Yet, his answer to Giselle’s jibe had unnerved him even more. Because the words had spilled out with the ring of truth…because of the way Grace had looked at him as he spoke them, the emotion he’d seen flare in her eyes…The hope…Love…
Fierce protectiveness mingled with a fear so raw he had to clench his hand to keep it still. At intermission Lady Downe came to visit Grace, and Lucien excused himself. He hunted down Freyne and drew the bloody bastard away from the crowd.
“What game are you playing, Freyne? Flaunting Giselle in front of my wife. Spewing rumors about the circumstances of my marriage? I swear, if you say another word to anyone?—”
“You think I am the only one who knows what you and Grace were up to? You avoided marriage so long. It’s easy enough to reach that conclusion with pure conjecture, let alone when one is privy to?—”
“To what?”
“Anything I say would only be the truth.”
“If I ever hear you are maligning my wife again, I will see you in hell.”
“And here, I thought your brother was the Harcourt with a penchant for dueling,” Freyne said, his gaze narrowing. “Pistols at dawn from the Viscount Everdene, the man with ice in his veins? Thatwouldgive credence to the rumors about your marriage for sure.”
Lucien loathed him for speaking that simple truth.
“As for pistols,” Freyne continued, “you had better keep one close. You have developed a talent for making enemies.” Freynelooked toward the box where Grace sat. “And it seems the iron-clad viscount has developed a weakness at last.”
CHAPTER 27
Arkwright had once claimed Lucien’s mind was like a steam train, barreling through whatever problem confronted him with no notion of the countryside flashing by. That had never been more true than tonight.
The burst of applause seemed to come out of nowhere, the red velvet curtains and soaring ceiling of the Theater Royal swimming back into focus as actors took their final bows. Lucien looked at Grace, his jaw tightening. Vulnerability still clung to her lovely features after Freyne’s jibes earlier. Damned if Lucien would let such a situation stand. He had waged campaigns to change public opinion before and seldom lost, but this battle to douse rumors Freyne and gossips like Giselle might try to ignite could be the most important he’d ever waged.
Anyone who distressed his wife would discover just how ruthless the Viscount Everdene could be. Grace deserved so much more from him than he would ever be able to give her, but this much was true: Lucien had wed Grace by choice. And it was time all of London society knew he held her in the highest esteem.
He usually made haste to exit the theater and avoid mere social prattle. But tonight, he tucked Grace’s arm in his witha possessiveness impossible to mistake, determined to seek out the crème of London society and set a few things straight.
The conversations bled together as they made their way down the sweeping stairs to the rotunda, Lucien stopping about every step to show off his wife:
“May I introduce you to Lady Everdene, the woman I am fortunate enough to call my wife…” alternating in one form or another with “…Had I known what pleasure marriage to this lady would bring, I would have reconsidered my position long ago…”
It was obvious Grace knew what he was doing. Her dark-fringed eyes found his time and again, and she smiled up at him with amusement and something a trifle poignant.
Chill night air rippled the blue ribbons of her bonnet as he finally escorted her outside.
Gaslights shone in pools of gold in the haze of coal smoke that perpetually blanketed the city, lanterns hanging from hooks on the endless line of coaches and hackney cabs that waited to carry theatergoers away. Some of the vendors still waited for late-night commerce while opera dancers and courtesans hoped to catch a rich man’s eye.
“Oh, Lucien,” Grace exclaimed, straining on tiptoe to see over the crowd. “Over there! Sibby Rose is still here selling flowers!”
As he followed her gaze to where the child stood, looking very small amidst the throng, his wife’s voice echoed in his memory:There are Little Nells all over London…
He managed a smile. “Consideration for my valet’s nerves demands that I ask: Is the little miss accompanied by her brother?”
Grace’s laughter drove back some of the anger Freyne had stirred within him. “Scrap is nowhere to be seen,” she promised.
“Then I will happily buy every last petal and send the child home.”
She squeezed his arm, pressing it into the soft pillow of her breast. A shaft of heat went through him and he was suddenly impatient to get Grace back to Raven’s Court and make love to her in a way that would drive Freyne and Giselle’s vile insinuations from her mind. But that pleasure would be have to be delayed since Lord and Lady Downe were sweeping toward them with determined smiles, one more social connection that could only help dispel ugly rumors.
Lucien glimpsed the Harcourt coach part way down the road, the coachman on the high seat with the footman watching for them to appear. Perhaps he wouldn’t wait for the privacy of the bedchamber after all. He pictured Grace in the dim coach, her skin, creamy, glowing as his hand skimmed up her stockinged leg…
“Everdene! Ho, Everdene!” A shrill voice hailed him from the crowd. Lucien ground his teeth, the enticing image of ravishing his wife fading. Sir Edward Allen barreled toward them, his loose-jointed arms waving like a marionette. “Your pardon, Lady Everdene,” the man gasped as he reached them. “I must speak to his lordship alone.”
“Then make an appointment to do so.” Lucien leveled him a quelling glare. “My wife has a particular errand in mind and surely you cannot think I would leave her unaccompanied in a crowd.”
Lady Downe bustled up to them with a bright smile. “Perhaps my husband and I could serve as her escorts. We were hoping to find you in this crush and inquire about Lady Everdene’s work with the Sunday Schools.”
