Page 24 of Scoundrel Take Me Away (Dukes in Disguise #3)
Lucy hesitated only a moment before alighting from the carriage and hastening up the stairs to the imposing front door of The Grand. A bellman in a little black cap and gorgeous black livery held the door for her, and Lucy stepped into another world.
It was like being back in Paris, opulence and luxury everywhere her dazzled eyes could see. Rather than the austere elegance of a London drawing room, the lobby of The Grand Hotel called to mind the sumptuousness of a Parisian salon.
The floors were inlaid marble, the walls a mosaic of tiles gleaming richly in shades of gold, silver, and bronze. Spectacular chandeliers dripped crystal and cast a blaze of light over the potted orange and lemon trees dotted between the golden velvet settees and chaises.
A discreet cough at her elbow startled Lucy and recalled her to her purpose. She hadn’t time to gawk. She needed to take one look around the dining room for her quarry and then beat Charlie back to the carriage.
“How may I serve, madame?” An impeccably dressed white man bowed to her, showcasing black hair combed over a very shiny bald pate. He was shorter than Lucy, neat and quick in his movements, giving the impression of a person of great energy and efficiency.
“I’m looking for someone,” Lucy said. “A particular gentleman. I was told he might be dining here this evening.”
A gleam of satisfaction lit the small man’s face. “We are fortunate to have a very full dining room this evening. But we can always accommodate the sister of the Duke of Ashbourn.”
Lucy started. So much for anonymity. “You know who I am?”
“It is my job to know everyone who is anyone in London society,” the man said modestly. “I am the manager here. Gerald Leach, at your service.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Leach.” Lucy recalled the concierge at The Ritz when she’d stayed there. Monsieur Manton had been tall and cadaverously thin with a leonine head of hair he’d kept ruthlessly coiffed.
In looks, the two men were nothing alike. But she thought she divined a certain similarity in bearing—a deference without obsequiousness which promised that most valuable of commodities: discretion.
Glancing about the bustling lobby, Lucy drew the unresisting hotel manager into the lee of a particularly thriving orange tree. “Mr. Leach, may I take you into my confidence?”
He beamed. “It would be my very great honor, my lady.”
“The gentleman I seek is the Duke of Thornecliff.”
The smile dropped from his face, replaced with something like caution. “Ah.”
“Is he here?”
“I really could not say,” Mr. Leach replied, recovering his pleasantly helpful demeanor with impressive aplomb.
Lucy narrowed her eyes at the evasive response. “Well, I should like to take a look for myself. I would appreciate it if you would escort me to a vantage point from which I might see into the dining room without being seen myself.”
“Her ladyship does not wish to join the duke?” Mr. Leach clarified warily. “If he were to be in attendance tonight?”
Lucy’s stomach dropped. Thornecliff was here, and he was not alone. She’d be willing to bet on it.
Pulling herself together, she shook her head. “No.”
She wouldn’t join him yet. She didn’t have time at the moment for the sort of conversation she wished to have.
Lucy could only hope that Thornecliff would still be making his way through the famed fourteen-course dinner—accompanied or not—when she returned later after having shaken her watchdog.
“Say no more, my lady. I understand perfectly.” Mr. Leach was all smiles once more. Apparently, it was not uncommon for a lady to wish to secretly observe the infamous Duke of Thornecliff, like a tourist gawking at the tiger in the Royal Menagerie.
“In that case,” he continued, “perhaps your ladyship would care to follow me? I believe I have just the spot.”
Feeling the pressure of seconds ticking past, Lucy stepped quickly after Mr. Leach, who led her past the gilt-edged main doors to the dining room.
They went instead through a plain white door that led to a side hallway and another plain doorway, which Mr. Leach cracked open with a bow.
A rush of conversation and laughter spilled out, punctuated by the gentle clatter of silver on china.
“If your ladyship would care to direct her gaze toward the fountain,” he murmured.
Lucy had to tighten her jaw to keep it from sagging open.
The Grand’s dining room was every bit as lavish as the broadsheets’ most breathless descriptions, and its centerpiece was a fountain tiled in the Byzantine style, water droplets sparkling as they cascaded from a marble palm tree into a pool surrounded by potted palms.
There, in pride of place right beside the fountain, seated at an intimate table for two, was Thornecliff.
And across from him? The famously voluptuous and alluring courtesan, Mrs. Forrest.
The top of Lucy’s head blew off. He’d brought Lucy to ecstasy that night at Sharpe’s. And then he’d gone straight from her arms to another woman.
