Pride & Passion

“Ah, gossip, then,” he said then focused his attention on Lucy. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy what, your grace?”

He didn’t blink, but kept his cool, steady gaze upon her. His mouth was set in a grim, disapproving line. “Gossip, Lady Lucy. Do you enjoy indulging in such pastimes as spreading tales about others?”

The censure with which he had asked his question did not dissuade her from answering. “You would be hard-pressed to find a tea table devoid of gossip.”

“But it is not others I am inquiring about. I am asking about you. Do you, Lady Lucy, enjoy gossip?”

She met his gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated by his blatant reproof. Obviously he held himself above the lesser mortals who found tittle-tattle a tempting sin. Such a virtue he was! Lucy could not admit that she was of a like mind. She had found gossip much too helpful to disregard it altogether.

“Well?” he asked again.

“I, like so many people, find it vastly amusing, your grace.”

Cocking his head, he studied her through narrowed eyes as though she were a new species of beetle stuck to a felt board by a stickpin. “I don’t think you do. You merely partake of it because it is an expected requirement at such gatherings, as well of your station. Your heart, I think, is never fully in it.”

She flushed, but forced herself to stay steady and still. “I wonder why you asked then, in the first place?”

“I am merely trying to make out your personality, Lady Lucy. There are so many sides to it, one wonders who you truly are. Or indeed, if you know who you are.”

“Your grace, you are too bold.”

“Insufferable, isn’t he?” Elizabeth said as she glared to where Sussex sat next to her on the settee. “Very bad manners, Sussex.”

“Apologies. It is just that I cannot imagine that you take joy in laughing at another’s expense. To be amused by someone else’s misfortune or folly? You are too softhearted for that.”

She sniffed, despising him for making her feel things she did not care to admit to, for seeing that beneath her aloof facade to the soft core she had tried to harden through the years. She didn’t want him to know she was soft and kind and so easily hurt. She would rather he think her a lofty, snobbish woman who had fallen low for the sins of the flesh. Far better to be considered a cold woman than a weak one. One could not be timid and easily damaged when one moved about the ton. It was as deadly as a three-legged gazelle amidst a pride of lions. With such an obvious weakness, they would run her to ground and devour her whole. Far better to possess the hide and horn of the rhino.

The facade of the uncaring society lady was her favorite and most often employed shield, and to have his grace take it from her, really was rather harrowing. Having him peek deep inside her was downright frightening. She had not shared herself with another since she was twelve—not even Thomas had been given a look into her soul.

“I am right, aren’t I?” he asked, his voice dropping to a husky purr. He spoke as though they were alone, as if his sister and Isabella were not present. He was far too familiar, and she didn’t like it. How he seemed able to command the room, the conversation, and even more frightening, her emotions.

Gathering her courage, and stiffening her spine, Lucy prepared to meet his challenge. “I suppose you think you’re always correct in your assumptions and estimations, your grace. But in this matter, I must strike a blow to your vanity, for you are indeed wrong.”

His smile temporarily disarmed her. “No, I don’t believe I am. You talk of gossip because it is expected. Not because you enjoy it, and the pain it causes others.”

She was right. The duke did see far too much—she could not run from the truth now. “Well, it is vastly more entertaining, and I suppose ego sparing to talk of another than our own follies, wouldn’t you agree, your grace? It at least allows one a moment of reprieve from the prying eyes of others,” she snapped, while shooting him a meaningful glare.

“You use gossip as a shield, then?”

Lucy was conscious of the way Isabella’s head seemed to volley back and forth between their increasingly heated banter. If she were thinking clearly, Lucy would back down, but there was something about Sussex that riled her. She would never bow to him, never let him needle her. Therefore, she would continue this strange, far too familiar conversation. “Who does not use gossip as a weapon, or defense, your grace?”

“And what secrets have you to hide that you would not wish others to pry into?”

“Adrian, you beast!” Elizabeth scolded. “I vow you are merely toying with my guests, much like a cat with a mouse. Pay him no heed, Lucy. He enjoys these little debates, you see, and has quite forgotten that he is in polite company, and not the men of his club.”

Sussex blatantly ignored Elizabeth, and kept his gaze trained on her. “Or do you use it to keep others at bay, Lady Lucy? From straying too close to what you do not wish them to discover, which would be you, and who you truly are?”

How had he guessed? she wondered. Everyone who looked at her believed her to be a spoiled, shallow society miss who cared for nothing but fashion and parties. Certainly no one had ever thought she might have a heart and conscience. Yet with one sweep of his storm-gray eyes, Sussex had seen to the core of her, and what she kept hidden.

“Sussex, stop this at once,” Elizabeth demanded. “You cannot come in here and start such a bold discussion without first at least inquiring as to our company’s health and spirits.”

