It was a dreadful crush. It looked as if Lord and Lady Weatherby had invited every person in London to their ball this evening. It would explain whythey’dreceived an invitation. The Weatherbys were quite fashionable, and Lucy and the Jarvises…weren’t. Perhaps thetonhad discovered she was an heiress and had decided to forgive her for having a mad father.
Then again, perhaps they hadn’t. Not a single gentleman had spared her a glance so far this evening, and no one had asked her to dance. Under any other circumstances, Lucy might have been relieved at that, her dancing skills still not being quite what they should be, despite Monsieur Guilland’s frenzied instruction.
But a dance was her only chance to escape her tormentors. Even a humiliating half-hour at the quadrille was preferable to enduring a public encounter with Lord Godfrey.
“I’m going to the ladies’ retiring room.”
Lucy half-rose from her seat, preparing to flee, but Eloisa grabbed a fold of her skirt to stop her. “Wait, Lucy. Lord Vale is here, and Lady Felicia and Mr. Ramsey with him. They’re coming this way.”
Lucy followed Eloisa’s gaze and saw Ciaran, his dark head towering over the crowd. She sagged back against her chair, nearly dizzy with relief. He’d promised he’d be here tonight, yet it was remarkable, wasn’t it, the way he always appeared just when she needed him most?
“I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.” Lucy turned to Eloisa and saw a flood of color was now staining her cousin’s cheeks, just as it always did whenever Lord Vale appeared. “Oh, Eloisa—”
“No, Lucy. You needn’t look at me like that. I haven’t the slightest interest in Lord Vale’s arrival. I certainly won’t dance with him, if that’s what you’re thinking, no matter how much he teases.”
Lucy said nothing, but she thought, not for the first time, that Eloisa’s blush gave her away.
* * * *
Ciaran had hardly taken a step inside the Weatherby ballroom before he was looking for the tell-tale glint of copper hidden among the sea of fair- and dark-haired ladies.
Ah, just there. Flashing dark eyes, red lips, a stubborn chin, and a headful of shining red hair framing a perfect face. Each time he saw Lucy, he thought her more beautiful than he had the time before.
He stood rooted to the spot, a faint smile on his lips as he waited for her to notice him.
It didn’t take long. It never did.
Wherever they happened to be—at a prizefight, on a beach in Brighton, at an overcrowded ball in a London ballroom—somehow, they always seemed to find each other. It was as if some irresistible force was determined to pull them together.
Fate, or coincidence? Destiny, or luck? Ciaran no longer cared. He cared only when he wanted or needed her, she was always there.
Was it the same for her?
As if in answer, Lucy’s head turned toward them, as though she’d sensed his presence as soon as he entered the room. A smile lit her face when her gaze landed on him. As always, that smile pulled him toward her as surely as if she had him dangling on a string.
Lady Felicia had seen them, too. She let out a little cry of joy and tugged at her brother’s arm. “Lady Lucinda and Miss Jarvis are here already, just over there.”
“I see them.” Vale was hurrying across the room, his gaze locked on Eloisa Jarvis.
Ciaran followed along behind them, his own gaze lingering on Lucy.
Lady Lucinda. He was always momentarily startled when anyone referred to her by her title. He never thought of her as anything butLucy. Maybe it was because of the unconventional way they’d met. It was hard for a man to think of any female who’d kicked him in the face asLadyanything.
Or maybe it was just because her title didn’t suit her. It didn’t fit.Shedidn’t fit—not inside this ballroom, or among this company. She looked like some sort of exotic butterfly caught in a net, or a succulent piece of ripe fruit in an otherwise barren orchard.
The taste of her, tart and sweet on his tongue…
Ciaran’s mouth flooded with moisture, but he forced himself to swallow it down and gather his wits. Another man might allow himself to be dazzled by those velvety dark eyes, but Ciaran didn’t have that luxury.
She was a friend only. Of course, that was all she was. They’d agreed on it. He’d hadn’t known Lucy for longer than a week before they’d decided that. It had been a promise—a pact, of sorts—and she’d never asked for anything more from him than friendship. Never given him any reason to think she wanted anything other than that. Revealing his attraction for her would only end in confusion and recriminations.
He couldn’t give in to his desire for Lucy, no matter how tempting she was. No matter if he couldn’t stop thinking of her lips—
No, damn it.
No lips. No soft, creamy skin. No wavy tendrils of red hair brushing the secret, sensitive place behind her ear…
But it was no use. Ciaran had had this same argument with himself dozens of times since he’d arrived in London, but somehow, he still couldn’t get Lucy into the proper place in his thoughts. He couldn’t recall ever being so preoccupied with a woman in his life—not even his betrothed.
