And she had a wedding in the morning.
Good God.
He could not let her marry Lord Haselby. He could not. If there was one thing he knew in his heart, it was that he and Lucinda Abernathy were meant to be husband and wife. Hers was the face he was supposed to gaze upon over eggs and bacon and kippers and cod and toast every morning.
A snort of laughter pressed through his nose, but it was that nervous, desperate kind of laughter, the sound one made when the only alternative was to cry. Lucy had to marry him, if only so that they could eat masses and masses of food together every morning.
He looked at her window.
What he hoped was her window. With his luck he was mooning over the servants’ washroom.
How long he stood there he did not know. For the first time in his memory, he felt powerless, and at least this—watching a bloody window—was something he could control.
He thought about his life. Charmed, for sure. Plenty of money, lovely family, scads of friends. He had his health, he had his sanity, and until the fiasco with Hermione Watson, an unshakable belief in his own sense of judgment. He might not be the most disciplined of men, and perhaps he should have paid more attention to all those things Anthony liked to pester him about, but he knew what was right, and he knew what was wrong, and he’d known—he had absolutely known—that his life would play out on a happy and contented canvas.
He was simply that sort of person.
He wasn’t melancholy. He wasn’t given to fits of temper.
And he’d never had to work very hard.
He looked up at the window, thoughtfully.
He’d grown complacent. So sure of his own happy ending that he hadn’t believed—he still couldn’t quite believe—that he might not get what he wanted.
He had proposed. She had accepted. True, she had been promised to Haselby, and still was, for that matter.
But wasn’t true love supposed to triumph? Hadn’t it done so for all his brothers and sisters? Why the hell was he so unlucky?
He thought about his mother, remembered the look on her face when she had so skillfully dissected his character. She had got most everything right, he realized.
But only most.
It was true that he had never had to work very hard at anything. But that was only part of the story. He was not indolent. He would work his fingers to the very bone if only . . .
If only he had a reason.
He stared at the window.
He had a reason now.
He’d been waiting, he realized. Waiting for Lucy to convince her uncle to release her from her engagement. Waiting for the puzzle pieces that made up his life to fall into position so that he could fit the last one in its place with a triumphant “Aha!”
Waiting.
Waiting for love. Waiting for a calling.
Waiting for clarity, for that moment when he would know exactly how to proceed.
It was time to stop waiting, time to forget about fate and destiny.
It was time to act. To work.
Hard.
No one was going to hand him that second-to-last piece of the puzzle; he had to find it for himself.
He needed to see Lucy. And it had to be now, since it appeared he was forbidden to call upon her in a more conventional manner.
He crossed the street, then slipped around the corner to the back of the house. The ground floor windows were tightly shut, and all was dark. Higher on the façade, a few curtains fluttered in the breeze, but there was no way Gregory could scale the building without killing himself.
He took stock of his surroundings. To the left, the street. To the right, the alley and mews. And in front of him . . .
The servants’ entrance.
He regarded it thoughtfully. Well, why not?
He stepped forward and placed his hand on the knob.
It turned.
Gregory almost laughed with delight. At the very least, he went back to believing—well, perhaps just a little—about fate and destiny and all that rot. Surely this was not a usual occurrence. A servant must have sneaked out, perhaps to make his own assignation. If the door was unlocked, then clearly Gregory was meant to go inside.
Or he was mad in the head.
He decided to believe in fate.
Gregory shut the door quietly behind him, then gave his eyes a minute to become accustomed to the dark. He appeared to be in a large pantry, with the kitchen off to the right. There was a decent chance that some of the lower servants slept nearby, so he removed his boots, carrying them in one hand as he ventured deeper into the house.
His stockinged feet were silent as he crept up the back stairs, making his way to the second floor—the one he thought housed Lucy’s bedchamber. He paused on the landing, stopping for a brief moment of sanity before stepping out into the hall.
What was he thinking? He hadn’t the slightest clue what might happen if he were caught here. Was he breaking a law? Probably. He couldn’t imagine how he might not be. And while his position as brother to a viscount would keep him from the gallows, it would not wipe his slate clean when the home he’d chosen to invade belonged to an earl.
But he had to see Lucy. He was done with waiting.
He took a moment on the landing to orient himself, then walked toward the front of the house. There were two doors at the end. He paused, painting a picture of the house’s façade in his mind, then reached for the one on the left. If Lucy had indeed been in her own room when he’d seen her, then this was the correct door. If not . . .
Well, then, he hadn’t a clue. Not a clue. And here he was, prowling in the Earl of Fennsworth’s house after midnight.
Good God.
He turned the knob slowly, letting out a relieved breath when it made no clicks or squeaks. He opened the door just far enough to fit his body through the opening, then carefully shut it behind him, only then taking the time to examine the room.
