He briefly considered lying to her, but that was no way to start a friendship. “I did. They’re very good.”
She frowned. “No, they aren’t. You needn’t flatter me. I don’t pretend to be an artist.”
“But they are good, though not in the usual way.” Why should they be? Nothing else about her was in the usual way. “Shall I tell you which are my favorites?”
She hadn’t expected that. Her brows rose in surprise. “If you like.”
“The older gentleman, with the thick, white hair and the flushed cheeks. He looks both disapproving and delighted at once. Is he your father?”
“No. Our butler, Popple. He was trying to teach me the quadrille, but I’m afraid I’m an indifferent pupil.”
“An excellent swimmer, though.” Ciaran offered her a hesitant grin.
She tried to resist a return smile, but her lips gave an unwilling twitch. “An excellent swimmer, yes. Do you have any other favorites?”
“The Famous Battle between Dozens of Unknown Scoundrels Fought at Brighton in Sussex, May 1818,” Ciaran answered at once. “Clever reference to Gillray’s print.”
Another reluctant twitch of the lips. “My father was fond of Gillray.”
They stood there staring at each other. Her expression was faintly puzzled, as if she didn’t know what to make of this encounter, but after a moment she drew up her hood. “Thank you for returning the notebook to me. You’re very kind,” she said, before turning away.
Ciaran watched her stroll down the sandy beach, a slender, hooded figure, a few strands of her red hair blowing in the breeze. She’d made it halfway—just far enough for an odd sinking sensation to squeeze his chest—when he gave in to the sharp urge lodged somewhere under his breastbone.
Before he could talk himself out of it, a shout burned its way up his throat and flew out of his mouth. “Tell me your name, lass!”
She turned back to him, hesitating, but just when he’d given up any hope of an answer, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted something to him.
“What?” He couldn’t make it out. He started toward her, but she waved him back.
“My name is Lucy!” she called again.
When she lowered her hands from her mouth, Ciaran saw she was smiling, and his lips curved in response.
“Just Lucy?” he called back.
He was certain she’d heard him, but she didn’t reply—only resumed her trek across the sand. Once she reached the road she paused, then turned and gave him a small wave before disappearing around a corner.
Lucy. The Earl of Bellamy’s daughter. It wasn’t much to go on. It would be difficult to find out much about her until he discovered her full name.
Ciaran was halfway to his lodgings before it occurred to him she didn’t want it to be easy. This was just the way she’d intended it.
* * * *
The following day
Five forty in the morning.
Lucy rested her arms on her bent knees and squinted at the bluff, her bare toes curling into the sand. She’d been coming out to the beach for her sunrise swim every morning since her arrival in Brighton, but this morning she didn’t venture into the water.
She was waiting.
She’d have to return to her lodgings soon. Her Uncle Jarvis didn’t generally wake before noon, but she wouldn’t tempt fate, just the same. The servants didn’t pry into her comings and goings, but if her uncle found out about her solitary jaunts to the beach he’d fall into a dreadful temper, and her cousin and aunt would feel his wrath just as surely as Lucy would.
Ten more minutes, and not a second longer—
“Haven’t drowned yet, lass?”
The deep, lilting voice came from behind her. A delighted smile rose to Lucy’s lips, but she tamped it down before she turned to glance at him over her shoulder. It wouldn’t do to look too eager. “No. I haven’t gone in this morning. I was just sitting here watching the sky, and…”
