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Chapter 7
Lucy lay in the unfamiliar bed, wide awake. She wasn’t even a little sleepy. The bed, while comfortable, was not her own. The duvet was made of slippery satin and felt cool against her skin.
She wasn’t often away from home. Even the sounds were different—crickets chirped in the distance, but other than that it was so quiet. She was used to the sounds of London—people talking, horses’ hooves clopping in the street. She had never known that silence had a presence of its own.
Not to mention—she could not stop thinking of the Honourable Mr Silas Sweet.
Thinking of him will only bring heartache, she reminded herself.
When Lucy was eighteen, she had given her heart to another. She had learned then that men cannot be trusted. His name was Edward Russ, and he was the son of a merchant. He was on her social level, yet he believed in political discourse and in educating women.
Lucy had thought that she had found the one person in the entire world who could possibly understand her. But it had all ended in disaster. His affection for Lucy had waned, and he had ended things so that he could pursue another woman.
Lucy had been devastated. She would never find a man who was like him, and she knew it. Although, if there had been, she certainly wouldn’t have allowed things to get very far.
Her spinster aunt was the one person in Lucy’s life who was always happy. Someday, when Lucy herself had come to terms with the thought that she would never have a man fall madly in love with her, she, too, would be happy.
Remaining unmarried will be fine for me. I have my wonderful aunt, my little home, my paintings, and my books.
She got up, putting on her peignoir. It was made of a soft silk, and had been a gift from her aunt. They couldn’t often afford nice things. This was one of the few nice things that she owned.
She decided that she would go down to the Sweets’ library, to borrow a book. During their garden walk, Dinah had assured her that it would be fine for Lucy to help herself.
She lit a candle and then crept from her room. As she walked down the hallway, her footsteps were muffled by the soft, thick runner carpet.
When she entered the library, she was surprised to find that someone was already there, the golden light of the candle pooling all around him.
Mr Silas Sweet looked up from the book that was balanced on the arm of his chair.
His frock coat was flung over the chair beside him, and a forelock of dark hair had tumbled over his forehead. He was wearing his breeches and his white shirt, his cravat and top buttons undone to reveal the skin of his chest and a light dusting of dark hair.
“Oh, sorry—” she stammered, turning to go. In that lighting, with his shirt undone like that, he was even more alluring than he had been earlier. She hadn’t known it to be possible.
“No, stay,” he said.
She froze—he was like a magician, and he had uttered the magic words. It was scandalous for them to be there, alone. If anyone found out, Lucy’s reputation would be ruined beyond repair. At the same time, she wanted to stay. She knew very well that no one else was up. Not when it was nearly three of the clock.
“What brings you here at this hour?” he asked, getting up and walking towards her. His feet were bare, padding softly across the floor.
“I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to find a book,” she said. “Dinah told me that it would be all right.”
“Of course, it is,” he assured her. “You like Defoe?”
“I do.” She set her candle down on the table, following him over to the shelves.
“I’m sure we can find you something which suits your sensibilities,” he mused thoughtfully.
He moved over to the massive shelves, holding his candle up to peer at the titles on the spines. Most of them were in gold, flickering like fairy magic.
“Here,” he said, pulling one out. It was a slim volume, bound in a dark red leather. “Have you read much Walter Scott? It’s poetry, but I’m sure even a reader of novels can appreciateThe Lady of the Lake.”
She accepted it. “I’ve not read much Scott,” she admitted. Her interest was piqued.
I feel like he already knows me. If she liked the book, it would prove something. Although what it could be, she wasn’t sure.
“You might like it—three men vying for the affections of one particular lady.” His eyes cut low, and Lucy felt suddenly a bit racy—standing there in her nightgown and thin peignoir. Her skin rose in goosebumps, though she felt pleasure at the way that he was looking at her.
“What makes you think I’d be interested in that?” She raised an eyebrow, glad of the dim lighting which hid most of her blush.
