“Yes. I’ll come with you.”
Relief flooded Ciaran’s face. “We’ll leave for Buckinghamshire tomorrow. They won’t think to look for you there until it’s too late.”
He didn’t mention his proposals from earlier that night, and Lucy didn’t ask. She turned to look at Lord Vale. “Eloisa, and my aunt?”
“They’ll be safe. I promise it, Lady Lucinda. Markham and I will make sure of it.”
Lord Markham was cradling Lady Felicia against his chest, but his gaze met Lucy’s over the top of Felicia’s golden head. “I promise it, too.”
After that, there was nothing to say but goodbye. It was quick and tearful. By the time Lucy was tucked into Lord Vale’s carriage beside Ciaran, she felt as if her heart had been torn from her chest.
She didn’t realize she was crying until Ciaran’s fingertips swept across her cheeks, gathering up her tears. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I can’t bear it.”
“Am I crying?”
Ciaran didn’t answer. Not in words. But he took her hand, his fingers warm around hers, and pressed her palm against the center of his chest, over his heart.
Chapter Twenty
“Your brother’s house is very grand.” Lucy’s voice was hushed, her steps hesitant as she crossed the marble entryway of the Grosvenor Square house.
Itwasgrand. Pity they couldn’t stay here, but this was the first place in London Jarvis would come looking for Lucy.
“He’s a marquess. They all have grand houses.” Ciaran was only half a step behind her, but she didn’t turn to look at him when he spoke. She’d been avoiding his gaze since he’d handed her down from the carriage.
Why won’t she look at me?
“A marquess,” she repeated blankly, as if she weren’t quite sure what the word meant. “Yes, of course. I—I forgot.”
“Lucy. Look at me.” Ciaran drew closer to her, so close he could see the fine red tendrils of hair curling against her neck. He lay a hand on her shoulder and turned her toward him, and understood at once why she’d been hiding her face from him.
Her eyes were red, her lips trembling, her long, thick eyelashes damp with tears.
Ciaran’s heart twisted. He’d never been able to withstand a lady’s tears. As a child he couldn’t bear it when his sister Isla wept. If one of his boyish pranks made her cry, he’d grovel and plead with her to forgive him, his stomach in knots until her tears dried.
That pain was nothing more than a shadow compared to this. Seeing Lucy cry made him feel as if his heart were being ripped from his chest. “Come here.” His voice was gruff, but his big hands were careful as he pulled her into his arms.
“I just…I don’t understand how my uncle could do this. I never imagined people could be so cruel, Ciaran.” She was shuddering against him, her fingers curling into his coat as if she were holding onto him for dear life. “I always thought it was wrong of my father to hide away from the world, but now…perhaps he wasn’t so mad, after all.”
Ciaran gathered Lucy tighter against him. Mad, or sane—what did it matter if the Earl of Bellamy had been one, or the other? The man had loved his daughter, and Lucy had loved him. That was enough for Ciaran.
So, he said nothing, only wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders and guided her down the darkened hallway to the study. He seated her in a deep chair in front of the fire, then ducked out again. He hadn’t summoned the butler, but like all his brother’s servants, Travers was well trained. Ciaran asked that Lord Vale’s carriage be sent back to Portman Square, and everything made ready for a journey into Buckinghamshire.
The sooner he and Lucy left Grosvenor Square behind them, the better.
Travers hurried off to see Ciaran’s things packed and order the traveling coach, and Ciaran returned to the study. He’d had a bottle of sherry and glasses sent here earlier in the evening, and now he paused beside the desk to pour a measure for Lucy. He was turning away when he caught sight of something he hadn’t noticed before.
It was a letter from his sister, Isla. She’d written him back at last.
He plucked up the letter and the glass, crossed the room, and handed them both to Lucy before sinking down into the chair across from hers.
“What’s this?” Lucy sipped from her glass, frowning at the letter.
“It’s from my sister. Read it.”
Lucy turned the letter over in her hands, then shook her head and held it out to him. “No, Ciaran. It’s not addressed to me, and you haven’t even opened it.”
“I already know what it says.”
