Lucy shook her head. Her throat was too tight to speak.
Mr. Ramsey. Ciaran Ramsey.
Lady Felicia followed her gaze and let out a little laugh. “Oh, I see. Mr. Ramsey looks a bit terrifying, doesn’t he?”
“No,” Lucy whispered, too softly for her companion to hear her. He wasn’t terrifying at all. Quite the opposite. He was gentle, tender-hearted—a man who saved wallflowers from humiliation and careless young ladies from being trampled in a brawl. A hero on the beach and in the ballroom, with a slightly bent nose and the kindest eyes she’d ever seen.
“He isn’t in the least, I assure you,” Lady Felicia said. “But there, he’s seen me now, so you’ll find out for yourself how perfectly lovely he is.”
Hewaslovely. The loveliest gentleman Lucy had ever known.
And he was coming straight toward her.
She released the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and waited for his gaze to find hers. When it did… when it did…Lucy’s heart thudded to life again with a sudden, painful leap.
I’m not the sort of lady who falls in love.
That’s what she’d told Ciaran, one of those dark mornings on the beach when the friendship between them was still new enough she’d believed those words to be true.
They weren’t. All it took was one glance into the blue eyes she remembered so well, and the truth swept over her, too powerful to be denied.
Shewasthe sort of lady who fell in love.
She’d fallen in love with Ciaran Ramsey.
Chapter Nine
Ciaran passed under the archway leading into Lady Ivey’s ballroom with a sigh of resignation already on his lips. This was all Vale’s fault. If it weren’t for Vale he’d be at the Pantheon right now, searching for a telltale flash of coppery red hair.
He gulped in a breath of the stale air and made his way into the ballroom. He was here now. It was too late to avoid the inevitable. The sooner he danced with Lady Felicia, the sooner he could escape to Oxford Street, where the first subscription ball of the season was being held in the Pantheon’s Assembly Rooms.
If Lucy was in London, that was the most likely place to find her.
She wouldn’t behere. Lady Ivey was a kind soul, at least as far as fashionable London hostesses went, but she washaute ton, and would doubtless have drawn up her guest list from the ranks of the upper ten thousand.
The Earl of Bellamy’s daughter wouldn’t have been on it.
Ciaran’s gaze roamed over the crowd, searching for a glimpse of either Vale or Lady Felicia. He saw a few familiar feminine faces at the edges of the crush—ladies he’d danced with last season, when he’d devoted himself to London’s wallflowers—but he didn’t see any sign of either Vale or his sister.
Just one evening, Vale had said. A single ball, and no more than that. Surely Ramsey could spare a single evening for his dear friend? It was Lady Felicia’s second season, and her first had ended in disappointment. Surely Ramsey thought Lady Felicia deserved another chance to triumph? Surely Ramsey could see Felicia was as lovely a young lady as anyone could find?
Yes, Ciaran could see. That was the trouble. It would be a damn sight more convenient if he couldn’t, but God knew it would have taken a harder heart than his to look into Lady Felicia’s pleading blue eyes this afternoon and refuse to help her.
Especially after he’d spent all of last season dancing with every wallflower languishing on the sidelines of London’s ballrooms—something Vale hadn’t hesitated to remind him of. Squiring the wallflowers about last season had been good fun, but he’d never aspired to become the Wallflower’s Gallant. Or anyone’s gallant, come to that—
“Well, you look grim enough, Ramsey. It’s a ball, you know, not a funeral.”
Ciaran turned at the low drawl and found Vale at his elbow, an amused grin on his face. “Not much difference between the two, is there?” Ciaran asked.
Vale laughed. “Not for the gentlemen, no. Balls leads to courtships, and courtship to marriage. Either way, a burial awaits.”
Ciaran grimaced. “What a cheerful thought. Allow me to thank you again for insisting I come tonight.”
Vale slapped him on the back. “Eh, you’re safe enough. Felicia doesn’t want to marryyou, so there’s no need for you to go about looking like a fox cornered by hounds. Felicia’s a good girl, and my sister, you know. Can’t leave her at loose ends, can I?”
Ciaran rolled his eyes. He recognized that pathetic, doting expression on Vale’s face. He’d worn it himself, every time his own sister Isla wheedled a favor out of him. It was the look of fond elder brothers everywhere.
Of course, that didn’t explain whyhewas here. Felicia Wroth wasn’thissister.
