Luck Is No Lady (30 page)

London, May 1817

Lily Chadwick knew there was something different about the fiercely scowling gentleman the first moment she saw him.

She could feel it.

The moment their gazes met, something skittered across her skin like a rain of white sparks. It entered her bloodstream, heating her from the inside until her breath became stilted and her knees went weak.

He stared at her boldly from beneath a brow drawn low in a forbidding expression. His eyes were so dark even the light of the glittering ballroom could not be reflected there. The angles of his face were hard, his jaw sharply defined, and he held his mouth in a harsh line which attempted to harden the full curve of his lower lip, but didn't quite manage it.

Lily's attention returned to his gaze and she felt a tightening in her belly. Her heart stopped, skipped a few beats, then started up again in a frantic rhythm.

Despite his severe appearance, something about him reached out to her, touching her with an intrinsic sort of recognition. She sensed with a certainty beyond rational explanation that his unyielding manner was a facade. There was passion in him. She felt it in every breath she took as she stood under his intent gaze.

Their silent interaction was becoming more inappropriate by the minute, yet she could not compel herself to break away. As though caught in an invisible trap, she stared back while her hands began to sweat and her stomach trembled.

Finally, the stranger released her and turned toward the gentleman at his side.

Cast adrift, Lily took a moment to catch her breath and fumbled to control her galloping heart. Desperately wanting to find a quiet place to absorb what she had just experienced, Lily returned her attention to the young ladies beside her, seeking an opportunity to interrupt their steady conversation so she could excuse herself.

“He quite frankly terrifies me,” Lady Anne declared in a thready whisper.

“Do not be so dramatic,” Miss Farindon chastised.

“Some say he is a demon.”

Miss Farindon laughed. “He is but a man. A moody, rude and highly arrogant man, but certainly no demon.”

Miss Farindon and Lady Anne, out in their first Season like Lily, were making the most of a short break from the dance floor by gossiping about those still on it. Despite her unease, Lily's attention was caught.

“Look at him. He never smiles. All he does is stand there and glower.”

A wave of awareness rolled through Lily as she realized what, or rather
who
, had become their latest topic.

She followed Lady Anne's furtive gaze across the room. Again, she felt the internal rush as she looked upon the black-eyed man still talking with Lord Michaels, their host for the evening.

With the gentleman's attention diverted, she managed to take note of the generalities of his appearance. Lily estimated he was not quite thirty years old, and though he was above average in height, he did not appear so tall he would completely tower over Lily, who stood just a bit over five feet. He was dressed elegantly all in black down to his waistcoat, which put his white shirt and cravat into stark contrast. His hair was thick and black, and he wore it much shorter than the windswept style many gentlemen preferred.

Even in relative stillness, the gentleman radiated an intense presence.

Lily forced herself to look away. “Who is he?”

“His name is Avenell Slade, the Earl of Harte,” Miss Farindon offered, obviously quite in the know. “He has an estate near ours in Cornwall, though I believe he prefers London these days. I haven't been to the country myself in many years, but I used to catch glimpses of him when I was a girl, riding his black horse along the cliffs.”

Lady Anne gave a visible shudder. “He looks dangerous.”

Lily agreed.

“Danger can be fun sometimes, don't you think?” Miss Farindon suggested naughtily, her gaze sparkling as she focused across the room. “Oh look, he is coming our way.”

Lady Anne gasped while Miss Farindon twittered.

Lily resisted as long as she could before she turned to see the two men heading straight for them. The crowd parted for Lord Harte to pass and Lily noted several downcast glances and quick retreats as the enigmatic gentleman made his way across the ballroom.

If he noticed the odd behavior of those around him, he did not seem the least bit bothered by it.

“
Oh my
.”

Lily wasn't sure which one of the girls whispered the quiet exclamation. But she could guess the reason for it.

The dark earl's attention was once again focused undeniably on Lily. As he drew nearer, she realized his eyes were not black as she had thought. They were in fact a deep midnight blue. And she had been quite right in believing he was not as dispassionate as he appeared, because something else became apparent as he grew near. His expression was not cold as much as it was…angry.

Lily stiffened, feeling his animosity like a dousing of iced water. A breath of panic seized her and she lowered her gaze.

Had she wronged him in some way she was not aware of?

The possibility filled her with distress, even though she knew if she had ever crossed paths with him in the past, she would have remembered it.

