Chapter Two
“And then the badger ran in the opposite direction, and Melton yelled loudly enough to shake the heavens,”
Lucian said.
But Samuel wasn’t listening to his brilliant anecdote. Instead, his friend had turned, his expression lighting up like the sun had suddenly burst into the ballroom, and Lucian turned as well, anticipating what he’d see, envying Samuel’s utter besottedness with his new wife.
And then for a heart-stopping moment, envying everything about Samuel because the woman approaching them was so enticing, so gloriously attractive, it felt as though she was a magnet and he a piece of iron.
Not the most riveting of comparisons, to be sure, but it felt as though if he wasn’t careful he would just gradually drift over to her and stick to her side.
“Julia!”
Samuel exclaimed, then took the hand of a lady who was not the lady he’d just been admiring. His lady.
Not that she was his lady, not at all. Though, he had to admit to a huge sense of relief he hadn’t just had such a visceral reaction to his friend’s new bride. That would be very awkward, especially since Lucian had never bothered to restrain himself when it came to seeing something he might want.
And he wanted, quite badly.
“Eldridge, let me introduce you,”
Samuel was saying. Lucian couldn’t take his gaze away from her, which he knew was rude. Mostly because not-Julia was staring at him also, darting her eyes toward Samuel’s intended in clear indication he should be averting his gaze from her and turning it toward the other her.
Even though she hadn’t done the same. You first, he wished he could say.
“Yes, of course,”
Lucian said, forcing himself to look at the other lady. Perhaps the first time in his life he’d denied himself.
“Lady Julia Alston may I introduce Lord Lucian Eldridge. Eldridge, I’d like to present my wife—”
at which he threw a fond look toward her “—Lady Julia.”
“My pleasure, my lady,”
Lucian said, taking the hand she proffered and dropping a quick kiss onto the back of it. “You have married a good man,”
he added, hoping he sounded as sincere as he felt. Sometimes it was hard to gauge, since he spent a lot of time saying things he didn’t mean and always managed to sound equally convincing.
“I know that, Lord Lucian,”
she replied, offering a smile. “He has spoken of you often. I hope we will be friends as well.”
She turned to her friend, allowing Lucian to put his gaze where he most wanted it: her. “This is my friend Lady Diantha. We met when our fathers, um—”
“When my father met Julia’s father and decided he was the reincarnation of Darius of Persia, and that meant the two of them should be mortal enemies, since at the time Papa thought he was the reincarnation of Alexander the Great.”
A wry smile tugged at her mouth. “Thank goodness that fancy passed before actual damage could occur.”
“I think we are all grateful for that, Lady Diantha,”
Lucian said, taking her hand. He raised it slowly to his lips, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he lowered his mouth to kiss it.
“I am Lady Diantha Courtenay, my lord,”
she said, emphasizing the last name. “My father is the Earl of Courtenay; perhaps you are familiar with my family?”
The information only served to pique his interest even more. And his interest was well and truly piqued.
He knew about his father’s feud with the earl; it was impossible to be in the same house with the man for longer than a few hours without hearing about it. According to the duke, the earl was an impulsive miscreant who’d chosen to ruin the business the earl and the duke had owned together, back when they were merely second sons, because he’d listened to some plaintive tale and not been sensible.
The earl sounded like Lucian’s people, to be honest. And his daughter? Well, he was hoping she might prove to be one of his people also.
It wasn’t that she was spectacularly beautiful, because she wasn’t, but she was so appealing, the intelligent, bright look in her dark eyes so alluring it made his knees weak.
Lord Lucian Eldridge’s knees did not, under normal circumstances, get weak.
Her hair was dark brown, nearly as dark as his own, and her strong eyebrows gave her a commanding look that made him want to obey whatever she said, implicitly. Tell me what you desire, he wanted to say, and I will do it.
Her nose was appealingly tilted just at the end, while her mouth—well, Lucian could write an ode to her mouth, if he was an ode writer. Also known as a poet.
Which he was not. Writing poetry seemed as though it was a tremendous waste of time, and he didn’t like an art form where rhyming and not rhyming were both valid options.
