Page 59 of To Steal a Kiss

“You speak from experience,” she said softly.

Lucia snorted and met Matilda’s eye. “Don’t we all?” She slid her arm through Matilda’s. “Come, let us take a turn about the room and show them all what they can never afford.”

There was the light of challenge in the gorgeous woman’s eyes that Matilda could not resist. She didn’t lack the will to face society; if that were so, she would have eschewed the gossip and hidden herself in the country years ago. Yet, she had sought out the wallflowers—and found her place among them—not from fear or lack of courage, but because they had welcomed her without judgement. Without much judgement, at least. It had taken time to become friends, but she had, and now she was no longer alone. With Lucia at her side, though, she felt bold enough to take it a step further.

Let them look.

Let them judge.

She had nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what they believed of her. The Huntress, they called her, and whispered about her lovers. Yet, no man had ever touched her; she’d barely even been kissed unless you counted a cousin when she was fifteen years old, which she certainly did not. A dry press of lips could hardly be counted a kiss. And then there had been Lord Dawlish, her first beau, the man she thought she might one day marry, until her father had ruined it all. He’d kissed her once or twice: sweet, little innocent kisses full of hope. Her heart clenched.

“I’m not what they believe me to be,” she said, a little startled by the words but glad to have said them all the same.

Lucia gave her a warm smile and squeezed her arm a little. “I never doubted it,” she said, and then a frown pleated her lovely brow. “I don’t know if I can say the same. They think me strange, a foreigner. I do not fit here. I do not belong.”

“Of course you belong,” Matilda replied at once. “You are among friends here, and we are very glad to have you.”

“You’re sweet,” she said, though the look in her eyes was melancholy, giving weight to the storm clouds that seemed to cluster in her dark eyes. “But I belong nowhere. I am between worlds, a little of each and belonging to neither. I hate it.”

Matilda acknowledged a thrill of unease at the anger of those last words. Hatred seemed to be something Lucia was well acquainted with, and a fire burned within her that Matilda recognised.

Retribution.

“Lucia,” she said, choosing her words with care. “If ever you need a friend, a confidante, I would take your secrets to my grave, so… come to me before—”

“Before I do anything rash?” Lucia spoke for her, meeting Matilda’s anxious gaze with such directness she knew she’d been right to worry. “It is too late for that,” she said, her voice a low purr of satisfaction. “Though it is far from rash. Reckless perhaps, but I have lived my whole life in preparation of what comes next and I welcome it. Whatever it may be. However it may end. At least, it will end.”

“Lucia,” Matilda began, alarmed, but at that moment a young man approached them. His cheeks were aflame, and he stammered a little as he dared to speak to Lucia.

“S-Senorita de Feria,” he said, bowing low. “We met at Lady Faversham’s garden party.”

“Mr Brampton, of course,” Lucia said, gracious now, all trace of anger and fire vanished and hidden behind those fathomless dark eyes. “How could I forget?”

“May I request the honour of the next dance?”

“Indeed, you may,” Lucia replied, giving him a smile that made the man look like his knees would buckle at any moment. “In fact, would you do me a service and take me to get a glass of lemonade first? It’s most dreadfully hot in here.”

“It would be an honour, Senorita.”

Matilda watched, disturbed, not only by Lucia’s words but also by how she hid her true feelings with such ease. What was going on behind that beautiful façade? Whatever it was, Matilda could only feel trepidation. Not so much for Lucia, perhaps, who had appeared almost invincible as the fire burned in her eyes, but for whatever man had crossed her and earned her vengeance. She had the distinct feeling he may not get out alive.

She stood, immobile, in the middle of the ballroom as the cream of the ton moved around her, chattering, gossiping, and laughing. For a moment she felt disorientated, disconnected from the world, and never more alone in her life. That’s just foolishness, she scolded herself. She had a loving brother, and soon a sister too, and many friends. She was not alone, yet an abyss yawned at her feet.

Her skin prickled, awareness surging through her, the knowledge of eyes on her, of being watched. The weight of a cool gaze slid over her flesh, as obvious as a caress. She did not look around. She did not need to. Matilda knew who watched her.

“Tilda! Yoo-hoo!”

She turned at the exuberant call, knowing who it was before she saw Bonnie yelling across the ballroom like a hoyden. All the old tabbies tutted and muttered their disapproval as Bonnie ran towards her, skirts all a-rustle and hair escaping its pins. Matilda grinned, loving her unfettered enthusiasm for life, and her refusal to be primped and moulded into something she wasn’t.

“Hello, darling,” Matilda said, greeting the girl with genuine pleasure. “Are you having fun?”

Bonnie pulled a face. “Not yet, are you? Have you found any eligible men to dance with? No one ever asks me.”

“Oh, well that won’t do,” Matilda said, with a tut of disapproval. “Let me see, who should you like to dance with?”

“Oh, St Clair,” she said at once, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “He’s perfection, isn’t he? So handsome.” Bonnie put a hand to her heart and rolled her eyes up in her head, pretending to swoon.

Matilda suppressed a violent desire to snort with laughter and dragged Bonnie away from an especially disapproving matron who was staring at them both with horror.