Lord Harte and Lord Michaels arrived at their little group and their host began the proper introductions. From beneath her lashes, Lily watched as Lord Harte did not take the ladies' hands to bow over them or press a courtly kiss to their knuckles. Instead, he provided only a simple nod of his head in acknowledgment. He did, however, offer a brief comment to Miss Farindon about remembering her family from Cornwall.

Lily's skin tingled at the sound of his voice, smooth and rich, like chocolate.

When Lord Michaels gave her name, she lifted her gaze again, but Lord Harte barely flicked a glance in her direction and did not repeat the nod he gave the other girls.

In short, he slighted her.

Harshly, unreasonably, and quite obviously.

Lady Anne gasped at the insult, but Lily was likely the only one in their group who heard it, as Lord Harte was already addressing Miss Farindon again.

“Miss Farindon, would you give me the pleasure of a dance?”

The young woman's smile curved coyly as she replied, “Of course, my lord. I would be delighted.”

Lily watched the couple glide out onto the dance floor, her cheeks still burning in response to his insult.

Lord Michaels, who had been a friend of Lily's parents before their deaths, turned to her with an apologetic expression. “My dear, I am sorry. I would not have facilitated the introduction had I anticipated such rudeness.”

Lily forced a smile. She would not have the kind gentleman feeling any guilt for the unfortunate interaction. “No need for concern, Lord Michaels. I am quite unscathed.”

The older man murmured another uncomfortable apology before turning to take his leave.

Lady Anne started to offer assurances, saying Lily shouldn't take the cut to heart. The man was obviously ill-mannered and Miss Farindon was welcome to him if she had such an affinity for danger, whereas the two of
them
were far too sensible to attract the attention of a man like him and should be grateful for it.

Lily only half listened. Her gaze tracked Lord Harte's position while he escorted his partner through the steps of the country dance. He displayed a predatory grace in the concise manner of his movements. Every step, every gesture, every turn of his head was carefully executed with as much forethought as Lily's older sister, Emma, put into the family budget.

For weeks, Lily and her younger sister, Portia, had been putting their most charming feet forward in desperate attempts to lure proper suitors. At twenty, Lily was older than most of the other debutantes being presented. Still, she had begun her Season with high hopes. Emma worked diligently to see their family through the financial hardship inherited from their father, and Lily was determined to do her part and marry well to relieve as much of the burden as possible.

Gratefully, the Chadwick sisters had managed to claim some modest success with their debuts so far. A good number of gentlemen signed Lily's dance card at every ball. Suitors called on her during the day. She was invited to soirees, musicales, and walks through Hyde Park.

But none of the men had actually offered for her hand.

Worse than that, Lily did not want them to.

She had tried. She really had. She did not have high expectations. There was really only one criteria she required in her future husband. She hadn't expected it to be so difficult to come by. She did her best to keep an open mind as she met gentleman after gentleman since her debut. Hoping—expecting—one of them to spark at least a flicker of passion.

Though she was more than willing to do her duty to her family, she would not sacrifice her personal, private yearning for more than a marriage of polite consideration. She wanted to know true passion and desire. She wanted to understand what it was to feel physical yearning for another person.

But it had never happened.

Her suitors were, each of them, of proper social standing, adequate wealth, and pleasant character.

It was simply that none of them inspired even a hint of the fire she longed to experience
.

Yet tonight, in those short seconds when her eyes had met those of the Earl of Harte, Lily had felt more alive than she had known was possible. The disturbing connection had a visceral, elemental effect upon her.

As Lily watched the earl turning about with Miss Farindon under the glittering lights, an aching unfurled in her chest. She had a horrible suspicion he was
the one
.

And he had already rejected her.

“Would you mind terribly, Miss Chadwick, if we did not continue to the dance floor after all?” The question came from Lord Fallbrook just as he led Lily away from where she had been standing beside Emma, her older sister and guardian.

Lord Fallbrook had been an attentive suitor from Lily's very first public engagement of the season. He was young, handsome, and charming—if not perhaps a bit overly so—and he had enough wealth to make him an ideal prospect for marriage.

Emma had suspected for some time now that Lord Fallbrook would be making an offer. Lily was not quite as confident. Despite his winning smile and flirtatious manner, the man did not exude sincerity.