But still. A poem beckoned, if he was of the mind to answer the call.
Her mouth was lush and full, a dark red that made it look as though she’d just bitten her lips. She had faint smile lines on either side that made it seem as though she was on the verge of laughing out loud.
She wore a delectable pink gown that clung to her curves—and she had many. She was fuller-bosomed than most women, and it appeared as though her hips were equally generous. A woman whose warm skin could be grasped and caressed and clutched in passion. The kind of passion one could lose oneself in. The kind of passion that was the reward for having avoided staid complacency one’s entire life. Well done, Lucian, he thought to himself. It sounded as though she might be like him, given what he knew of her family. His father had railed enough about how irresponsible and feckless the Earl of Courtenay was, and whenever Lucian heard it, he envied that attitude.
What would it be like to grow up with people who acted on desire and not duty?
“My lord, how do you and Lord Samuel come to be acquainted?”
she asked. Her voice was low and measured, as though each word that emerged from those lips was well considered.
“Well, it certainly is not as exciting as your history with Lady Julia,”
he said with an easy smile. “Or with me, for that matter. Given our parents’ antipathy toward one another. Shammie and I were at Eton together, and then we both came to London to—”
and then he felt his face color.
Her eyebrows rose. “I see,”
she said, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she did. That she knew every bit of miscreance he and Samuel had indulged in and perhaps imagined even a few they hadn’t.
And then she smiled, as though something pleasant had just crossed her mind, and she was about to share it with him. He felt that smile course through his body, as if she had just confirmed she was like him after all.
He had been anticipating tonight already for the usual reasons—wine, dancing, conversation—but the addition of possible pleasure, a smidge of flirtation, with a like-minded female made his senses come alive.
That it might be with the daughter of his father’s worst enemy? That added a perfect twist to something that was already nearly perfect.
If Diantha was her father—which thank God she was not—she would say that this was all providence, or at least the machinations of whichever deity her father was indebted to at the moment.
But it did seem, if not divine interference, then at least remarkably timely that she had decided to pretend to be a normal person without the Courtenay burden the very same evening she met the most attractive person she’d ever encountered.
Which was redundant, but that was how much her mind was spinning.
Up close he was even more attractive, if such a thing was possible.
His dark eyes weren’t brown, as she’d presumed, but a dark, stormy blue, like a windswept sea. This close she could see the top part of his neck, the part not covered by his cravat, and it was strong, with a pronounced Adam’s apple.
And why Adam’s apples suddenly seemed appealing she didn’t know, but here she was. If this apple was the fruit that had tempted Eve, Diantha could well understand it.
He’d taken her hand, and it was all she could do not to stop breathing. His grip was strong but gentle, and when he’d pressed his lips to the back of her hand, she’d desperately wished she wasn't wearing the gorgeous pink evening gloves she’d been admiring on herself just a moment earlier.
“Would you mind if I take my bride onto the dance floor?”
Lord Samuel was saying. Diantha heard it through a fog, a fog comprised of black hair, a devilish smile, and long, elegant fingers.
“Of course,”
she murmured, after too long a pause.
“Your mother is—”
Julia said, glancing around.
Diantha rolled her eyes. “She’s probably in the games room. She is currently convinced that twenty-two is her lucky number, since she has two children and was twenty years old when she married my father.”
“Ah,”
Julia remarked, eyes wide. “Will you be—?”
“I can keep Lady Julia company,”
he said. Lucifer, that is. Otherwise known as Lord Lucian, which was as close to Lucifer as a name could get without being actually satanic.
Perhaps she should take that as a sign as well.
Wait. Was she more similar to her parents than she’d always believed? Seeing good fortune in the eyes of a handsome man or meaning in a name?
No. That was just ridiculous. She was going to allow herself one evening of not thinking about any of that, and then she would be back to her own life tomorrow.
When she’d have to deal with the current price of corn, the redistribution of the barn cats since the attic was overrun with mice, and whether or not she could persuade her father to invest less than an enormous sum in a new alchemical process. Despite the family currently having lobster money, Diantha knew only too well that lobsters could turn to bread and cheese in the blink of an eye—or at the whim of her father.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
he was saying.
