Eighteen
W hen Flora and Dixon pulled up to my house well past midnight, I half-expected Mother to be waiting on the stoop. But her bedroom window was dark, the curtain drawn. The whole house was dark, save for the window to the parlor, the electric lights within still turned on.
“Good luck,” Flora whispered with a grin as I got out of the car.
I shut the door behind me and returned her smile. When my eyes met Dixon’s, something passed between us, an understanding perhaps, and he nodded before he put the Duesenberg into gear. Flora waved as they sped off.
Standing alone at the front door, my legs missing their stockings, my hair loose and undone, I steeled myself against what would be inside. Turning the unlocked handle—Mother never locked the door if I was out—I stepped over the threshold .
If it was not Mother who stayed up, then…
“Lucas.”
The foyer and parlor were open to each other, no door to close off the room from the entranceway. Lucas reclined in an armchair, a cigar lit in one hand, puffing mindlessly as he watched me enter. He still wore his evening clothes, and his light brown hair was still slicked back, the only indication he’d been waiting awhile the undone tie that hung around his neck, his collar open.
His stare on me felt like knives, cutting right through me. His eyes paused on my legs, slowly moving upward toward my neck. Creeping, checking every inch of skin. Like he knew. His cheeks hollowed as he dragged on the cigar.
I wanted to just turn and go upstairs, to fall into bed. But I knew him, knew he’d have something to say, and he’d force me to hear it, one way or another.
The house was quiet, all our servants having been dismissed, only a low crackling fire in the hearth to keep away the late spring chill.
And still Lucas said nothing, just watching me, inspecting me. I stood in the doorway, wondering if he could hear my heartbeat, wondering if he could smell what I’d done, the dried sweat, the evidence of my time with Adam between my thighs, under my dress.
Did he even know Adam and Vince were one and the same?
His expression turned ugly, a sneer of disgust, as he pulled the cigar away from his lips.
“You’re late,” he said. Not a question.
I shifted uncomfortably in my shoes .
When I didn’t answer, he just scoffed, then pulled on the cigar once more before setting it down in a tray. Smoke wafted toward the ceiling, the heavy smell crowding my senses. The air was so hazy he must’ve had a number before I arrived.
“Should I tell Mother?” He stood languidly, mashing the tip of the cigar in the tray. Peeking at me through his lashes, waiting for my panic, waiting for my groveling.
I hated him. “I imagine you will.”
“Hmm.” To him, it was inconsequential, if I was in trouble with Mother or not. She’d likely gone to bed hours before, whenever Lucas arrived home, pinching his cheeks and thanking him for watching out for me. And he’d have given her that smile that said he had everything under control.
He had me under control.
It took everything in me not to turn and walk out the door, not to return to the manor and ask Adam to hide me, to keep me there forever.
I schooled my features.
“I know where you went,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know where you and Flora get off to when you’re out. But Mother? Does she know?” She didn’t, and he was aware, voice lilting. He sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “What will we do with you?”
“You aim to marry me off,” I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes flickered at the anger in my voice, the feeling I couldn’t push down. “Ah, you’re displeased.” He stepped closer to me, and it was the second time that evening a man had tried to intimidate me by cornering me .
“You must know that no matter how you act out, you’ll not get out of it?” Lucas stopped before me. The doorframe was to my back, and he crowded my space, and though the fear I always felt of him raced through me, there was anger there, too, a frustration that didn’t want to be shoved down anymore.
Yet I knew once I raised my voice at him, all bets were off.
“You’ll do as we say,” he continued, voice dangerously low. “Wright is already on his way.” He checked his watch as if that mattered. “A few days’ time. And this little act, this little flapper thing, will end.”
“I’m not Lucy.” My nails dug into my palms.
“No,” he said, and I felt his breath on my face. He glanced toward my lips, then looked me right into my eyes. “But you should be.”