It was dark, with scarcely any moonlight filtering in around the window coverings. His eyes had already adjusted to the dimness, however, and he could make out various pieces of furniture—a dressing table, a wardrobe . . .
A bed.
It was a heavy, substantial thing, with a canopy and full drapes that closed around it. If there was indeed someone inside, she slept quietly—no snoring, no rustling, nothing.
That’s how Lucy would sleep, he suddenly thought. Like the dead. She was no delicate flower, his Lucy, and she would not tolerate anything less than a perfectly restful night. It seemed odd that he would be so certain of this, but he was.
He knew her, he realized. He truly knew her. Not just the usual things. In fact, he didn’t know the usual things. He did not know her favorite color. Nor could he guess her favorite animal or food.
But somehow it didn’t matter if he didn’t know if she preferred pink or blue or purple or black. He knew her heart. He wanted her heart.
And he could not allow her to marry someone else.
Carefully, he drew back the curtains.
There was no one there.
Gregory swore under his breath, until he realized that the sheets were mussed, the pillow with a fresh indent of someone’s head.
He whirled around just in time to see a candlestick swinging wildly through the air at him.
Letting out a surprised grunt, he ducked, but not fast enough to avoid a glancing blow to his temple. He swore again, this time in full voice, and then he heard—
“Gregory?”
He blinked. “Lucy?”
She rushed forward. “What are you doing here?”
He motioned impatiently toward the bed. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
“Because I’m getting married tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here.”
She stared at him dumbly, as if his presence was so unexpected that she could not muster the correct reaction. “I thought you were an intruder,” she finally said, motioning to the candlestick.
He allowed himself the tin
iest of smiles. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he murmured, “but I am.”
For a moment it looked as if she might return the smile. But instead she hugged her arms to her chest and said, “You must go. Right now.”
“Not until you speak with me.”
Her eyes slid to a point over his shoulder. “There is nothing to say.”
“What about ‘I love you’?”
“Don’t say that,” she whispered.
He stepped forward. “I love you.”
“Gregory, please.”
Even closer. “I love you.”
She took a breath. Squared her shoulders. “I am marrying Lord Haselby tomorrow.”
“No,” he said, “you’re not.”
Her lips parted.
He reached out and captured her hand in his. She did not pull away.
“Lucy,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes.
“Be with me,” he said.
Slowly, she shook her head. “Please don’t.”
He tugged her closer and pulled the candlestick from her slackening fingers. “Be with me, Lucy Abernathy. Be my love, be my wife.”
She opened her eyes, but she held his gaze for only a moment before twisting away. “You’re making it so much worse,” she whispered.
The pain in her voice was unbearable. “Lucy,” he said, touching her cheek, “let me help you.”
She shook her head, but she paused as her cheek settled into his palm. Not for long. Barely a second. But he felt it.
“You can’t marry him,” he said, tilting her face toward his. “You won’t be happy.”
Her eyes glistened as they met his. In the dim light of the night, they looked a dark, dark gray, and achingly sad. He could imagine the entire world there, in the depths of her gaze. Everything he needed to know, everything he might ever need to know—it was there, within her.
“You won’t be happy, Lucy,” he whispered. “You know that you won’t.”
Still, she didn’t speak. The only sound was her breath, moving quietly across her lips. And then, finally—
“I will be content.”
“Content?” he echoed. His hand dropped from her face, falling to his side as he stepped back. “You will be content?”
She nodded.
“And that’s enough?”
She nodded again, but smaller this time.
Anger began to spark within him. She was willing to toss him away for that? Why wasn’t she willing to fight?
She loved him, but did she love him enough?
“Is it his position?” he demanded. “Does it mean so much to you to be a countess?”
She waited too long before replying, and he knew she was lying when she said, “Yes.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, and his voice sounded terrible. Wounded. Angry. He looked at his hand, blinking with surprise as he realized he was still holding the candlestick. He wanted to hurl it at the wall. Instead he set it down. His hands were not quite steady, he saw.
He looked at her. She said nothing.
“Lucy,” he begged, “just tell me. Let me help you.”
She swallowed, and he realized she was no longer looking at his face.
He took her hands in his. She tensed, but she did not pull away. Their bodies were facing each other, and he could see the ragged rise and fall of her chest.
It matched what he felt in his own.
“I love you,” he said. Because if he kept saying it, maybe it would be enough. Maybe the words would fill the room, surround her and sneak beneath her skin. Maybe she would finally realize that there were certain things that could not be denied.
“We belong together,” he said. “For eternity.”
Her eyes closed. One single, heavy blink. But when she opened them again, she looked shattered.
“Lucy,” he said, trying to put his very soul into one single word. “Lucy, tell me—”
“Please don’t say that,” she said, turning her head so that she was not quite looking at him. Her voice caught and shook. “Say anything else, but not that.”
“Why not?”
And then she whispered, “Because it’s true.”
