“I’m curious to know what has you so fascinated with this room.”
“N-nothing,” she replied, knowing she was stammering again. “I… I am missing an earring. I thought perhaps I might have dropped it here yesterday.”
When Lucian moved toward her, she took a step backward. His gaze raked over her, taking in her dishabille, from her hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders, to her wrapper that she had donned over her nightdress, to her bare feet.
“Perhaps you should have put on shoes,” he murmured, coming to stand before her.
She swallowed hard. “I… didn’t have time. I wanted to say farewell to my brother.”
“Weren’t you concerned you would drive the footmen wild, roaming the house in that state of undress?”
“I am perfectly well concealed,” she replied much too breathlessly. “More so than when I wear evening attire.”
Lucian’s chiseled mouth curved in a smile. “For evening, you don’t normally wear your hair loose and flowing like that, looking as if you’ve just left your bed. You might give a thought to us poor mortals, siren,” he added before his smile suddenly faded.
His charming remark had been automatic; part of the habitual seductive manner of a rake, Brynn realized. But he had evidently remembered whom he was addressing.
His expression was solemn as he reached up to smooth a curling tress back from her face, but when his fingers brushed her temple, Brynn flinched. She was certain he hadn’t meant his touch to be arousing, but it seared her as if it were a brand.
Uneasily she returned his gaze. Lucian was very, very still. Spellbound. She recognized the carnal haze in his eyes.
She drew a sharp breath, knowing she would have to act to break the enchantment.
When his gaze dropped to her mouth, she forced herself to smile coldly.
As if he had no control over his actions, he reached up to caress her lower lip with his thumb. His voice was incredibly husky when he murmured almost to himself, “You play the ice maiden so well. It dares a man to try melting you.”
He could melt her quite easily if she allowed him, Brynn knew, feeling her pulse quicken wildly.
It took all her willpower to maintain her pretense of chill disinterest. “You aren’t alone,” she replied, injecting frost into her voice. “Any number of gentlemen feel that way.”
His hand dropped as if he had touched hot coals, while the seductive warmth abruptly left his eyes.
“I will be away for the remainder of the day,” he said tersely before turning on his heel and quitting the study.
Brynn let out a shuddering breath. Suddenly remembering her purpose, she turned back to the desk and dropped Lucian’s seal ring into the drawer as if it were poison. Then she shut her eyes, feeling the violent thud of her heart.
It dismayed her, having to lie to Lucian. She despised deception. But she’d had little choice. She couldn’t expose her brother for fear of how Lucian would react. Grayson might be engaged in something illegal, but he was still her flesh and blood. Certainly she owed him more loyalty than she did her new husband.
Didn’t she?
Chapter Eleven
Lucian dodged a blow and returned a punishing one of his own as he battled Gentleman Jackson himself. A crowd had formed around the ring, most of whom were watching in silent awe.
Jackson’s Rooms on Bond Street was one of the finest pugilist clubs in England. Stripped to the waist and breathing hard, the two opponents had already gone six rounds with their bare fists. Lucian’s shoulder muscles ached, and he was sporting various new bruises, but he’d had the upper hand for some time now.
Then he let fly another deadly punch, connecting with Jackson’s jaw and sending the former champion of England stumbling backward against the boundary ropes.
Regaining his footing with difficulty, Jackson wearily held up his hands and grinned. “Pax, my lord. I know when I’ve had enough.”
Nodding, Lucian hid his disappointment and shook hands, brushing off the Gentleman’s praise and the spectators’ accolades with strained patience. He was still hungering for blood as he picked up a towel and wiped the sweat from his brow.
Primal violence was supposed to relieve sexual frustration, but it had had little effect on his lust. Nor had it improved his mood in the least. He wasn’t sleeping well or concentrating on his work. He spent his nights tortured by his aching loins, burning to possess his elusive, tormenting wife. His days he filled with mind-numbing work or spent in places like this, soliciting punishing physical activity.
Despite his resolve to keep up his guard, he’d become much too bewitched by Brynn. And now he was suffering from another kind of arousal altogether: suspicion.
When he’d found her in his study this morning, he wondered if he was badly mistaken about her. He had thought Brynn uninvolved with her brother’s suspected treasonous activities, but after seeing them together-the guilty looks on their faces-he had to seriously question if he could trust her.
Lucian swore under his breath. It was grating enough that his agents in Cornwall had nothing untoward to report about Sir Grayson-no evidence whatsoever that his nocturnal activities went beyond simple smuggling. Worse, they had no further leads regarding the gold thefts or the alleged mastermind, Caliban. Such impotence galled Lucian, but the possibility that he would have to keep an eye on his own wife in his own home filled him with anger.
It was that dark thought that had driven him beyond his normal range of endurance when he’d fought Jackson, but he still hadn’t worked off his frustrations.
Clenching his jaw, he tossed the towel on a bench.
As he reached for his shirt, though, he looked over and spied the Marquess of Wolverton moving toward him. Dare wasn’t smiling.
“What brings you here?” Lucian asked when his friend reached him. “I thought you considered fisticuffs barbaric.”
“I do. Rapiers are far more civilized.”
“Well, if this is a social visit, I should warn you, I’m in the devil of a foul humor.”
“Then I regret to make it worse. I’ve heard a rumor I thought you would wish to know about.”
“A rumor?”
“Do you recall the contretemps that began at your aunt’s garden party?”
Lucian winced at the memory. “How could I forget? Two young whelps quarreling over who could best teach my wife to shoot.”
Dare nodded. “Pickering and Hogarth are still quarreling. The poet has challenged Hogarth to pistols, and they aren’t even planning to wait properly until dawn.”
“A duel?” Lucian said, raising an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with me?”
“They are fighting over your wife, Luce. It seems the two young sap-skulls have accused each other of impugning her honor. They are dueling over her as we speak.”
To save time, Dare drove, since his curricle was immediately available. They took the North Road, heading toward a field just outside London.
Lucian sat silently, his muscles rigid, his thoughts churning. They would likely arrive too late to prevent the duel and avert a scandal, but he had to try.
When they drew near, a sinking feeling claimed him. They might indeed be too late. Several carriages had stopped beside the road, and a crowd had gathered alongside the field.
What knotted his gut, however, was when he recognized a landau that bore the Wycliff crest on the door panels. Apparently it had only just arrived, for as it ground to a halt, a woman spilled out and began running toward the crowd.
Brynn. Dear God.
Riveted, Lucian watched as she pushed her way through the spectators and onto the dueling field, plunging directly into the fray barely an instant before shots rang out-
Fear slammed into his chest.
Leaping from the curricle even before it came to a stop, Lucian sprinted toward the crowd, terrified of what he might find.