“Fine, yes, thank you,”
she murmured. Just thinking about crustaceans.
“Would you like to dance?”
he asked, gesturing toward the dance floor.
“If—that is, I’d rather not, not at the moment. But not because I don’t wish—that is, do you suppose we could venture onto the terrace?”
She flapped her hand vaguely near her face. “I am feeling warm.”
“Indeed,”
he said, sounding pleased. “Of course.”
He took her arm, wrapping it around his, and began to lead her through the crowd. A few people called his name—of course they did, he must be very popular—but he ignored them, instead making a straight, definitive line toward the double doors that led out onto the terrace.
Diantha had spent time at the Montbrays’ town house before, in an effort to escape from her family, just for a week or two. Visiting here had opened her eyes to the fact that things at her own home were not the usual way of families: it wasn’t customary, for example, for a mother to install a succession of young, attractive men at the house to instruct her in languages, at least until she got bored or too frustrated by declensions to continue.
Or the men began to look at Diantha or her sister, and their mother banished them back to whatever Handsome Men in Search of Handouts camp she’d found them in.
Nor was it usual for fathers to decide clothing was a nuisance, so for one memorable month he’d strolled about the estate in nothing but a banyan and slippers.
But, she realized, nor was it usual for a family to demonstrate so much love toward one another—no matter what idiosyncratic behaviors her parents and her sister, Drusilla, took on, they never failed to tell Diantha how much they loved and appreciated her, even when she wasn’t saving them from certain financial ruin.
“How have we never met?”
he was asking, as he led them to the stone balustrade. Diantha disengaged her arm from his, then leaned over to gaze into the gardens.
The Montbrays had extended their decorations here as well: torches were placed at regular intervals, lighting the paths that crisscrossed the garden, casting a warm, golden glow that was augmented by the pale sliver of moon above.
“Likely because our fathers loathe one another?”
she replied in an amused tone of voice. “Though, even if they didn’t, I never had a debut, and I seldom attend parties. I come to London to see Julia, to shop, and to go to the British Museum.”
“I’ve never been to the British Museum,”
he admitted.
She was on the verge of opening her mouth to detail the myriad pieces in the museum’s collection, then caught herself. Droning on about ancient relics and religious art was the Diantha who would make her return, reverse Cinderella–style, when she got back home.
Tonight’s Diantha was succumbing to the lure of her gown, the party, and the presence of a remarkably handsome gentleman.
Having decided all that, however, meant that she was currently at a loss for words, what with not knowing how to flirt in the first place.
“Uh,”
she began, “the museum is excellent if one—”
she faltered. Is excellent if one is fascinated by history? Not very flirtatious. Likes art? Too obvious. Wants to be far away from one’s noisy, obstreperous family? Too close to the truth.
“I believe I would find the museum most compelling if you kept company with me there,”
he continued, his tone silky.
Ah. So he clearly knew how to flirt. She’d have to observe him and see if she could pick up any tricks.
“There’s quite a large number of naked statues,”
she blurted.
He looked taken aback, and she wanted to slide down into a puddle of embarrassment on the floor.
Naked statues, Diantha would have known if she had thought about it for more than a second, were not flirting conversations. At least not for people who weren’t also naked statues. Or something like that. She wasn’t up on gargoyle courtship.
Then he arched an eyebrow, and one corner of that mouth curled up into a smile that even Diantha knew was knowing, and part of her relaxed. This was fine. It was just one night.
“You’ll definitely have to escort me, then,”
he replied. “I do enjoy nakedness in all its splendor.”
“I doubt we will ever meet again, my lord,”
she said hastily, feeling her face heat. He was far more daring than she had expected. “But tonight, I did promise myself I would have fun.”
She needed to get the conversation away from lack of clothing and onto something less dangerous. “So perhaps you would care for a waltz after all?” She gestured toward the ballroom, where they could hear the beginning strains of music that was most definitely waltz-inclined. She’d initially declined out of habit—the habit of not dancing with anyone, to be specific—but that didn’t suit tonight’s Reckless Diantha.
