Free Lady Lucy's Lover by M.C. Beaton

Lucy’s burning ones.
    â€œMy dance, I think, Lady Standish,” he said. One strong arm circled her waist and bore her off into the steps of the waltz.
    â€œTry to look as if nothing had happened,” said the Duke’s voice in her ear.
    â€œI c-can’t,” said Lucy, her voice breaking on a sob. “I-I’m going to cry.”
    â€œAnd let that trollop see your distress? They are leaving. Ruthfords has ordered them out and quite right too. No, don’t look!”
    â€œIt’s n-no use,” said Lucy pathetically. “I
am
going to cry.”
    The Duke of Habard twirled her expertly straight across the floor until they were at the long, open french windows which led out into the garden.
    Holding her arm in a firm clasp, he urged her down the shallow steps which led to the lawn.
    â€œ
Now
you may cry,” he said pleasantly.
    But Lucy found she did not want to cry anymore. The cool dark air of the garden closed around her as he led her across the grass, away from the jaunty mocking music of the ballroom.
    â€œWhy did you come?” she asked. “You said you would not come.”
    â€œMy other engagement seemed flat. I was going home and saw Standish alighting with Miss Comfort on his arm.”
    â€œHow did you know it was she?
I
did not know until she unmasked. She was wearing a red wig.”
    â€œHer figure was familiar,” he said dryly.
    â€œAnd you came to help me? Oh, thank you,” said Lucy in a muffled voice. “You always seem to be helping me.”
    â€œAnd I must stop. You are old enough to handle your own marriage, Lady Standish.”
    He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and dusted the seat of a marble bench which glimmered palely in the moonlight at the far end of the garden.
    â€œSit down, Lady Standish,” he said. “I will stay with you until you are quite recovered and then I will take you home.”
    Lucy sat down and stared at the grass at her feet. She was consumed with a desire for revenge. She wanted to hurt her fickle husband as much as he had hurt her. How would he like it if she paraded her infatuation for a man before the eyes of society?
    And then, clear as a bell, Ann Hartford’s teasing voice urging her to take a lover sounded in her brain.
    She turned and looked at the Duke of Habard. He had lit a thin black cheroot and seemed totally absorbed in blowing smoke rings up to the starry sky. The cry of the watch calling two o’clock came faintly to Lucy’s ears.
    Why not? Why not ask this fashionable Duke to be her inamorato? Had she not been so overwrought, Lucy would never have considered for a moment asking such a paragon to be her lover.
    But hurt and a thirst for revenge had driven away Lady Lucy’s customary timidity.
    All at once she said, “My Lord Duke, I wish to ask you a very great favor.”
    â€œAsk away,” said the Duke easily. “Although I cannot guarantee that I will be able to help you.”
    â€œI wish you to be my lover,” said Lucy.
    He sat very still, and then he very carefully extinguished his cheroot, turned on the seat, and looked down at her. He was about to say something along the lines of how dare she use him thus to revenge herself on her useless husband. But her hair glimmered in the moonlight like pale gold and her shoulders rising above the low neckline of her gown were very white. She smelled faintly of flowers and powder. He signed a little. She was not serious. Only hurt. He would frighten her out of the idea without humiliating her.
    â€œVery well,” he said lazily. “My servants are very discreet. You may come home with me, or, if you would prefer it, we can find some inn a little out of town and there we may consummate this burning passion which obviously consumes you.”
    â€œNo!” exclaimed Lucy. “I mean, that is not the way it should be.”
    â€œAh, you must instruct me. I am not in the way of having liaisons