Ciaran rolled over onto his side and propped his head in his hand. “No, they can’t. Etiquette, manners, a lady’s modesty—even a gentleman’s honor all forbid it.”
It was on the tip of Lucy’s tongue to point out their odd friendship wasn’t based on either etiquette or manners, and least of all her modesty, but instead she merely shot him a disdainful look. “That’s the most absurd thing I ever heard in my life.”
Ciaran shrugged. “True, nonetheless. A gentleman and a lady might be courting, or in love, or betrothed, or lovers, but not friends.”
The trace of bitterness in his voice made Lucy pause, but she balked at letting such a statement go unchallenged. “Have you ever had…”
A lover who wasn’t a friend?
No, no, she couldn’t ask him that. Despite the sheltered life she’d led—or maybe because of it—she wasn’t prudish about such things, but even she knew better than to quiz a man about his past lovers. “What sort of man becomes betrothed to a lady, much less marries her or takes her as his, er…lover, if she isn’t also his friend?”
His lover. Dear God, Eloisa would fall into a swoon if she could hear this conversation.
Ciaran gave her a look that was both amused and pitying at once. “Every sort of man there is, I promise you. Don’t be so naïve, lass.”
Lucy was quiet for a moment, considering this. She’d never had a friend at all, never mind a betrothed or a lover, so she was hardly qualified to hold an opinion on the subject, but even so, she wouldn’t allow him to be right about this. It was simply too disheartening for her to acknowledge it as the truth. “That’s utter nonsense.”
“Is it? Tell me then, Lucy. How many gentleman friends do you have?”
You’re the only one.
Not just her only gentleman friend. Her onlyfriend. And not just for now, but for as long as she could remember. Lucy looked away from him, out toward the ocean, and lifted her face to the breeze. Before she’d come here, how long had it been since she’d felt the wind on her cheeks, or listened to the gentle swell of the waves as they rolled up to the beach?
So long, she couldn’t remember the last time.
As far as friends went, well…a lady who wasn’t allowed to leave her father’s house didn’t have friends, did she? What would Ciaran think if he knew before she’d come to Brighton, she hadn’t spoken to a single soul in two years aside from her father and their servants?
She didn’t want him to know. Not him, or anyone else. So, she kept silent.
Ciaran took this as agreement and flopped back down on his back in the sand. “It’s no wonder, is it? As soon as a gentleman even glances at a lady, some fool or other is shrieking at him to marry her. It’s not worth the risk.”
This causal pronouncement made a prickle of irritation dart down Lucy’s spine. Ciaran must have a great many friends to be able to dismiss friendship so carelessly. “A true friendship is worth any risk.” She held up her hand when he tried to interrupt. “Never mind. If that’s your only objection, then there’s no reason in the worldwecan’t be friends. I’d never agree to marry you, no matter who might shriek about it. I don’t intend to ever marry.”
Ciaran sat up again and cast her a quizzical look. “What, never?”
“That’s right. Never.”
He studied her, his brows lowered suspiciously, then his face cleared and he shrugged. “You say so now, but you’ll change your mind. In the end, every lady chooses to marry, whether or not she has any real affection for her victim…er, her betrothed, I mean.”
Lucy frowned, studying him. The way he’d said that—about a lady having no real affection for her betrothed—it sounded as if he was speaking from experience. “Haveyouever been betrothed?”
He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer her, but eventually he did. “I’ve been in love.”
Lucy couldn’t help but notice he hadn’t really answered the question. “Were you her friend?”
His laugh was bitter. “Yes, but shewasn’t mine.”
The hurt in his voice made Lucy pause. Whoever this mysterious lady was, she must have broken his heart. She let the silence stretch between them for long moments, the only sound the soft splash of the waves breaking on the beach. “Well, I’m nothing at all like most ladies. I won’t ever marry, despite what you may think. There are a great many things more important to me than marriage.”
Ciaran raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Like freedom.” Lucy bit out the word between gritted teeth. Her father had kept her locked in a gilded prison, and he’d called it love. Maybe it was a sort of love, too—the only sort he could offer her—but even as she’d adored him, she’d never willingly return to that half-life she’d lived. And what was a husband, if not another master? “I’m not the sort of lady who’s likely to fall in love, in any case.”
Ciaran studied her without speaking. Finally, a faint smile drifted across his lips. “I don’t believe you are like every other lady, Lucy. Not like any other lady I’ve ever known.”
He rose to his feet and brushed off his breeches, then held a hand out to her. Lucy took it, and he helped her up. When she gained her feet, they were standing far closer than she’d anticipated they would be. So close she could breathe in the faint scent of the ocean breeze clinging to his skin, and see the black starburst at the center of his eyes.
That’s why they’re so blue.