“It would be my pleasure,”
he replied.
Lucian escorted Lady Diantha to the dance floor, sliding one hand onto her waist, holding her hand with the other. She stilled for a moment, then bit her lip as she placed one tentative hand on his shoulder. He tightened his grip, drawing her in a trifle closer than was customary, drinking in her faint blush and the sparkle in her eyes.
And then they began to dance.
She kept her gaze steadily on his face—lifting her chin as though in response to some unspoken question. He was acutely aware of his fingers splayed on her waist, the warmth and softness of her body permeating his gloves and the layers of fabric she wore. He itched to remove everything, peeling her layer by layer, until he revealed the beauty underneath.
“I think you are precisely who I was supposed to meet this evening,”
she said, catching her lip again with her teeth. “I told myself that I was allowed to have fun. Encouraged myself, actually. I so seldom do—”
“What with going to the British Museum instead of parties,”
he said, punctuating his words with a sly smile. “And yes, I am who you were supposed to meet. My name, my lady, is synonymous with fun.”
He arched his brow. “It would be my pleasure to introduce it to you, since it seems you have not already met.”
From the little she’d said, it sounded as though she was a measured young lady who valued knowledge far more than pleasure. Not at all like the rest of her family. But she was behaving far differently; even now she laughed, and he drank in the sound of it, feeling her laughter course through his body like the finest champagne.
That was the best part about a single-minded determination to please oneself. There were so many opportunities for enjoyment—dancing with a lovely woman, watching her blush, hearing her laugh. Just these moments alone would make his evening worthwhile. Would fill his pleasure-fueled soul to the brim.
“Fun was not the word that came to mind when I first saw you,”
she admitted. A shy smile on her lips.
“Oh?”
Lucian asked. “What was the word?”
“Less a word than a name,”
she replied. “You look like Lucifer.”
His eyebrows rose. “Like the devil?”
Her cheeks pinked. “Not exactly. But Lucifer is a fallen angel, someone who tempts people into doing things. Things like having fun, I suppose,”
she said, her eyes lit with excitement.
“In that case, I am willing to be Lucifer for you, my lady.”
“While I feel like Cinderella,” she said.
He glanced down. “You’ve lost a shoe? Shall we stop and search for it?”
She gave him an amused look. “No, silly. Like I’ve got just tonight to make the most of everything. As though everything is magical.”
She wrinkled her brow. “That sounds ridiculous, to be honest. It’s just a party, after all.”
“I know what you mean, though,”
he replied. He nodded to her. “It’s as though our meeting isn’t chance but fate.”
He stopped speaking for a few moments as they whirled on the edge of the dance floor. “And since you are Cinderella, you should have the evening you desire. What type of fun do you wish for, my lady?”
For some reason, he desperately wanted to know. Or, actually, he knew the reason: Lucian didn’t venture into something so much as plunge. Headlong into whatever it was he was pursuing, whether it was viewing all the paintings by his new favorite artist (who might be replaced the next month by his next new favorite artist); pushing his body until he literally collapsed, able only to beg for water and fruit tarts (one had to keep to a certain standard, no matter how much one needed sustenance); or falling in passion with someone because of a certain look in their eye or the way they walked.
Or how they spoke so intriguingly about naked statues.
“I wish,”
she began, in a halting voice, “to do what I wish to do.”
She gave a wry smile. “Tautological, to be sure, but also true.”
He knew, as sure as he knew his name was Lucian Eldridge, that he had a mole that looked like a horseshoe on his stomach, and that whatever he wanted he would eventually get, that she wished to do him. In some way, and he would accept anything she was willing to give him.
He felt his lips curl into a satisfied smile, feeling the prickle of anticipation course through him. This woman, this night, this adventure.
It would be worth all of it, he also knew.
What type of fun do you wish for?
Nobody had ever asked Diantha that. Mostly, they asked her if she could do something or why she had asked them not to do something. Sometimes they went so far as to pretend to ask her opinion when what they really meant was that she had to solve the problem.
But he—Lucifer the Tempting—had asked, and she had answered. Immediately. Openly. Honestly.
