Pride & Passion. Charlotte FeatherstoneЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 …
“He would have had you kept inside the schoolroom,” his grace continued on, pulling her from her memories, making her confront a reality she had no wish to contemplate. “A young lady meant to remain pale and unmarred, her mind filled with useful information, her days occupied with learning tasks that would set up her future. He would have frowned upon frivolous pursuits such as daydreaming and cloud watching.”
She swallowed, and he followed the action of her throat, his long, dark lashes shielding the expression in his eyes and the thoughts behind them. How Lucy wanted to rail at him for it.
“Is my brother right?” Elizabeth asked sympathetically. “He paints a rather bleak picture of your childhood.”
“Yer just as lonely as me,” her friend had once told her. “I guess it don’t make no difference if you live on a pallet of straw before a fire, or in a great big palace like this one. I’m a prisoner of St. Giles parish, and yer a prisoner of this world. We are what we are, so different because ye have money, I have nothin’ … but that’s just the outside. Inside I think we’re more alike than any two people could be.”
That was when their connection had been made, when she realized there was someone else like her, who felt the same way, who was trapped in a world they did not want, and did not choose.
“Promise me, then,” she had pleaded with him, “that you’ll always think this way of me. That when we’re grown you’ll come back and rescue me from this life.”
“All right, then, after I own me own butchery and get meself set up. I’ll come back for ye, and ye can be me wife.”
In her innocence she had believed it possible. That was, until her father had shown her just how impossible it truly was. How futile it was for her to believe a world where young girls’ dreams might one day become reality—where the world and everything was treated equally.
Bristling, Lucy set her cup and saucer aside, struggling to shield the emotion she knew would be brimming in her eyes. She loathed talking of her past, and especially her parents. She especially despised speaking of it knowing it was the privileged Duke of Sussex who had brought it up.
“Well?” Elizabeth gently prodded. “Is Sussex correct in his estimation?”
“My parents held particular views when it came to child rearing,” she said carefully. “Neither of them was possessed of a frivolous personality.”
“In other words,” Sussex drawled as he finished another custard square, “they were all work and duty, and no play.”
Lucy felt herself sneering, the memories of her lonely, isolated childhood tasting like acid in her mouth. “Succinctly put, your grace. Indeed, my parents found not much in life amusing. My mother lived to advance my father’s goals, and to uphold his hallowed title. My father existed, and still does, in the sanctity of his very male domain. As an only child, and a female at that, my parents’ goal for me was simple—to marry well, and to manage my husband’s home with dignity, decorum and efficiency, while providing him with the requisite heir. An heir that would not only inherit his father’s title, but my father’s as well. I was always very conscious of my role, and the inferiority—and disappointment—of my sex.”
“And that did not sit well with you,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I can see the truth in your eyes. You can hide nothing beyond those emerald depths, Lady Lucy.”
Nervously she glanced over and noticed how Isabella was trying her best to study the painted flowers on the delicate china cup. The air was quite thick with a new intimacy that was completely inappropriate. Such intimate discussions were not to be borne at tea, and Lucy tried her best to deflect the conversation to a more tactful and less revealing place.
Casting a gaze about the room, she sought an appropriately benign topic, and remembered that she had wanted to invite Elizabeth to an evening out.
“Before your untimely arrival, your grace, I was about to ask Elizabeth if she was interested in accompanying me to the Sumners’ musicale this evening.”
There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, before he sat back against the settee, his plate in his lap, his long fingers wrapped around the rim of the teacup. He thought her a coward, she knew, but she didn’t care. He touched too close to the truth, and she would run from it. No one came to know her so intimately. Isabella was possibly the only person in the world who had ever come close, but even still, her cousin did not know all.
Even Thomas, through their shared encounter of passion had never known her so well. She shared her body with him, but nothing else.
“Oh, I would love to,” Elizabeth said. “I haven’t been to a musicale in years. Adrian despises them.”
“You mistake me, Lizzy,” he said silkily as he rested his cup on the arm of the settee. He met Lucy’s gaze, and she noticed the coolness was back in his eyes. “I am inclined to enjoy them, if the company is agreeable. I would be delighted to escort you ladies.”
Like a fish out of water, Lucy floundered for a way to deny the duke. She did not want him with her this evening, did not want to sit in a carriage, or make conversation with him. She didn’t want him looking at her, and seeing her, seeing the things she tried so hard to hide.
Thankfully she hit on something that Sussex would not be able to refute. “But what of your lodge meeting tonight?”