A mature, sophisticated, effortlessly captivating woman, with hair the vibrant red-gold of a Tuscan sunset and a wide, frankly sensual smile that she turned on Thornecliff as though he was the most interesting man she’d ever met.
Thorne’s back was to Lucy so she couldn’t see his response to Mrs. Forrest’s open admiration. But of course he would be lapping it up. Men were so simple, at heart, but she’d thought— She’d hoped— He’d made her believe?—
He’d made her believe he wanted her. Until the exact moment she made it clear she wanted him in return. Then he’d dropped her like a hot muffin.
The absolute swine.
Lucy found herself stalking across the dining room without being aware of moving her feet. Everything around her was a dull pulse of noise, including Mr. Leach’s startled objections, and Lucy ignored it all until she was standing over Thornecliff’s perfectly tousled golden head.
Borne on the wings of fury, Lucy felt as though she was watching the scene from outside her own body. The questioning arch of Mrs. Forrest’s brows, accompanied by an easy smile. The slight curl of Thornecliff’s fingers on the table, the way he sat in his chair as though it was a throne.
The tilt of his head as he slowly glanced up and realized who it was that stood beside his table.
Lucy stared down into his fathomless black eyes and forced a bright smile. “Goodness, look who it is! The Duke of Thornecliff! I didn’t expect to see you here.”
For a single breath, his preternaturally handsome face registered real surprise. Lucy felt a spasm of something she couldn’t name when, with the next heartbeat, he recovered control of his features.
There was a cynical twist to his lips as he said, “Didn’t you?”
Lucy’s skin felt so heated, she feared it might crack and split.
Ignoring Thornecliff, both because she knew he hated it and because if she kept looking at him, she was going lose all control, she turned to his companion.
“I was coming over to introduce myself to you, Mrs. Forrest. You see, I noticed you from afar the other night at Sharpe’s when you were wearing the most ravishing gown.
It was a deep indigo shade that set off your hair to perfection.
I was hoping you would be generous enough to tell me the name of your modiste. ”
Mrs. Forrest’s sparkling green eyes flicked back and forth between Lucy and Thornecliff, but she didn’t hesitate to hold out one smooth, white hand. “Charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss—?” She trailed off, looking to Thornecliff to complete the introductions.
“Lady Lucy Lively,” he said, waving a negligent hand. There was a forced carelessness in his tone that made Lucy twitch. “Mrs. Susannah Forrest.”
Emerald gaze sharpening, Mrs. Forrest nevertheless smiled at Lucy.
“Charmed,” she repeated warmly. “And I can’t imagine you have need of my modiste when all of London knows your entire wardrobe comes from Madame Fleury in Paris.
But I thank you for the compliment, and if you indeed wish to add to your collection of gowns, visit Mrs. Snowdon in Gracechurch Street and tell her I sent you.
I’m sure she will be very happy to oblige you. ”
Of course Mrs. Forrest would be charming as well as beautiful. Her words were everything gracious, and spoken in a low, husky voice that sounded like a sensual moan in a darkened boudoir.
“Well.” Lucy swallowed, her eyes wandering back to Thornecliff against her will. His ironic expression hadn’t changed, nor had he roused from his languid posture.
But when her gaze dropped to his long, dexterous fingers, they were white-knuckled where they wrapped around the stem of his crystal wineglass.
“I apologize for interrupting your evening for fashion advice,” Lucy said, proud of the lightness of her tone. “I can see that you’re otherwise engaged.”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Forrest replied smoothly. “Won’t you join us?”
There was a crack and a splash and a curse, in quick succession. Thornecliff had snapped the stem of his wineglass in two, spilling claret across the white tablecloth like a pool of blood.
Lucy gaped for a moment before realizing there was actual blood—Thornecliff had cut his hand on the jagged edge of broken glass.
She made a sound without meaning to; she wanted to snatch his wounded hand, to cradle it between her palms and soothe the hurt.
Oh God. She was in much worse trouble than she’d realized.
Backing away from the table, Lucy stammered, “No, thank you, I mustn’t, places to be— Good-bye!”
Turning on her heel, she fled—but not before she heard Mrs. Forrest murmur to Thornecliff, “It seems you are otherwise engaged. My dear duke, what are you up to?”
Nothing much , was Lucy’s near-hysterical thought as she raced out of the dining room and into the street. Nothing much, except to make me fall in lust with a man I loathe.