“Is that what I am? A knight on a black horse?” His irritating grin widened. She ignored the question.
“I’m no damsel in distress, Lord Selbourne. Reginald was no real threat. In fact, you’ve caused more harm than good.”
He crossed his arms and settled back on the squabs. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” She nodded, warming to her argument. “He’ll be in a pet tomorrow, and I imagine I’ll have to apologize.”
“You’ll apologize?”
She heard the disgust in his voice and felt it herself. After all, why should she apologize? She’d done nothing wrong. But it was either that or risk Reginald’s displeasure, and she couldn’t afford to lose him. Couldn’t afford to disappoint her father yet again.
With a sigh, she tried to push thoughts of the inevitable meeting aside. Tried to push aside as well the memory of Reginald’s advances. For a moment, shoved up against the cold, hard stone of the bench, Reginald’s clammy hand locked around her neck, she’d felt a tremor of panic. She’d never seen that side of her bumbling fiancé before, and she didn’t relish ever doing so again. But of course she wouldn’t. Reginald had drunk a bit too much champagne tonight.
“And how long were you at Grayson Park?” she said, changing the topic with finesse. At times like these, she was thankful for her years of training in the social graces.
“I thought we were discussing your fiancé.”
She frowned. Obviously Selbourne didn’t appreciate her talents. “No,” she said with a tense smile. “We were talking of business.” She pulled the greatcoat closer against her neck at the considering look he sent her. “You’ve been at Grayson Park—”
“Two months.”
“Two months in Hampshire? Whatever do you find to keep you occupied?”
“There’s always something.”
Lucia wondered if the something was his French mistress. The rumor was he’d spent much of the last two years on the Continent with a French dancer. And she could well imagine him, all arrogance and ennui, in Europe. She found it harder to see him at home in the Hampshire countryside. Unless, of course, his mistress was in residence as well.
She bit her lip against the urge to ask directly about the mistress but couldn’t stifle the impulse altogether. “And were you alone at Grayson Park?”
She immediately regretted the question. Even in the darkness, she saw the knowing flicker in his eyes.
“No.”
Lucia waited for him to elaborate, but—vexing man!—he remained silent.
What seemed like days of nerve-wracking silence passed, and Lucia tried to distract herself by looking out the window. She could feel those cool gray eyes on her, and her body warmed in response.
From the moment she’d seen him in the Pools’ garden, she hadn’t been able to drag her eyes from him. Five years ago, when she’d met him, he’d been twenty-four and barely a man. Now there was nothing of the boy left in him. Handsome, formidable, broad-shouldered, he overwhelmed other men of her acquaintance. Lucia herself was tall for a woman and looked most men in the eye. But she’d had to crane her neck to meet Selbourne’s penetrating gaze.
She darted a glance at him now. His hair was dark brown, swept back carelessly from his forehead and too long to be strictly fashionable. The neglected mane framed a face that, like his body, was all hard planes and ridges, only the face was softened by lips that could only be described as sensual. Unlike the ridiculous fops of the ton, he was dressed in black, and the color suited him. He looked . . . dangerous. She shivered again. Underneath that fashionably bored exterior she imagined he was dangerous.
Lucia twirled a curl around one finger, pulling it surreptitiously over her face to hide the blush heating her cheeks. As she did so, a mental image of her dishabille flashed in her mind. With a start, she realized the uproar she’d cause if she arrived home in this condition.
Locating some of the pins in the tangled mass, she began to pile sections of hair on top of her head. With fumbling fingers, she twined and twisted, jabbing pins into the unruly pile. The whole bundle fell over lopsided, and she sighed impatiently. Bleakly, she prayed Selbourne wasn’t watching.
“Need help?”
She groaned at her bad luck. His voice had sounded strained for some reason, and Lucia peeked at him reluctantly.
His eyes were on her—a blistering gray that smoldered like molten steel. She took a shaky breath and forced herself to sound normal. “I need Jane, my maid. If I arrive home in this state the servants will be gossiping for a week. My father won’t tolerate that.”
“In his position he can’t afford scandal.” He watched her a moment longer. “Come here. I’ll do it for you.”
She laughed. “You?”
He didn’t laugh in return. “I’m full of surprises. Come here.” It wasn’t a request this time.
Lucia froze, unsure of the proper protocol. The situation seemed far too intimate for propriety, and she knew she should refuse. But she was an engaged woman. And she did need to fix her hair. Damn Reginald!
Across from her, Alex spread his hands and raised a brow. She supposed the action was designed to give him a harmless appearance, but it looked more like a wicked invitation than a guarantee of safe passage.
“You’re not afraid, are you?”
“Afraid?” She forgot her wariness and let out a bitter laugh. “Lord Selbourne, you are hardly the sort to frighten me.” Her tone was as stiff as her movements when she crossed to sit next to him, and she turned her face to the window so he was presented with her cold, ramrod-straight back.
But as soon as she was beside him, she knew she’d lied. He did frighten her; he overwhelmed her. She could almost feel his gray eyes searing into her, tracing her every curve as he had in the garden. Why didn’t he move? Breathe?
She had to check herself from peering at him over her shoulder. But even without looking, she felt the tension in his body, and it only increased her anticipation. Then, just when she knew she could no longer stand the uncertainty, she felt his hands on her shoulders. Their heat penetrated the thick greatcoat and flowed through her.
“I need to remove the coat,” he murmured.
She nodded, and he slipped the garment halfway down her shoulders. It was an effort to smother the urge to tremble.
In the next moment his warm, strong hands were on her bare neck, tracing the skin above the row of cold amethysts she wore. Goosebumps followed the trail of his heated fingers as, with aching slowness, he slid his hands into the hair at the nape of her neck. His touch was gentle and firm, so unlike Reginald’s clumsy caresses. Tingles of pleasure coursed through her as he stroked the sensitive skin. Quelling her quivers was becoming more challenging by the moment.
“Are you cold?” he whispered. “You’re shivering.” His breath brushed her ear, another caress, the sensation fogging her mind. She clung to one thought—she mustn’t let him know the effect he had on her.
Lucia blurted the first words that came to her. “What business brings you to London?” She tried to concentrate on anything but the feel of his hands on her bare skin; it was all she could do to stop herself from shaking. “Are there not enough young ladies in Hampshire in whose lives you might interfere?”