a fair question,” Methven said, “under the circumstances.” He looked unmoved by her outrage, amused even. “The erotic letters hint at an experience far greater than that of the average debutante. Not—” he appraised her thoughtfully “—that you are average, precisely. Far from it.”
“My experience or lack thereof is no business of yours, my lord,” Lucy said. “That is a scandalous question. No gentleman would ask it.”
Methven inclined his head ironically. “Then I am no gentleman. And I would still like to know the answer. Could one write like that without knowing what it truly felt like to make love? I think not.”
“There was no personal experience in my writing,” Lucy said. She was feeling strange; her head felt too heavy and too light at the same time, as though she had been drinking champagne. She was suddenly aware that Methven’s hands had slid down her arms to hold her lightly by the elbows. She wanted to tell him to let her go because it felt disturbing, far more so than a simple touch should. And then he stroked the tender skin in the hollow of one elbow with his thumb, such a sweet caress that it made her catch her breath and made the blood flow heavy like honey in her veins.
“You must have an extremely vivid imagination,” Methven said softly.
“I have no imagination at all,” Lucy said, trying to concentrate. “Writing is purely an academic exercise for me.”
She saw her words had surprised him. His hands stilled on her. There was curiosity and speculation in his eyes.
“Pure is not really the right word to describe your writing,” he said. His gaze narrowed on her face. “Are you telling the truth? Such provocative words did not affect you in any way?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Lucy said impatiently. She gave a little dismissive shrug. “Lachlan wanted love letters, so I researched what a love letter should be and wrote some. I do understand that some people find them stimulating to the senses, but I—” She stopped. She was not going to tell him that she had locked any and all desires away long ago in order to spare herself pain.
“You?” Methven prompted.
“I don’t find them remotely arousing,” Lucy said truthfully.
Methven nodded slowly. She did not understand the expression in his eyes. “How interesting,” he said. “So the letters were not drawn from personal experience at all.”
“Certainly not,” Lucy said. “They were drawn from my grandfather’s library.”
That made him smile and in that moment she saw her chance. His attitude seemed to have softened toward her a little. She would have to take a risk.
“Are you going to give me away?” she asked. She thought it was better to be direct than to prevaricate. Or beg. Begging was out of the question. She was not that feeble even if she was desperate.
For once he did not answer her immediately. His face was pensive. After a moment he said, “Perhaps you should have considered the consequences of your actions, Lady Lucy.”
He was right, of course. She should have done so. She wondered now if rather than being naive she had been deliberately reckless. In her deepest heart she had known the trouble that would be caused if the truth about the letters came out, and yet she had written them. She had no explanation as to why she would do such a thing. Except that the letters had been a small rebellion, exciting, dangerous. She had challenged all the stifling rules that bound her, and it had been exhilarating.
Besides, she had thought herself safe. She had thought no one would ever unmask her.
“You are right,” she admitted grudgingly. “It was stupid of me.”
“It was foolhardy and dangerous.” He sounded unyielding and unsympathetic. “You have interfered in several people’s lives and done a great deal of damage.”
Lucy felt like a chastened schoolgirl. “I realize that it was wrong,” she offered. She tried her special smile again, the one without guile, the one that generally made men melt like butter. “I have apologized.”
It did not work. Methven smiled too. Grimly. “You are trying to manipulate me,” he said. “I am not so susceptible, Lady Lucy, I assure you. I think...” He paused. “I think the people you deceived should be told.”
“No!” The stark, black panic was on Lucy now, threatening to swallow her whole. Perhaps begging was not out of the question after all. She struggled to stay calm.
“You could not prove I wrote them,” she said defiantly.
His smile deepened. “I could have a damned good go at trying, and it would please me to do so.”
Just the hint of impropriety would be sufficient. Lucy knew that.
“Please—” She heard the entreaty in her own voice, and this time there was no guile at all. “I know I deserve—”
“To be punished?”
His words, hot and dark, tugged something deep inside her. It was a sensation Lucy had never felt before and it was so swift and so fierce that she gasped. A shocking bloom of warmth and pleasure spread low through her body. Her eyes jerked up to his face, to meet the turbulent heat in his eyes. He gave a low exclamation and the next moment she was in his arms and he was kissing her.
Lucy had not been kissed since that night at Forres Castle. It was not the sort of thing that she invited gentlemen to do. She had never even thought about what it might feel like to kiss someone again, not even out of intellectual curiosity.
This kiss was not like the one she had shared with Robert Methven years before. It felt fierce, heated and complicated, with no concessions to her inexperience. She felt his tongue tease her lips apart and she opened to him and he took her mouth completely. His tongue swept across hers, tasting her as though she were honey, and a powerful heat washed through her, scalding her, shocking her. Immediately she was lost and out of her depth. There was too much here, too much of dark pleasure, too much carnal promise, overwhelming, impossible to understand. It had happened far too fast and now the shock and the fear caught her equally quickly. She was shocked that after what had happened to Alice she could even feel like this, feel such passion, such desire. Then, a heartbeat later, guilt caught her too, and the familiar terror, and she froze in his arms.
He felt it and drew back from her. She heard him mutter a curse. She wanted to run away, frightened at emotions she could not begin to comprehend, but he held her close, her cheek against his shoulder, his lips on her hair, and gradually the fear faded. Within the circle of his arms she felt safe and protected; she felt sixteen again holding his promise against her heart. It was so unexpected a sensation that she relaxed, her breath leaving her in a sigh and her body softening. Only then did he speak.
“I’m sorry,” he said. His tone was rougher than she had heard from him before, but it did not frighten her. She knew his anger was not for her. He released her. She could not look at him, gripped as she was by a sudden shyness that paralyzed her. So he put his hand under her chin and made her meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I went too far, too fast.” There was regret and gentleness in his eyes and Lucy felt the floor shift beneath her feet and felt her stomach slide.
He released her. Confusion swept through Lucy then because she was remembering that no matter how she had felt before, this was now, and she had betrayed him and he did not like her for it. Yet despite that, something had happened between them, something dangerous, something she did not understand.
“I think,” she said—and her voice was a thread of sound—“that you should go.”
He looked at her for a long, long moment and his eyes were dark, his expression opaque, and she had no idea what he was thinking. Then he nodded abruptly.
He bowed and went out. Lucy heard the library door close.
She sank down onto one of the spindly cherrywood chairs,