Was he angry with her? Or teasing? She wasn’t sure. She had learned of a school set up for factory children to learn ciphering and reading on their Sundays off, and she had determined to do all she could to help. A calling made sweeter when she had found Sibby Rose Nolan outside the building where school was held, waiting to walk her older brother, Robert, home. The child’s earnestness as Grace had shown her how to write the first two letters of her name was fresh in her mind, the little girl repeating with adorable seriousness. ‘S’ is a snake…‘i’ is a candle with a dot of flame.
“I do apologize,” she said. “But the slates and pencils I’d ordered arrived just as I was going upstairs to change. If youknew how delighted the children will be, you might have got distracted, too.”
“I doubt it,” he said.
She sucked in the corner of her lip. But before she could think what to say, gloved fingertips brushed her cheek, Lucien’s deep voice starting a tremor along her skin.
“If playing Lady Bountiful makes your eyes shine like they did over those crates, I would consider purchasing every slate in London.”
Her heart skipped, grateful as he smiled warmly. “Securing supplies for the school is my favorite thing about living in London.Almost.” She dared a wicked smile and squeezed his thigh. “As to my garb, I do hope it is up to your very fastidious standards.”
“I will like the dress better when I have stripped it off of you later tonight.” Lucien regarded her with eyes so intense they made her nipples burn. His lids fell to half-mast as he leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Perhaps we can leave at intermission.”
The coach rumbled to a halt, the door suddenly opening, the footman letting down the coach steps. It seemed every eye in the surrounding crowd was turned their way. As Lucien descended and handed her down, she couldn’t suppress a laugh.
“What do you find amusing, Lady Everdene?” Lucien asked.
“I was just recalling how it was during my first season. How my friends and I clustered together, imagining what it would be like to enter a room on the arm of a handsome escort everyone else had been swooning over.”
“I never imagined you were the giggling, swooning type,” Lucien said.
“You’re partly correct. I told myself I was my mother’s daughter—far above such fol-de-rol. It turns out, I am not nearly as dignified as I wished to be. I am quite enjoying all of the envious glances thrown my way.”
The severe lines of Lucien’s face softened in a way she had seen so rarely. He covered her hand with his. “My dear, I am the one to be envied. You look lovely tonight.”
She was turning her face up to his when a piping little voice rang out, the Irish brogue like a song. “Posy…posy for milady, sir?”
Grace wheeled toward the sound, glimpsing a small girl in the crowd, a faded red cloak swathing her body. A box hung from a strap around her narrow shoulders.
“Sibby Rose!” Grace released Lucien’s arm to wave at the little girl who took up the end of her plait, displaying a somewhat droopy, yet still-bright red ribbon. But before Grace could make her way to the child, Neville’s voice jarred her.
“Ah! If it isn’t the happy couple!” he said. Her former betrothed approached with an exquisite woman on his arm. “Lord Pinchbeck mentioned you were to come to the theater with Lady Alice.”
“Unfortunately,” Lucien said stiffly, starting to steer Grace past the couple, “Lady Alice has a megrim and sent her regrets.”
“Yes. Most unfortunate. I was hoping to see her myself. However, the lovely Miss Marchand has volunteered to ease my disappointment.”
Neville’s companion caught Lucien’s arm with a familiarity that set Grace’s teeth on edge. Sultry violet eyes regarded Lucien with ill-concealed amusement, the woman’s tongue moistening pouting lips. “Machèreviscount, surely you do not mean to ignore an old friend?”
Grace saw the muscle in Lucien’s jaw tighten, then he gave her a curt nod. “Miss Marchand.”
Neville pushed on. “The lovely bride and I are friends as well. Allow me to introduce Miss Giselle Marchand, Lady Grace Elliot, er, Harcourt.”
She heard Lucien’s breath hiss between his teeth, felt his muscles knot beneath her hand. “Lady Everdene.” His words were steely as a blade.
But the French beauty only looked up at him with a knowing laugh. “All these years you always swore you would never marry, and yet scandal snared you at last. Something about a house party, a tryst after midnight, and the parson’s mousetrap snapped shut?”
Miss Marchand’s tone made it a question, but there was a knowing light in those sly eyes. Was this pure conjecture, or had what transpired between Grace and Lucien somehow leaked out? Heat rose in her cheeks. “My lord, perhaps we should find our seats—” she began, trying to draw him away.
Lucien would not be moved. “Let me dispel your delusions at once, Miss Marchand. I wed Lady Grace because she is without peer. She puts every other woman of my acquaintance in the shade with her beauty, intelligence and kindness. If fools think I would wed for any other reason, they do not know me at all.”
With a curt bow, he swept Grace toward the rotunda. She peered up at him, daring to hope. Was it possible what he had said was true?
What the devilwas going on here? Lucien seethed, not even seeing the actors on the stage. Neville Freyne showing up with Lucien’s former mistress? Here at the theater on the very night Lady Alice Pinchbeck invited Grace? And that snide comment of Giselle’s—that Lucien had been forced into marriage because he’d compromised Grace…Was that just a swipe of cat’s claws? Or something more?
Lord Elliot was still in contact with Freyne. Had Grace’s father felt the need to explain why he agreed to the marriage and had Freyne told Giselle? Or had some servant witnessed their indiscretions at Everdene Hall or at the townhouse and started rumors?
These thoughts made Lucien’s blood boil.
