Chapter Twelve #2
It did not remain so. Hours slipped by, with no announcement of a sudden visitor, the time flying far faster than Bernard could have imagined, mostly because of Lucy’s laughter and the conversation that flowed between them so naturally, he could hardly believe it.
Before Bernard had really realized what was happening, the sun had started to descend in the sky and the shadows were growing longer, and—
“Oh!” Lucy looked up at the noise, which had pricked Bernard’s ears too.
“Was—was that the dinner gong?” he asked vaguely, looking down at his ink-splattered fingers and his wrist, which he was certain would never be the same again.
“You know, I think it might be,” Lucy said indistinctly, glancing over at the longcase clock in the corner.
“My word, I—I had no idea it was so late.” She turned back to him, her fingers tickling at her throat.
“As my parents aren’t here, I doubt Percy will be offended if I don’t dress for dinner. Do you mind?”
Mind? This woman could come to dinners absolutely nude and Bernard would not mind. He might prefer it.
Probably not the best thing to say to a daughter of an earl, though.
“No. No, why would I?” was what he said aloud. “I’m sure your brother won’t mind.”
Lord Percy did not mind. It would have been understandably difficult for him to mind because he was absent.
“Lord Percy asked me to tell you that he is avoiding you, Lady Lucy, and so he has gone to the gaming hell you’ve agreed never to let your parents know about,” intoned Cawthorne as the two of them emerged from the study and walked across the hall toward the dining room.
“He said that he would be back late, and to dine without him.”
Bernard’s spine stiffened.
Now hang on! He was hardly a prude, nor a slave to Society’s sensibilities, and admittedly, they had just spent hours alone together in a room and no one had bothered to look in on them, but even he knew that a young lady like Lucy needed a chaperone of sorts around an unmarried man like himself.
Lord Percy, while a rogue in many respects, understood that.
So why the devil had he left them alone?
“Oh.” Lucy glanced at him, her cheeks pinking—which did not make sense, Bernard told himself sternly, because she was smart. She knew that this… That they… “Well, thank you, Cawthorne. Please serve now. I’m starving.”
Unbidden thoughts of a hungry Lucy—a hungry Lucy of a very different kind—poured into his mind. Bernard cleared his throat, but it was a fit of coughing that finally dislodged them.
When he straightened, it was to see Lucy looking at him with a hitch in her breath. “Are you quite well, Bernard? Will I have to nurse you while my parents are away?”
Lord save me from suggestive statements from women who look like that, Bernard thought ruefully as they entered the dining room together.
As usual, there were a pair of footmen standing at each end of the room. It had never bothered him particularly because the room had also always been full of Chances.
Now it was just himself and Lucy, and somehow, that felt far more intimate. Far more exposing.
Which was why Bernard almost yelped when Lucy said nonchalantly, “Actually, could you ask Cawthorne to bring in all the food and just leave it here? We’ll help ourselves, and I expect the two of you want your dinner, don’t you?”
What the hell did she think she was doing?
The two footmen mumbled, cheeks flushing, that actually eating their dinner now rather than in two hours’ time would be preferable, and after helping the butler lay out the braised chicken, the potatoes, the carrots, the peas, the Yorkshire puddings and two jugs of gravy—how anyone thought they’d get through that much gravy, Bernard did not know—the servants disappeared, closing the door quietly behind them, but not before a stern-faced Cawthorne had locked eyes with Bernard and sent a shiver down his spine.
A warning. Not that it was a butler’s place to say anything. So he’d just glared his message.
But that just left…himself. And Lucy. Seated at right angles at one end of the table, she was mere inches from him. Her scent filled his mind, distracting him from all rational thought, and he could not help but notice some flecks of ink on her décolletage from their day of writing.
She was so alluring. So intoxicating.
Bernard swallowed and wondered if would be possible to cross his legs under this table.
This was too much. It was like she was purposefully orchestrating—
“So, now that I have got us alone,” Lucy said lightly, helping herself to roast potatoes, “I need to talk to you.”
Bernard almost dropped the piece of chicken he had just carved.
Of course. He should have known that such a thing could not have been a coincidence. The minx!
“Where is Lord Percy, really?” Bernard asked, trying not to grin and failing miserably.
His smile only widened as Lucy giggled. “Well, he might be courting a lady. Or he might not. We shall never know.”
“You are incorrigible, you know!”
“I know what I want,” Lucy said quietly.
Bernard really did drop the chicken this time, leaving a wonderfully brown stain on the crisp white tablecloth. “Oh, blast—”
“Leave it. Leave all of it.” Lucy’s voice was low, though not in spirts, just in volume. She was leaning forward, leaning closer to him, and it was all he could do to inhale as she said, “We need to talk, you and I.”
Oh, dear God.
Either he was dreaming, and what a pleasant dream it was, or…or Lucy was really looking at him like that, with desire-filled eyes and a slow smile.
“Talk,” Bernard managed to say.
Well, really he should have been congratulated. Who could be expected to do or say anything sensible with Lady Lucy Chance looking at them like—like that?
“I promised myself I would do this even…even if it frightens me,” Lucy said quietly, her food ignored and her gaze fixed on him. “Because this can’t go on, Bernard. You know it can’t.”
Oh. Oh, right.
Bernard tried not to allow his shoulders to slump too obviously, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. She did not care for him, not beyond pity—that was not what this was about at all.
It was about the fact that he was living with an earl and his family for absolutely nothing, outstaying his welcome and making no meaningful efforts to leave.
He should have expected this. He should have done more to find that damned Hovell.
Doing his best to plaster a cheerful expression across his face, Bernard said brightly, “No, it can’t. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
He had presumed she’d be pleased. After all, he had been here a month.
But for some inexplicable reason, Lucy’s breath hitched. “You are?”
“Yes, absolutely,” he said firmly, hating the agony shooting through his body at the very thought of leaving her. “Yes, I’ll be off, and you’ll never see me again.”
Why on earth were Lucy’s shoulders now slumping? “Oh.”
There was silence for a moment, other than the whirring of the gears in Bernard’s own mind. Right, where had he gone wrong? Something was wrong. He had hurt her—but he had only given her the response he’d known she’d expected.
“But I am terribly in love with you, that’s the only thing,” Lucy said quietly, looking up from her hands and clearly forcing herself to meet his eye. “So… So if you would leave a forwarding address, that would be—”
“You love me?” blurted out Bernard.
No. It wasn’t possible—he’d dreamed it. He’d dreamed the whole thing! It wasn’t possible that she, that his Lucy…that she loved him?