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

with respectable married ladies.”
    â€œWell… well… we should flirt a little and… and… get to know one another first.”
    â€œHow dull!”
    â€œOh, Your Grace, you are mocking me. And you are
very
kind. You know I only asked you because I want revenge on Guy.”
    â€œYes,” he agreed amiably. “I find it rather refreshing. I am so used to ladies throwing themselves at my title and fortune that I had quite begun to think myself irresistible. You are very good for me, Lady Lucy, rather like rhubarb pills or cold baths or—”
    â€œI’m sorry,” interrupted Lucy in a small voice.
    â€œThere. I will not tease you anymore. I shall pretend to be your lover for a little while, but do not be surprised if that husband of yours calls me out.”
    â€œOh, Guy would never do a thing like that. Do you think he will be jealous… just a little?”
    â€œI think he will be very jealous. But you must play your part.
You
must appear to be in love with me.”
    â€œI th-think I could manage that,” said Lucy, her voice breaking on a sob.
    â€œNot if you are going to go around looking sad and haunted. Take my hands and hold them firmly. Look up at me! Good. Now. Pretend you are wildly, madly, and passionately in love with me.”
    Lucy looked up into his face. His eyes glittered strangely in the moonlight and she could feel the hard pressure of his hands.
    â€œNo. You looked scared and lost,” he said. “You need encouragement. One of your curls has come loose.”
    He took off his gloves and gently lifted a long curl from her shoulder, letting his fingertips linger for a moment on her skin. Then he gently wound it back into place among the others pinned on top of her head.
    â€œYou must call me Simon,” he said caressingly, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand, “and I shall call you Lucy.
    â€œListen! Someone is coming. Ah, if I am not mistaken, that high chattering voice belongs to one of London’s worst gossips, Mrs. Partington. She has commandeered some gentleman to show her the flowers but she really wants to find out what we are doing. So we shall not disappoint her.”
    Before she could guess what he was about, he had jerked her roughly into his arms and covered her mouth with his own. He pulled away a fraction and said against her lips, “Do not tremble so, dear Lucy.
Do
act your part. Mrs. Partington will do the rest.” Then his mouth came down on hers again, cool and firm at first, and then burning, passionate, exploring. Lucy’s body was pressed against his—she dizzily felt it was
fusing
with his—and then she felt nothing but a hectic, burning, passionate yearning. There was a shocked exclamation from Mrs. Partington and Lucy would have drawn away, but the Duke held her very tightly while Mrs. Partington’s companion muttered, “By Jove, I think that’s Habard,” and then Lucy heard the sound of hurriedly retreating footsteps.
    The Duke had meant to release her as soon as the inquisitive Mrs. Partington had seen enough, but his senses were taking over completely from his brain, and the inside of her mouth tasted sweet to his exploring tongue, and her breasts were pressed so hard against him, and…
    He jerked away roughly and said in a rather ragged voice, “I think we performed our parts rather well. That wretched curl has escaped from its mooring again and you look quite wanton. See, I shall pin it back with its fellows.” His voice sounded normal again. “Shall we join the curious gossips in the ballroom? Have you eaten?”
    â€œI tried to at supper, but I could not.”
    â€œThen we shall both eat,” said the Duke lightly.
    He helped Lucy to her feet and she took his arm. They moved slowly like sleepwalkers across the grass, each of them stunned with the violence of their feelings.
    When they were both seated in the supper room, each