His breath caught, and in one swift movement he pulled her to him. It was not an embrace; not quite. Their fingers were entwined, their arms bent so that their hands met between their shoulders.
He whispered her name.
Lucy’s lips parted.
He whispered it again, so soft that the words were more of a motion than a sound.
Lucy Lucy.
She held still, barely breathing. His body was so close to hers, yet not quite touching. There was heat, though, filling the space between them, swirling through her nightgown, trembling along her skin.
She tingled.
“Let me kiss you,” he whispered. “One more time. Let me kiss you one more time, and if you tell me to go, I swear that I will.”
Lucy could feel herself slipping, sliding into need, falling into a hazy place of love and desire where right was not quite so identifiable from wrong.
She loved him. She loved him so much, and he could not be hers. Her heart was racing, her breath was shaking, and all she could think was that she would never feel this way again. No one would ever look at her the way Gregory was, right at that very moment. In less than a day she was to marry a man who wouldn’t even wish to kiss her.
She would never feel this strange curling in the core of her womanhood, the fluttering in her belly. This was the last time she’d stare at someone’s lips and ache for them to touch hers.
Dear God, she wanted him. She wanted this. Before it was too late.
And he loved her. He loved her. He’d said it, and even though she couldn’t quite believe it, she believed him.
She licked her lips.
“Lucy,” he whispered, her name a question, a statement, and a plea—all in one.
She nodded. And then, because she knew she could not lie to herself or to him, she said the words.
“Kiss me.”
There would be no pretending later, no claiming she had been swept away by passion, stripped of her ability to think. The decision was hers. And she’d made it.
For a moment Gregory did not move, but she knew that he heard her. His breath sucked raggedly into him, and his eyes turned positively liquid as he gazed at her. “Lucy,” he said, his voice husky and deep and rough and a hundred other things that turned her bones to milk.
His lips found the hollow where her jaw met her neck. “Lucy,” he murmured.
She wanted to say something in return, but she could not. It had taken all she had just to ask for his kiss.
“I love you,” he whispered, trailing the words along her neck to her collarbone. “I love you. I love you.”
They were the most painful, wonderful, horrible, magnificent words he could have said. She wanted to cry—with happiness and sorrow.
Pleasure and pain.
And she understood—for the first time in her life—she understood the prickly joy of complete selfishness. She shouldn’t be doing this. She knew she shouldn’t, and she knew he probably thought that this meant that she would find a way out of her commitment to Haselby.
She was lying to him. As surely as if she’d said the words.
But she could not help herself.
This was her moment. Her one moment to hold bliss in her hands. And it would have to last a lifetime.
Emboldened by the fire within her, she pressed her hands roughly to his cheeks, pulling his mouth against hers for a torrid kiss. She had no idea what she was doing—she was sure there must be rules to all this, but she did not care. She just wanted to kiss him. She couldn’t stop herself.
One of his hands moved to her hips, burning through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Then it stole around to her bottom, squeezing and cupping, and there was no more space between them. She felt herself sliding down, and then they were on the bed, and she was on her back, his body pressed agai
nst hers, the heat and the weight of it exquisitely male.
She felt like a woman.
She felt like a goddess.
She felt like she could wrap herself around him and never let go.
“Gregory,” she whispered, finding her voice as she twined her fingers in his hair.
He stilled, and she knew he was waiting for her to say more.
“I love you,” she said, because it was true, and because she needed something to be true. Tomorrow he would hate her. Tomorrow she would betray him, but in this, at least, she would not lie.
“I want you,” she said, when he lifted his head to gaze into her eyes. He stared at her long and hard, and she knew that he was giving her one last chance to back out.
“I want you,” she said again, because she wanted him beyond words. She wanted him to kiss her, to take her, and to forget that she was not whispering words of love.
“Lu—”
She placed a finger to his mouth. And she whispered, “I want to be yours.” And then she added, “Tonight.”
His body shuddered, his breath moving audibly over his lips. He groaned something, maybe her name, and then his mouth met hers in a kiss that gave and took and burned and consumed until Lucy could not help but move underneath him. Her hands slid to his neck, then inside his coat, her fingers desperately seeking heat and skin. With a roughly mumbled curse, he rose up, still straddling her, and yanked off the coat and cravat.
She stared at him with wide eyes. He was removing his shirt, not slowly or with finesse, but with a frantic speed that underscored his desire.
He was not in control. She might not be in control, but neither was he. He was as much a slave to this fire as she was.
He tossed his shirt aside, and she gasped at the sight of him, the light sprinkling of hair across his chest, the muscles that sculpted and stretched under his skin.
He was beautiful. She hadn’t realized a man could be beautiful, but it was the only word that could possibly describe him. She lifted one hand and gingerly placed it against his skin. His blood leaped and pulsed beneath, and she nearly pulled away.