She pursed her lips. “I’m not your butler. Or your valet, for that matter.”
“No, you’re not.” He sighed. “I forgot.”
“Well, try to remember in the future that I hold an entirely different role in your—”
“Not that.”
“What?”
“I forgot we were to go riding this morning. Stupid of me. Is that why you’re here?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I came early with Rosalind.”
“Rosalind? Where is she?” His words were slurred as if he were so fatigued he could hardly speak.
“At the fish market. Hush. It doesn’t matter.”
He didn’t listen. “I will never be able to forgive myself, but do you think you can?”
Silly. Her eyes pricked with tears. How could he deflect her anger with such silly words? “For what? Never mind. I forgive you for whatever it is.” She dipped a cloth in the water one-handed. “This would be easier if you let me go.”
“No.”
She wiped at the blood awkwardly. She really ought to cut the sleeve off altogether. She cleared her throat to steady her voice before she inquired, “Did you really kill a man?”
“Yes. In a duel.” His eyes were still closed.
“And he wounded you in return.” She squeezed out the cloth. “What did you duel over?” She made sure her tone was even, as if she were asking the time.
Silence.
She looked at the bandages. There was no way she’d be able to tend to him, shackled as she was. “I’m going to need both arms to bandage you.”
“No.”
Lucy sighed. “Simon, you’ll have to let me go eventually. And I really think your arm should be cleaned and wrapped.”
“Severe angel.” He finally opened his eyes, frost gray and intense. “Promise me. Promise me on your mother’s memory that you won’t leave me if I give you back your wings.”
She blinked and thought about it, but in the end there was really no other answer. “I promise you.”
He leaned closer until she could see the shards of ice in his eyes. “Say it.”
“I promise on my mother’s memory,” she whispered, “that I won’t leave you.”
“Oh, God.”
She didn’t know whether it was a curse or a prayer, but his mouth came down on hers hard. Biting, licking, sucking. It was as if he meant to consume and draw her into himself so that she might never abandon him. She moaned beneath the onslaught, confused and enthralled.
He angled his head, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She clutched his shoulders, and then he was pushing her back on the settee, climbing on top of her and shoving her legs apart with his own hard thighs. He settled on her, and even through the multiple layers of her skirt she could feel his hard shaft. She arched against him. Her breath was coming in breathless pants; she couldn’t seem to get enough air. He cupped her breast. His hand was so hot she could feel his heat through her bodice, branding her where no man had ever caressed her before.
“Angel.” He broke away to whisper against her cheek. “I want to see you, to touch you.” He trailed his open mouth over her cheek. “Let me take down your dress. Let me see you. Please.”
She shuddered. His fingers molded her shape, stroking and massaging. She felt her nipple bud, and she wanted, needed, him to touch it. Naked, with nothing separating their flesh. “Yes, I—”
Someone opened the door.
Simon reared up to glare over the back of the settee at whoever it was. “Get out!”
“My lord.” Newton’s voice.
Lucy wished she could dissolve this very instant and become a puddle on the settee.
“Get out now!”
“Your sister-in-law is here, my lord. Lady Iddesleigh saw your carriage in front and was concerned as to why you and Miss Craddock-Hayes had not yet gone riding.”
Or, she could simply die of mortification.
Simon stilled, breathing heavily. “Damn.”
“Yes, my lord,” the butler replied stonily. “Shall I put her in the blue sitting room?”
“Damn your eyes, Newton! Put her anywhere but here.”
The door closed.
Simon sighed and rested his forehead against her own. “I’m sorry for everything.” He brushed his lips against hers. “I’d better leave before Rosalind gets an eyeful. Stay here; I’ll send Henry with a shawl.” He got up and strode out the door.
Lucy looked down at herself. There was a bloody handprint on the bodice of her dress.
“OH.” POCKET STOOD IN THE DOORWAY to the little sitting room on the third floor of Rosalind’s house. She looked at Lucy and placed one foot on top of the other. “You’re in here.”
“Yes.” Lucy raised her head from where she’d propped it on a fist and tried to smile. She’d come to this room after luncheon to think about this morning’s events. Rosalind had taken to bed, pleading a headache, and Lucy could not blame her. Rosalind had to have suspected something was wrong when Simon didn’t greet her at his own home. He’d hidden in his rooms so she wouldn’t see his wound. Add to that Lucy’s near silence on the drive back to Rosalind’s town house and the poor woman probably thought they were about to break off the wedding. Altogether, it had been a trying morning.
“Is that all right?” Lucy asked Pocket now.
The little girl frowned as if considering. “I guess.” Voices from farther down the hallway made her look over her shoulder before scooting into the room. She laid down the wooden box she carried and shut the door very carefully.
Lucy was instantly suspicious. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the schoolroom?”
The little girl was dressed in a cool blue gown, her hair in perfect ringlets, giving her an angelic appearance, belied by her calculating eyes. “Nanny’s napping.” She’d obviously learned her uncle’s trick of not actually answering the question.
Lucy sighed and watched Pocket carry the box to the tapestry rug, hitch up her skirts, and sit down cross-legged. This little back room had an air of abandonment, despite its recent dusting. It was too small to welcome callers, and, besides, it was on the third floor of Rosalind’s town house. Above the bedrooms and below the nursery. Yet the one window overlooked the back garden and let the afternoon sun in. The armchairs, one brown and missing an arm, the other a balding rose velvet, were large and comfortable. And the faded rose, brown, and green rug was soothing. Lucy had thought it a perfect place to come and think and be alone.