When she glanced at him, he smiled in way she guessed was meant to be self-effacing, but he didn't quite manage the effect when layered over his deeply imbedded arrogance.

“I am afraid I find myself in need of some fresh air,” he explained. Then his eyes lit up as though he'd just had a wonderful idea. “Perhaps you'd like to join me for a turn outside?”

It would be best to refuse. Though many couples had been drifting in and out through the multiple French doors that opened along the length of the ballroom to the terrace beyond, Emma would not approve of Lily accepting such an invitation.

At twenty-five and believing herself firmly on the shelf, Emma had become devoted to proper conduct in all things and expected Lily and Portia to do the same. If Lily didn't find herself desperately in need of a little respite from the oppressive atmosphere of the ballroom, she never would have considered Fallbrook's suggestion.

But ever since her run-in with the enigmatic Lord Harte earlier in the evening, she had been feeling terribly out of sorts. With the doors all thrown wide open, the terrace was in full view of anyone in the ballroom. The starlit sky beyond and the promise of a cool night was very alluring.

Surely, a brief stroll would not be so out the bounds of propriety.

“A moment of fresh air sounds lovely,” Lily replied before she could change her mind.

“Wonderful.” Lord Fallbrook steered them toward the nearest open doorway.

Stepping into the night, Lily acknowledged it was exactly what she needed to cool the heat of embarrassment and disappointment that still burned beneath her skin. She allowed Lord Fallbrook to lead her along the terrace, smiling as they passed other guests who had chosen to take a moment away from the stuffiness of the crowded ballroom.

“Ah,” Lord Fallbrook sighed dramatically, “is it not a lovely evening, Miss Chadwick?”

“Indeed, it is,” Lily replied, slightly distracted.

As soon as her thoughts started along the path of recalling her interaction with the earl, she found herself unable to stop envisioning him in her mind. A tingling sensation passed over her skin as she remembered the anger in his gaze when he had approached her.

“And I must declare I am a fortunate man to have such a lovely companion with which to enjoy it.”

Lily smiled but did not reply.

It was exactly such flattery that made her question Fallbrook's sincerity. It was not that he said anything so terribly out of the ordinary. Rather, it was the way his flirtatious comments were paired with the light of mischief in his gaze and the added discomfiting element of his hand sliding across the low curve of her spine.

That went too far.

Lily stopped and took a step away from him, forcing him to remove his hand.

Too late, she realized they were at the far end of the terrace. There was no one else near them now and the shadows were deeper here where the light of the ballroom did not quite reach.

Lord Fallbrook stepped closer. With a flash of panic she noticed something had changed in his manner. His smile was wicked in the moonlight and his posture more encroaching. He no longer seemed concerned with displaying the fine veneer of a gentleman as he stalked nearer, forcing her to take a step back.

“Miss Chadwick, perhaps you would like to continue with me into the garden. I assure you, there are endless delights to be explored amongst the heady scent of the blooms.”

He reached for her again. His hand slid around her waist as Lily came up against the stone terrace railing behind her. She had nowhere to go.

She felt infinitely foolish for being so trusting and naive.

“My lord, I must insist you return me to my sister.” Lily hated how soft her voice sounded. Her younger sister, Portia, would have managed a blunt and stern set-down at the man's improper behavior.

He curled his arm around her back and leaned in close to whisper, “Come now, sweetheart, just a little stroll. I promise you won't be disappointed.”

Lily arched back from the smell of liquor on his breath. Panic made her limbs stiff and heavy. “Release me,” she murmured, wishing her words had more strength. She lifted her hands to press against his immovable chest. “Please.”

When Fallbrook laughed, a low and frightening sound, and forcibly began to lead her toward the stairs that led down to the garden, Lily grew angry—with herself.

She knew what he intended. She should have known sooner. The stories she devoured in secret suggested innumerable ways a young woman could be dishonored by a man intent upon ruination. She was innocent, but not ignorant of the desires of the flesh.

Hadn't she spent the last weeks craving some sort of passionate experience like those she read of in her books?

How stupid.

She did not want this. Lord Fallbrook's touch felt nothing but repugnant. His willful disregard of her wishes was villainous and detestable.

Lily began to struggle in earnest now. She tried to twist out of his grip, knowing in the back of her mind that she had to somehow escape him without drawing undo attention to her plight. Should others take notice of her situation, she would be ruined by the gossips. No one would care that Lord Fallbrook had attempted a forced seduction—Lily's reputation would be the one to suffer for it.