I wish to do what I wish to do.
What she hadn’t said specifically was what it was she wished to do, but even she wasn’t so naive as to not know he would understand what she meant. For tonight, at least.
Which she knew when she saw his smile, a smile that promised everything she’d imagined, and likely some things she hadn’t.
This evening.
Before turning back into a pre–fairy godmothered Cinderella, albeit with fewer ashes and mean stepsisters.
“Shall we take a tour of the house, then? I assume you’ve been here, since you’re Lady Julia’s friend. Can you show me around?”
She also wasn’t so naive to think he actually wanted to get a good look at Lord Montbray’s study, the one with all the mounted deer heads, or that he was intently interested in viewing the small room where Lady Montbray did most of her embroidery.
She took a deep breath, then tugged him to the side of the room, out of the twists and turns of the other dancers.
“Yes, of course. I’d be delighted to.”
He took the lead then, guiding her along the edges of the room, skillfully dodging talkative dowagers and gentlemen in various states of inebriation, until he came to a door, which he flung open and quickly guided her through.
And then they were in a small storage room that was currently in use as a cloakroom. Diantha knew that the usual entry to the room was on the other side; this door was seldom used, and so they emerged nose to cape with everyone’s outer garments for the evening.
“Well,”
Diantha said, smothering a laugh, “this is where the Montbrays store their guests’ cloaks. May I show you this item?”
she said, pulling at a shawl. “As you can see, it has a strong scent of lavender, leading one to imagine its owner has been rolling in a field of the stuff. Although, its hues might lead one to think it should not exist in the natural world.”
The shawl was a hideous combination of puce, chartreuse, and a particularly sickly brown.
“In fact,”
Diantha continued, unable to keep the amusement from her voice, “this is my mother’s. Behold the exquisite craftsmanship. The confidence to include all these colors, while pairing it with an eye-catching gown of olive and navy stripes, with just a touch of Brussels lace on top.”
“Your mother, you say?”
he replied. “Is this atrocity why our parents are feuding?”
he said, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.
“If only it was that simple,”
she said, shaking her head ruefully. “I begged her not to wear it this evening, but she insisted that it suited today’s emotional resonance entirely.”
“She sounds like a remarkable woman,”
he said, sounding almost admiring.
“Oh yes.”
Diantha regarded the shawl again, wincing slightly less this time. “She does what she wants when she wants.”
“You mean,”
he said in that silky tone from earlier, “that she does what she wishes to do?”
Diantha’s breath caught. Suddenly she was very aware that the two of them were here, alone, in a tiny space surrounded by fabric that would hide them from view, at least unless the potential viewer moved everything out of the way.
“She . . . she does.”
Why did she have to sound so hesitant? Tonight was the night for Bold Diantha, Diantha of the Cinderella dream, not the Diantha who felt compelled to explain her parents’ idiosyncrasies. “She does,”
she said, more firmly.
Which was why Diantha was denied her own opportunities: if she wasn’t so busy ensuring the Capricious Courtenays were taken care of, she could take more care of herself. Do what she wished to.
“And is this—”
he said, gesturing to where they were “—what you wish to do? The best moment of fun you could have this evening?”
He paused, then spoke again, this time in a lower tone. “What is it you wish to do, my lady?”
This was it. This was the moment she could be Brave, Reckless Diantha, not the Diantha who was the last person to go to bed every evening—despite how tired she might be—because she needed to know every candle was snuffed out.
Not the Diantha who had figured out precisely the right words to say when one or another of her parents had offended someone with their haphazardly blunt way of speaking.
Or the Diantha who almost hadn’t purchased the gown she was currently wearing because it was impractical, memorable, and beautiful—three things an evening gown should be, but she hadn’t been certain she should succumb to that kind of temptation.
“I wish,”
she said, blowing out a breath to keep herself calm so she didn’t end up in hysterics—awkward when one was alone with a handsome gentleman who had done nothing but flirt with her, "to kiss you.”
His mouth curled up into a smile, and her breath caught again—this time for a good reason.
“Excellent. Because I would like to kiss you too.”