They reached the far table, and Simon stood behind the golden-haired man. Fear was embracing him now, sucking at his mouth with her frosty lips, rubbing her cold breasts against his chest. If he survived tomorrow’s dawn, he was going back for Lucy. What use to play the gallant knight if one died at sunrise without ever tasting the maiden’s lips? He now knew he couldn’t do this alone anymore. He needed her on some basic level to reaffirm and maintain his humanity even as he summoned up the most bestial part of himself. He needed Lucy to keep him sane.
Simon pasted a smile on his face and tapped the man on the shoulder. Beside him, Christian drew in his breath sharply.
The man looked around. Simon stared for a second, stupidly, before his brain registered what his eyes had already told him. Then he turned away.
The man was a stranger.
LUCY TILTED HER HEAD TO THE SIDE and considered the cartoon she’d begun to draw in her sketchbook. His nose was just a bit off. “Don’t move.” She didn’t need to look up to sense that Hedge, her subject, was trying to sneak away again.
Hedge hated sitting for her. “Awww. I gots things to do, Miss Lucy.”
“Such as?” There, that was better. Hedge really had the most extraordinary nose.
They were in the little back sitting room. The light was best here during the afternoon, shining in unobstructed through the tall mullioned windows. Hedge perched on a stool in front of the fireplace. He was attired in his usual rumpled coat and breeches with the addition of an oddly spotted purple neckcloth. Lucy couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten it. Papa would have died before wearing such a thing.
“I gotta feed and groom old Kate,” the manservant groaned.
“Papa did that this morning.”
“Well, then, I should muck out her stall.”
Lucy shook her head. “Mrs. Brodie paid one of the Jones boys to clean Katie’s stall only yesterday. She got tired of waiting for you to do it.”
“Ain’t that cheek!” Hedge looked as indignant as if he hadn’t neglected the horse for days. “She knew I was plannin’ to do it today.”
“Hmm.” Lucy shaded in his hair carefully. “That’s what you’ve said the last week. Mrs. Brodie says she could smell the stable from the back door.”
“That’s only ’cause she’s got such a great hooter.”
“People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” She switched pencils.
Hedge wrinkled his brow. “What d’you mean, glass houses? I’m talking about her nose.”
Lucy sighed. “Never mind.”
“Humph.”
There was blessed silence for a moment while Hedge regrouped. She started sketching in his right arm. The house was quiet today with Papa gone and Mrs. Brodie busy in the kitchen baking bread. Of course, it always seemed quiet now that Simon had left. The house was almost lifeless. He’d brought excitement and a type of companionship she hadn’t known she was missing until he went away. Now the rooms echoed when she walked into them. She caught herself restlessly wandering from room to room as if she unconsciously searched for something.
Or someone.
“How about that letter to Master David, then?” Hedge interrupted her thoughts. “The captain asked me to post it.” He rose.
“Sit back down. Papa posted it on the way to Doctor Fremont’s.”
“Awww.”
Someone banged on the front door.
Hedge started.
Lucy glanced up from the sketch to pin him with her stare before he could make a move. The manservant slumped. Lucy finished the right arm and started on the left. They could hear Mrs. Brodie’s quick footsteps. A murmur of voices, then the footsteps neared. Bother. She was nearly finished with the sketch, too.
The housekeeper opened the door looking flustered. “Oh, miss, you’ll never guess who’s come—”
Simon walked around Mrs. Brodie.
Lucy dropped her pencil.
He picked it up and held it out to her, his ice eyes hesitant. “May I talk to you?”
He was hatless, his coat wrinkled, and his boots muddy as if he’d ridden. He’d left off his wig, and his hair was a trifle longer. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the lines bracketing his mouth were deeper. What had he been doing in London this past week to make him look so tired again?
She took the pencil, hoping he wouldn’t notice how her hand trembled. “Of course.”
“Alone?”
Hedge jumped up. “Right, then, I’ll leave.” He darted out the door.
Mrs. Brodie looked at Lucy questioningly before following the manservant. She shut the door behind her. Suddenly Lucy was alone with the viscount. She folded her hands in her lap and watched him.
Simon paced to the window and gazed out as if he didn’t see the garden at all. “I had . . . business to do this last week in London. Something important. Something that’s been preying on my mind for some time now. But I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus on what needed to be done. I kept thinking of you. So I came here, despite vowing I wouldn’t bother you again.” He threw a look at her over his shoulder, part frustration, part puzzlement, part something she didn’t dare interpret. But it made her heart—already laboring from his entrance—stutter.
She took a breath to steady her voice. “Would you care to sit?”
He hesitated as if considering. “Thank you.”
He sat across from her, ran his hand over his head, and abruptly stood up again.
“I should leave, just walk out that door and continue walking until I’ve put a hundred miles between us, maybe an entire watery ocean. Although I don’t know if even that would be enough. I promised myself that I would leave you in peace.” He laughed without humor. “And yet, here I am back at your feet, making an ass of myself.”
“I’m glad to see you,” she whispered. This was like a dream. She’d never thought to see him again, and now he was pacing agitatedly in front of her in her own little sitting room. She didn’t dare let herself wonder why he had come.
He swung around and suddenly stilled. “Are you? Truly?”
What was he asking? She didn’t know, but she nodded anyway.
“I’m not right for you. You’re too pure; you see too much. I’ll hurt you eventually, if I don’t . . .” He shook his head. “You need to be with someone simple and good, and I am neither. Why haven’t you married that vicar?” He was frowning at her, and his statement sounded like an accusation.