No matter what she did, she could not free herself as his grip only tightened, his fingers digging painfully into her side as he continued to push her forward.

Then suddenly she was released and stumbling to catch her balance as Fallbrook was tossed in the opposite direction. She was aware of her attacker falling against the stone wall of the house as another man passed like a shadow between them. Shielding her. Protecting her.

In an instant of rushing heat, Lily recognized who had come to her rescue.

“What in hell is wrong with you, Harte?” Fallbrook growled as he righted himself, squaring his shoulders toward the earl.

“I do not believe the lady wished to accompany you.” The earl's tone was dark and disturbingly calm.

“That is none of your bloody business,” Fallbrook sneered, tugging the collar of his coat back into place and smoothing his waistcoat.

“It would appear I just made it my business.”

Lily's heart tumbled into a frantic rhythm. Steeling herself to step forward, she could practically feel the tension emanating from Lord Harte. His back was to her and the broad strength displayed in his posture was terribly intimidating. She wondered how Fallbrook had the courage to face him down at all.

“You will regret that you did, Harte,” Fallbrook retorted before he sauntered arrogantly back into the ballroom. He never even glanced toward where Lily stood behind the earl, her hands pressed against her stomach to still the wild fluttering awareness that had erupted the moment she realized she had been saved.

“My lord,” she said quietly as she stepped up beside the earl and placed her hand gently on his arm to draw his attention.

The instant her hand made contact with his sleeve, his entire body stiffened sharply. His features were more harshly defined beneath the moonlight and his gaze was far darker than it had been in ballroom as he turned to look at her.

This time, she had no doubt it was anger she saw in his eyes. Anger, and revulsion. A chill claimed her and her breath caught on a gasp she could not contain.

Her hand fell away from his arm while her heart squeezed painfully at his reaction to her.

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, wishing she could think of something more eloquent to say.

He glared at her for a moment longer. Long enough for Lily to feel all the ways her body reacted to him. The rush of blood through her veins, the tingle across her skin. The way he made her breathless and hot and so very uncertain with a single hard stare.

Then, before she could form a clear thought let alone something she might say in response to his obvious hostility, he turned away from her and strode down the stairs to the garden, where he disappeared in the shadows.

* * *

Avenell Slade, the Earl of Harte, stalked through the darkened garden, ensuring each stride took him as far from the young lady on the terrace as he could manage.

His arm still burned where she had touched him. Her touch had been gentle, barely more than the flutter of a butterfly wing, but he felt as though he had been branded.

It had been years since Avenell had experienced such an uncontrollable reaction. What was it about her that nearly erased every bit of self-control he had developed?

Earlier in the evening, when he had glanced up from his conversation with Lord Michaels to find the young woman staring at him from across the ballroom, the poignancy of her gaze had stunned him. Her wide-eyed expression suggested she had been caught off guard, yet when he glared back at her, she did not look away.

She was not a striking beauty to assist in setting her apart from the multitude of other ladies in the room. She was small in stature, and though she was in possession of generous feminine curves, she did nothing to put them on display. Her gown was virgin white, her hair was a common brown, and her features, though pleasant, were not exceptional.

Yet in those brief seconds of connection, Avenell had experienced something he could not explain. Something unnameable had surged through him, altering his existence at an elemental level.

Avenell rarely interacted with ladies of his social circles and certainly never considered an intimate involvement with any of them. Yet, when Lord Michaels had noted the direction of his interest and suggested an introduction, Avenell had been unable to refuse.

It had been a dreadful error on his part.

Miss Lily Chadwick was not for him.

His chest compressed, shortening his breath as he recalled the expression on her face when he had flinched from her touch. She had not been able to conceal the hurt in her dove-gray eyes, or the confusion.

He wished he regretted intervening between her and Fallbrook, but he didn't. Something had come over him when he saw her struggling against the cad's hold. The thought of what Fallbrook likely planned to do if he had succeeded in getting her alone made Avenell ill.

No, he did not regret stepping in.

But he would have to stay clear of the girl in future. She was a danger to him.

Because despite the searing discomfort of her touch and the fact that he had not been able to manage his reaction to her, the most disturbing aspect of all was that he
wanted
her to touch him again.

And that troubled him more than anything.