Page 67 of Give Him a Chance

Which was why Bernard almost yelped when Lucy said nonchalantly, “Actually, could you ask Cawthorne to bring in all the food and just leave it here? We’ll help ourselves, and I expect the two of you want your dinner, don’t you?”

What the hell did she think she was doing?

The two footmen mumbled, cheeks flushing, that actually eating their dinner now rather than in two hours’ time would be preferable, and after helping the butler lay out the braised chicken, the potatoes, the carrots, the peas, the Yorkshire puddings and two jugs of gravy—how anyone thought they’d get through that much gravy, Bernard did not know—the servants disappeared, closing the door quietly behind them, but not before a stern-faced Cawthorne had locked eyes with Bernard and sent a shiver down his spine.

A warning. Not that it was a butler’s place tosayanything. So he’d just glared his message.

But that just left…himself. And Lucy. Seated at right angles at one end of the table, she was mere inches from him. Her scent filled his mind, distracting him from all rational thought, and he could not help but notice some flecks of ink on her décolletage from their day of writing.

She was so alluring. So intoxicating.

Bernard swallowed and wondered if would be possible to cross his legs under this table.

This was too much. It was like she was purposefully orchestrating—

“So, now that I have got us alone,” Lucy said lightly, helping herself to roast potatoes, “I need to talk to you.”

Bernard almost dropped the piece of chicken he had just carved.

Of course.He should have known that such a thing could not have been a coincidence.The minx!

“Where is Lord Percy, really?” Bernard asked, trying not to grin and failing miserably.

His smile only widened as Lucy giggled. “Well, he might be courting a lady. Or he might not. We shall never know.”

“You are incorrigible, you know!”

“I know what I want,” Lucy said quietly.

Bernard really did drop the chicken this time, leaving a wonderfully brown stain on the crisp white tablecloth. “Oh, blast—”

“Leave it. Leave all of it.” Lucy’s voice was low, though not in spirts, just in volume. She was leaning forward, leaning closer to him, and it was all he could do to inhale as she said, “We need to talk, you and I.”

Oh, dear God.

Either he was dreaming, and what a pleasant dream it was, or…or Lucy was really looking at him like that, with desire-filled eyes and a slow smile.

“Talk,” Bernard managed to say.

Well, really he should have been congratulated. Who could be expected to do or say anything sensible with Lady Lucy Chance looking at them like—like that?

“I promised myself I would do this even…even if it frightens me,” Lucy said quietly, her food ignored and her gaze fixed on him. “Because this can’t go on, Bernard. You know it can’t.”

Oh. Oh, right.

Bernard tried not to allow his shoulders to slump too obviously, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. She did not care for him, not beyond pity—that was not what this was about at all.

It was about the fact that he was living with an earl and his family for absolutely nothing, outstaying his welcome and making no meaningful efforts to leave.

He should have expected this. He should have done more to find that damned Hovell.

Doing his best to plaster a cheerful expression across his face, Bernard said brightly, “No, it can’t. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

He had presumed she’d be pleased. After all, he had been here a month.

But for some inexplicable reason, Lucy’s breath hitched. “You are?”

“Yes, absolutely,” he said firmly, hating the agony shooting through his body at the very thought of leaving her. “Yes, I’ll be off, and you’ll never see me again.”