“No. I merely feared your fingers would become stuck and make dancing impossible. You do wish to dance, yes?”
She gulped. “As an alternative to a flogging, I suppose I do. Let us see if I might so damage the quadrille as to cause France to again declare war on Britain.”
Everyone chuckled over her comment. To her surprise, however, the mirth seemed amusement with her wit rather than ridicule for her shortcomings. Confidence surged within her, and she strode onto the dance floor with resolve.
…
Henry watched glumly from the hinterlands of the ballroom as Lucy and James joined a quadrille of four couples. When the music began, she danced earnestly and executed the steps with only a few minor slips, still clutching the unseen foil with her right hand. Her few mistakes, however, were not what concerned him. Rather, what bothered Henry was the way his brother smiled at her, and worse, how she appeared to return his attention. Her infectious laughter periodically punctuated the music as she gave herself to the flow of the dance. Regret dogged him for his actions in London over the previous days. One way or another, he was delivering her to a devil. Presently, Isabella came to stand beside him. She leaned in to his shoulder.
“You appear as a child lost in a dark wood.”
“I am observing my pupil for the purpose of later critique.”
Isabella shook her head and gazed up at him with batting eyelashes. “Oh, Henry. Do not torture yourself over her. Her attempts to gain your affections are ill spent.”
He furrowed his brow. “She is not vying for my affections.”
Isabella slapped his shoulder lightly. “Oh, she is, addle brain. Do you not see the way she watches you? The way she forms herself to your every word and action?”
“Not really. She rarely does anything I tell her to do.”
“That much is obvious, but she follows you like a helpless puppy, hoping for a word from you so she may disagree. Make no mistake. She desires your affections. I pity her that and pray she might find satisfaction with one of those lesser men surrounding her now.”
He forced a smile, if for no reason other than to end the discussion. “You are right, of course. I’ll not torture myself over her. Lady Margaret’s die is cast and there is precious little I can do to change that.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The following morning while the guests still slumbered after a long evening of dancing and drinking, Lucy rose before sunrise to walk the fields. Her solitary path led her toward the creek that formed one border of the Sinclair estate. Upon arriving at the water’s edge, her eyes darted up to find Henry standing across the creek watching her with cautious interest.
“Henry. You surprised me.”
“And you me, Lucy.”
She considered turning back, but curiosity over his morose demeanor prodded her forward. She eyed the water. “How does one cross this?”
“You’ll find a footbridge a few hundred steps to your left. That is the easy way.”
She tossed him a mischievous grin. “You should know by now I do nothing the easy way.”
The hard set of his jaw loosened. “You are correct. In that case, you must leap across.”
She nodded and backed away a dozen steps before her confidence wavered. “What if I fall?”
“You will not fall. Your ridiculous fortitude disallows falling.”
With an appreciative nod, she hiked her skirt a few inches and darted toward the creek. As she took flight, Henry leaned over the water with arms extended. He caught her and they landed in a tangled heap on the moist earth. Her eyes fell on his enticing lips only inches from hers. After a frozen moment, his arms slipped from her shoulders to encircle her waist. All sense fled and she spontaneously pressed her lips to his. He pulled her closer and leaned into the kiss, leaving her bewildered and aroused. She had never allowed a man to so much as touch her. How had she instigated such intimacy without a second thought? When she placed a hand against the grizzle of his cheek, he emitted a nearly inaudible groan that reverberated in her chest. She gloried in the mystery of the startling moment, preparing to abandon all reason. However, he gently pushed her away with a defeated sigh. She clambered to her feet and smoothed her dress, her cheeks and lips a field of flame. He rose to his feet, watching her.
“I…I made the leap.” Her calm reply belied a racing heart.
“You did.” He glanced away while rubbing his neck. “Will you sit with me and enjoy the sunrise?”
She settled next to him on the remains of a fallen tree, careful to leave space between them. They watched the rising sun in silence for a time.
…
Henry’s head was in turmoil as Lucy sat beside him on the log. His ongoing betrayal of her confidence stole the spectacular kiss from his lips and dashed it into the mud. The urge to confess his recent actions nearly produced fruit before she ended the opportunity.
“Henry. What if the suitors learn the morbid details of my past? What if my unintended role in the robbery at Shooter’s Hill comes to light?”
He withheld a wince. “I don’t know.”
She stared at the field, avoiding his gaze. “I do not wish to hang. I do not wish to die. Not now, anyway, when I have finally…”
He waited for the rest. She remained silent, though.
“Finally, what?”
“Nothing.”
He wanted to press her, hoping to discover a path through the twist of brambles that might free them both, but she turned to him abruptly with a newfound smile. “You promised to tell me later of the suitors.” Her lilting tone made it clear she was changing the subject. “Now is later, it would seem.”
“Yes, it would seem.”
“I am listening.”
He buried his unspoken confession, scratched his jaw, and settled on a strategy of blunt transparency. He knew she would see through any attempt at restraint. “You know enough of Warwick and my brother. As for the others, well…”
“Go on.”
“Although Lord Canterfield is only a baron, he is ambitious. He wants to rise in Parliament, and connection to the Huntington name would assist him in that aspiration. Your dowry would not harm him, either.”
“Do you approve of Lord Canterfield, then?”
He shrugged. “He seems affable enough, but his interest in you appears limited to your value to his ambitions. You deserve better.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “Thank you. Now, what of Lord Jeffrey? He is a second son, not heir to a title. How does he qualify?”
“Ah, Lord Jeffrey.” Henry grunted disgust. “He is the second son of a duke, but his older brother went missing some years ago. Even now, he pursues his brother’s death certificate through the courts. He will likely become heir to his father’s dukedom within the year.”