Jarvis was wasting what little time he had.
If the thing were to be done, it had to be done now. He couldn’t linger here all day and wait for Vale and Ramsey to leave the inn. He’d have to make his move now, and hope for the best. Fortunately for Jarvis, he knew just what he needed to do to coax Lucinda outside.
“Bexley!” Jarvis rapped on the roof of the carriage until the coachman slid down from the box and appeared at the window. “Go inside and find Lady Lucinda. Do what you must to get her alone, then tell her Miss Jarvis is outside in the carriage. Say her cousin must speak to her on a matter of grave importance, and urge Lady Lucinda to come out at once.”
The coachman, who was a man of few words and even fewer scruples, nodded and turned away to do his master’s bidding.
Before he’d gone a step, Jarvis called him back. “Lord Vale and Mr. Ramsey are inside. Take care neither of them sees you. There’s a reward in it for you if you manage the thing discreetly, Bexley.”
Bexley gave him another nod, then disappeared into the inn.
Cautious hope surged through Jarvis. Or perhaps it wasn’t hope, but something darker. Jarvis didn’t trouble himself much over it one way or another. He had one bothersome chit locked in a bedchamber at Portman Square and the other soon to be on her way to Kent, from whence she wouldn’t return. The whole thing was proving to be almost too easy.
Jarvis’s one regret was he wouldn’t be there to see Ramsey’s face when he found Lucinda was gone.
Chapter Twenty-four
Ciaran had been gone longer than Lucy had expected he would be. Either that, or she’d become such a fool over Ciaran Ramsey, every moment without him now felt like an eternity.
I’m not the sort of lady who falls in love.…
She’d actually told him that, hadn’t she? Even more astounding, she’d truly believed at the time it was the truth. Now, looking back, Lucy was amazed she could have known herself so little, been so deceived about her own nature.
Shewasthe sort of lady who fell in love. Worse, she was the sort of lady who fell deeply, helplessly, and irrevocably in love, and as humiliating as it was, it seemed she could do this without it being at all a requirement the object of her affections love her back.
That is, Ciarandidlove her. She knew he did, but as he’d reminded her on many occasions, his love was the love of one friend for another. It wasn’t a romantic love, or a love one built a life upon. It wasn’t a love that dwelt in every corner of his heart.
It wasn’t the sort of love Ciaran had felt—and likelystillfelt—for his former betrothed, Isobel Campbell. Ciaran was as much a victim of his heart as Lucy was. It might be over between him and Isobel, but he must be still in love with her, whether he realized it or not.
Lucy fell across the bed with a sigh, then leapt up again. She retreated to a chair on the other side of the room, as far away from the bed as she could get. Even then, she couldn’t stop staring at it. Staring, and remembering what had happened there.
Twice. Last night, and then again this morning. Goodness, what a wanton she was!
That was another thing she hadn’t known about herself. Lucy shifted a little, squirming on her chair. Her body was alive with dozens of unfamiliar twinges and aches, each one more delicious than the last. She flushed as she recalled all the places Ciaran had touched her with his hands, his fingers.…
His mouth.
He’d given her so much last night. Pleasure, tenderness, that playfulness that was his alone. Then afterward, he’d held her in his arms, so closely his warmth became her own. To wake up every morning that way, with his arms wrapped around her, the gentle fall of his breath against her neck…
Tears burned behind Lucy’s eyes, but she squeezed them shut before any could fall. She didn’t want Ciaran to find her red-eyed and sniffling when he returned. It would hurt him to see it, and one broken heart between the two of them was enough.
She owed him that much, at least.
How could she have taken everything Ciaran offered her last night without sparing a single thought for tomorrow? How selfish she was, how thoughtless! She hadn’t been thinking of Ciaran at all. She’d simply wanted him for herself, and so she’d taken him, knowing he didn’t belong to her. That he’d never belong to her.
Sheknewhim—far too well to persuade herself he would have succumbed to her awkward advances last night if he’d known she still didn’t intend to marry him. Even now she could hardly believe she’d succeeded in seducing him. She’d touched and kissed him and he…he…
Well, he’d touched and kissed herback.
She could marry Ciaran, just as he’d asked her to. She could return to Buckinghamshire and become his wife, and even then, he’d still never really be hers. No matter how much she wanted him, she couldn’t steal his chance at a love that took his breath away—a love that lived in every corner of his heart.
Before they’d become lovers, they’d been friends. What kind of friend would she be if she snatched his freedom away from him? Not the kind of friend Lucy had always promised herself she’d be.
No kind of friend at all.
She had to convince him a marriage between them would be a mistake—that she only loved him in the way a friend loved another friend. As much as it would hurt her, she had to try and persuade him she’d rejected his proposals because she didn’t care about him enough to marry him.
Not because she cared too much.