“Absolutely. It was unpardonable of me. Forgive me. Now then, how are you ladies today?” he inquired politely as he placed four of the pink custard squares on his plate, but not before his gaze flickered to hers and he grinned. Such a cheeky grin, she thought as the hair on her arms stood straight on end.

CHAPTER SIX

“OH, WE ARE very well, your grace,” Isabella replied as she stole a perplexed glance at Lucy. “Now, if only the weather would cooperate and allow the sun to shine, if only for a few hours, we would be much better off.”

Sussex glanced over his shoulder and out the tall window that was behind the settee. “Mmm, yes, it is gloomy. Makes one long for the comforts of bed.”

Isabella flushed delicately, and Lucy struggled to swallow the mouthful of hot tea she had just taken. The word bed was one she would have preferred not to hear coming from Sussex’s mouth. It was far too familiar, and she could not put aside her fears that when he said it, he was recalling the moment between them when he had returned the bit of lace to her, and discovered her most carefully guarded secret.

How she wanted to quit this house, to leave Sussex and his strange conversation behind. She was on tenterhooks, she realized. Disconcerted by every glance, and word. She could not endure this, not while trying to stay polite and removed.

Studying Lizzy, Lucy looked for any signs from their host that the tea was over, and they should take their leave. Unfortunately Lizzy had only managed to appear more comfortable on the settee, as if she were settling in for a much longer conversation. Even Isabella, who had looked extremely uncomfortable during their discussion of gossip now looked at ease, and was even in the process of pouring herself more tea.

Traitor, Lucy wanted to shout at her friend. Did no one understand how horrid it was to sit across from his grace and suffer through his stare? Of course they did not. Because neither Lizzy nor Isabella knew what had transpired between them. Only Sussex knew, and Lucy could not help but imagine what thoughts were running rampant in the proper duke’s mind. “Oh, yes, I adore afternoon naps,” Elizabeth said on a sigh, “especially in the rain. Just lying there, listening to the raindrops rattle against the windowpane is so soothing. Don’t you think, Lady Lucy?”

Determined to ignore Sussex, she focused her attention on answering Elizabeth. “I am afraid I am not a fan of rain, but I am rather fond of the feel of cool grass beneath my feet on a warm spring day. I like to hear the chirping of birds, and see the swelling of flower buds. I like the wind not to be cool and bracing, but warm and scented with the aromas of the sun and earth.”

Sussex met her gaze, allowed it to linger, then slowly he slid it away, down to his plate where he picked up a custard slice, and popped it into his mouth.

“Oh, I enjoy that too,” Elizabeth said wistfully. “When I was younger I could lie in the grass for hours and stare at the sky and imagine the clouds were all kinds of fanciful shapes, and animals.”

Lucy knew her expression was not one of rapture at Elizabeth’s description, and the duke noticed and said, “Do you not approve of the pastime, Lady Lucy?”

She was forced to raise her gaze from the teacup and saucer that was balanced on her lap and look at him. That stare … it made her tremble once again, and she despised how easily he could disconcert her. No one had ever had that ability, she’d made certain of it, but when the duke came into her life, he had torn down those safe walls she had erected.

Now here she was, feeling vulnerable and cornered, held hostage by eyes that bored deeply into hers as he patiently awaited her answers. And he would wait. She had learned that about Sussex, he was the most patient man on Earth—maddenly so—and she knew he would sit there all afternoon, his plate of pink sweets balanced in his palm while he watched her with his eyes that saw too much. Nothing dissuaded him when he wanted something; she had learned that much about him.

“Stonebrook wouldn’t have allowed it,” he replied for her, his gaze unwavering. “Your father is a difficult man to please, not given to gaiety or lenience.”

Yer papa will tan my hide if he finds ye getting yer ‘ands dirty wit the likes o’ me. I’m yer lesser, or so Mr. Beecher says. No lady of Gov’ner Square will look at a little street urchin the likes o’ me.

Lucy recalled that day in the kitchen, as she and Gabriel sat at the table and talked. She had made it her business to be in the kitchen on Tuesdays when the butcher made his deliveries. It had been curiosity at first—the quiet, sullen boy who had accompanied Mr. Beecher had captured her interest. But after a few visits, and some shared stories, it became something more than curiosity, but infatuation. They had become friends, borne out of common circumstances, their differences ignored as they shared whatever treat Cook had left at the table for them.

“I don’t care about such trivial things such as stations in life,” she had boldly stated. “Are we not all created equal?”

“No, Miss Lucy, we ain’t. Ye were made better ‘n me. And that’s why I’m to leave ye be and not look at ye. I’m beneath ye.”

She had glared in the direction of the butcher, then. “Never mind him,” she’d ordered. “We’re friends, are we not?”

“I ain’t never ‘ad a friend.”

“I ain’t never, either.”

They had dissolved into a fit of laughter, which had died as suddenly as it sprung up when a dark shadow emerged in the kitchen …