Lucy’s eyes widened as her mind seized on an idea. A courtship would be enough, surely? A courtship that lasted just until her twenty-first birthday, followed by a quick jilting once her fortune was out of reach of her grasping uncle.
A feigned courtship. Wasn’t it just possible it would work as well as the feigned swoon had?
“Lucy? Are you all right? You have the strangest look on your face.”
Lucy jerked her gaze to Ciaran. “I, ah…”
The Wallflower’s Gallant. A gentleman with a decidedly heroic turn, who, against all odds, just happened to be here in London when she needed him most.
A gentleman who just happened to be her dearest friend.
Lucy met his gaze, her teeth scoring her lower lip. “I’m very well, but I have something to ask you, Ciaran. You see, it’s just…that is, I’d consider it a great favor if you’d agree to…I need you to help me with…”
Her voice faded, and she lapsed into an embarrassed silence. As it turned out, it was far more difficult to ask your dearest friend to pretend to court you and then jilt you than she’d thought it would be. Truly, how did one ask such a thing? Especially when one was in love with that friend and he hadn’t the least idea of returning the sentiment.
“Lucy?” Ciaran leaned toward her. A beam of light from the townhouse fell across his face and she could see his eyes were dark with concern. “What can I do?”
Well, now you ask…
Lucy drew in a deep breath, but while her mind was still working on a delicate way to phrase it her mouth took the liberty of blurting it out. “I need you to pretend to court me this season. Another suitor will discourage Lord Godfrey from pressing his suit. Once I’ve turned twenty-one and am no longer under my uncle’s protection, you’ll jilt me.”
His smiled vanished. “Lucy…”
Lucy flinched. His voice was gentle. Fartoogentle. The sort of gentleness one used when they were about to refuse their best friend a favor.
Granted, it was quite abigfavor.
In the next moment, that was what he did. “I’m not staying in London, Lucy. I’m leaving for Scotland in the next few days.”
“Scotland?” Lucy’s stomach lurched. “You…you’re leaving?”
Of course.He’d told her all about Scotland, about how he’d been longing to go back and see if he could salvage any part of the life he’d left behind. She’d encouraged him to go. She’d scolded him, called him a wastrel, and told him to find something useful to do.
He’d done just as she bid him.
“Will you stay away long?” Lucy had to force the next words past the lump in her throat. “You’ll come back to England again, won’t you?”
“England?” He blinked, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “I-I don’t know, Lucy. I won’t know until I see what awaits me in Scotland.”
“I see. I…yes, of course.” She tried to say something more, to reassure him it was all right—that she’d be all right—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she tightened her grip on his hands, her eyes closing when his warm fingers wrapped around hers.
Lucy’s throat ached. She’d never been one to hide before, but as the sting of tears pressed behind her eyes she leaned back, away from the beam of light from the townhouse.
Just then, she was grateful for the darkness.
Chapter Eleven
To most Londoners, Thomas Wilson’s Dancing Academy was a respectable establishment. A place where ladies and gentlemen without the means to hire private dancing masters could learn to shuffle about the dance floor gracefully enough not to attract scorn at the next ball of the season.
To Lucy, it was the ninth circle of hell.
“No, no, Lady Lucinda! Youjettéforward onto theleftfoot, return to third position, and add anassemblébehind!” The dancing master, Monsieur Guilland, patted at his flushed forehead with a damp handkerchief. “I beg you, mademoiselle. Pay attention!”
Lucyhadbeen paying attention. She’d paid such close attention her head was spinning and her eyes burning from the strain of trying to follow Monsieur Guilland’s gesticulations. Her efforts hadn’t made the least bit of difference. Her feet ached, and Monsieur Guilland looked as limp as his ruined handkerchief.
She lowered her right foot to the floor with a defeated sigh. She was tempted to throw her fan in Monsieur Guilland’s outraged face, but to be fair, this was also likelyhisidea of the ninth circle of hell, and Lucy the most tormenting of the demons surrounding him.
“If you don’t learn the proper foot positions you’ll confuse your partner. You risk the entire set falling into confusion!” Monsieur Guilland waved a tragic hand at Lucy’s partners in the set, who were all standing about in various states of bewilderment. “Is that what you want, Lady Lucinda?”
