again.
Chapter Six
The following day
Five o’clock in the morning
“For God’s sakes, Ramsey, be still, will you? You’re as jumpy as a scalded cat tonight. You’re distracting me from my cards.” Lord Godfrey slammed his fist down and the mess of discarded cards, coins, and slips of paper scattered across the table jumped from the force of the blow.
Ciaran’s head jerked up. He’d been restless all evening, fidgeting and cursing over his cards, and if the scowls on the faces of the other six gentlemen at the table were any indication, Godfrey wasn’t the only one who was distracted.
Something hot and angry flickered in his chest, and his jaw went tight. He glanced from one face to the next, his eyes narrowed.
I don’t want to be here.
Just like that the truth burst upon him, as sudden as it was undeniable.
He hadn’t wanted to be here for days now. He was sick of this cramped room in the back of the Castle Inn. Sick of the smoking fire, and sick of the haze of snuff dusting the air. Sick of the company. Especially Lord Godfrey, who was slipperier than a muddy London street and about as honest as a pickpocket.
Sick of himself.
He tossed his cards face down on the table, snatched his coat from the back of his chair, and slammed out the door without a word of explanation to anyone. He turned left on Castle Square and kept walking until he disappeared into the small, winding streets off Lewes Road.
He wasn’t going anywhere in particular. Just a random stroll, to clear his head. He didn’t have a destination in mind, or someplace special he needed to be.
Or so he told himself, as he wandered the darkened streets.
If he gave any conscious thought to his direction, he wouldn’t go. He’d been fighting the urge to return to the lonely little stretch of beach since the morning he’d dragged her out of the water. He didn’t want to go there now, but he knew he’d never have another moment’s peace until he did.
He couldn’t say whether he hoped she’d be there, or if he hoped the opposite. He wasn’t sure it mattered. Either way his footsteps led him there, to the rock wall circling the beach where he’d last seen the troublesome redheaded chit who, despite his every attempt to banish her, still haunted his thoughts.
He didn’twantto be her friend. Between the prizefight brawl and her ill-advised swimming adventures, he couldn’t imagine a more troublesome young lady. But he found he no longer had a choice.
He couldn’t stay away.
He scanned the surf, straining for a glimpse of a dark, wet head bobbing among the rolling waves. It was some time before he caught a quick movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned just in time to see her toss her head to clear the mass of wet hair from her face.
As soon as he saw her, the tight thing he’d been carrying inside for days unfurled and loosened. He filled his lungs with the crisp sea air and tried to remember the last time he’d taken such a deep, cleansing breath.
He watched her for a while as she kicked and frolicked in the water, then he leapt from the rock wall to the beach. He waited until she rose dripping from the waves, looking like some sort of mythical ocean creature with her bright hair lying in tangled curls down her back. A harmless mermaid, or a dangerous siren. Ciaran wasn’t sure which, but after days of struggling to stay away from her, he no longer cared.
She emerged from the sea, water streaming from her hair, and began to make her way up the beach. Ciaran saw the moment when she noticed him, but she didn’t stumble or stop, nor did her expression change. She wandered toward the rock where the gray cloak and length of toweling were folded neatly, just as they’d been that first day. She didn’t speak to him, or even spare him a glance until she’d run the towel over her hair, tugged her cloak on, and laced her boots. Only then did she turn to him. She fixed him with a look that was both bland and penetrating at once, and asked, “What are you doing here?”
Ciaran’s cravat suddenly felt as if it were choking him. He had to resist the urge to slide a finger underneath to loosen it. “I, ah…I have something of yours. I wanted to return it.”
It wasn’t the real reason he’d come, but she looked so forbidding he couldn’t bring himself to tell her he’d changed his mind and wanted to be her friend, after all.
Wanted it with the sort of desperation he hadn’t felt in months.
“My notebook.” She held out her hand.
Ciaran swung the coat off his shoulder, dug around in the inside pocket, and placed the small book in her palm.
Her fingers closed around it. “Did you look through it?”
