Lucy’s dark eyes lit up, and her lips curved in a dazzling smile. “Will you? Oh, I’d love that above anything! I warn you though, Ciaran. It won’t be easy. I’m truly dreadful.”
Ciaran chuckled. He’d spent every evening of last season dancing with London’s wallflowers. He’d escorted so many neglected ladies to the floor thetonhad dubbed him the Wallflower’s Gallant. Between one young lady and another, he’d quite literally seen all there was to see. “I’m not worried.”
Then again, if there was one young lady in England who could surprise him, it was Lucy.
* * * *
He never got the chance to be surprised.
Lucy didn’t come to the New Assembly Rooms that evening. Ciaran waited for her for hours, his eyes moving over the room again and again, straining for a glimpse of red hair.
It was all in vain.
She didn’t come, and neither did he see her pretty, dark-haired cousin or her aunt, the lady who’d accompanied them to the musical evening. Ciaran was disappointed not to have the chance to dance with Lucy, but he told himself any number of things could have happened to prevent her attendance.
He told himself there was no reason to be concerned.
It worked, at first.
But any calm he’d felt the night of the ball deserted him the following morning, when he arrived at the beach for their usual rendezvous and found it empty. She wasn’t there the next day, either, or the one after that. He escorted Lady Chase and Lady Atherton to the Pump Room and to the assemblies each night, hoping he’d find Lucy, but she was never there.
She didn’t seem to be anywhere.
He didn’t admit to himself she’d left Brighton until he went to her lodgings, desperate to find her, and discovered the villa silent and empty. There was a notice on the door informing passersby that the rooms were to let.
Lucy had disappeared.
Ciaran spent the rest of that day on the beach, watching the waves rolling against the shore, thinking about Lucy. Now he’d made up his mind to return to Scotland he wanted to leave right away, yet…
He thought about the first time he’d seen her, alone on a dark beach, risking her safety for a sunrise swim. Then the second time, the day of the prizefight at Brighton Racetrack, perched on a carriage wheel as a brawl raged around her. Even now, he wasn’t sure she understood how much danger she’d been in that day. How close she’d come to being pulled down into the crowd and trampled.
Lucy might insist she could take care of herself, argue there was nothing scandalous in wanting to experience things, but Ciaran knew thetonwouldn’t see it that way. Lucy had no idea what she’d face in London, no real concept of how cruel people could be. Brighton was its own sort of jungle, but if she dared to set even a toe outside the line in London, thetonwould pounce on her like wild animals. They’d tear her to pieces.
And shewoulddare. He knew that without question, as surely as he knew thetonwouldn’t overlook the fact she was the Earl of Bellamy’s daughter.
Barmy Bellamy.That was what the gossips in Brighton called Lucy’s father. Ciaran had heard it himself, whispered with malicious glee. He prayed Lucy didn’t know of it, but even if she’d escaped it here, she was sure to find more of the same in London.
The same, or worse.
He’d jumped into freezing sea water when he’d thought she was drowning. He’d risked a beating to snatch her free of a brawl. He’d taken blows to the face and chest, and gagged on the gushing river of blood she’d kicked from his nose.
If Lucy were here, she’d tell him to go off to Scotland at once. She’d get angry with him, and insist she didn’t need saving. Maybe she didn’t, but Ciaran had already made up his mind. There was no way he could jaunt merrily off to Scotland until he was sure she was safe.
By the time he rose from the sand, the sky above his head had gone dark and moonlight glittered on the crest of the waves. The long case clock on the second-floor landing was just announcing the ninth hour of the evening when Ciaran strolled through the entryway of their lodgings.
“Home already, are you? I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow afternoon.” Lady Chase stood at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on her cane and the other on her ample hip, glaring at him.
“I can’t think why.” Ciaran closed the door behind him. “Brighton’s entertainments are dull enough.”
Lady Chase gave him a sour look. “Well, you didn’t seem to find them so before tonight. Goodness knows you’ve spent enough of your time prowling about the darkened streets of Brighton, looking for whatever wicked entertainment is on offer.”
A grin tugged at Ciaran’s lips. “Whatever is on offer here isn’t wicked enough, I’m afraid. I’m bored to death. No, if I want satisfying debauchery, I’ll have to go to London to find it.”
“Now you listen to me, young scoundrel.” Lady Chase pointed her cane at him, ready to dress him down, but then she stopped short, eyeing him suspiciously. “Wait. Did you say London? You mean, you intend to go to London?”
She looked tremendously pleased at this idea—so pleased Ciaran had to struggle not to roll his eyes. No doubt Lady Chase had developed this sudden, intense desire to see him in London because she hoped one of the young ladies out this season would catch his eye, he’d fall madly in love with her, and put his family out of their misery.
He might have saved them the trouble. He’d only ever loved one woman. Whatever might happen in Scotland, that would never change. He might discover there was nothing left for him and Isobel, but he’d never love another.
