Someone to Love Read online

  He was polite enough not to question her about Harry’s demise, and she would have been too embarrassed to explain it, so she was grateful for the courtesy.

  “May I join you on the bench?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  She patted the empty spot next to her, and he walked over. It was a dark night, but a lantern hung from a nearby post, so there was sufficient light for a clear assessment. He moved with the grace of a dancer or an athlete, looking completely comfortable in his skin.

  He was enormously handsome, with black hair and sparking eyes that she predicted would be very blue. He was tall, six feet at least, so if she’d been standing, he’d have towered over her, and she’d always loved a tall man.

  She was short, just five-foot-four in her slippers and still very thin. After suffering her ordeal when she was tiny, her frame had never filled out as a normal girl’s might have. She was willowy and exotic, and she wondered if he liked to dance. On the dance floor, they would be a striking couple.

  He had a classic aristocratic face—high cheekbones, strong nose, firm chin—and she was curious as to who he was. She’d been in London for weeks, with her cousin, Simon. He was Harry’s bastard son, and he was trolling salons and soirees to drum up a gaggle of devoted swains.

  Harry had been a veritable master at keeping her admirers panting after her, at wrangling gifts from them that he would promptly sell.

  Simon possessed Harry’s worst tendencies, and with Harry’s death, he was proving himself adept at placing her in the right circumstances. He was cajoling the cads she beguiled to help him book performances for her, usually at gatherings arranged by the premier hostesses in the city. She was also doing a regular stint at a theater, in the coveted spot after the first intermission.

  Theater-goers flocked to see her, so she’d met all the appropriate people in the gilded salons about town. But she hadn’t met him.

  Her seamstress and companion, Edwina Fishburn—called Fish by everyone—had taught her about clothes and fashion, so she had a keen eye for style, and he didn’t disappoint.

  He was dressed in a formal black evening suit, sewn from expensive material and perfectly tailored to enhance his male physique. His cravat was stitched from the finest Belgian lace and tied in an intricate knot.

  Manly odors swirled—tobacco, horses, cologne—but there was another, more subtle scent too, and it tantalized her on an elemental level she didn’t understand. It made her eager to rub herself against him like a contented cat.

  It was obvious he was rich, and she always liked to befriend a rich man. As Harry had constantly insisted, rich men were the only ones who had money to toss around.

  “Will you faint if I introduce myself?” he asked.

  “I’m not the fainting type.”

  “Praise be, but how about if I use my Christian name? Will I shock you by being too familiar?”

  “I’m unshockable too.”

  “Good. I never could abide a trembling ninny.”

  “Then you’ll absolutely love me. I don’t have a weak bone in my body.”

  He turned slightly, so she turned too. It was a small bench, so they were sitting very close, their arms and thighs crushed together all the way down.

  “I’m Lucas, but you can call me Luke.”

  She noticed that he didn’t provide a surname, didn’t add a grand title to awe and astound. Briefly, she wondered why not, but she didn’t suppose it mattered. He wanted to be cordial, and she was a very cordial person.

  “Libby,” she said, not offering a surname either, and it was refreshing to keep it to herself.

  Whenever her identity was revealed, she was peppered with questions about her past, but she barely recollected that terrible time. Most of the information she furnished to others had been invented by her Uncle Harry so she’d seem more tragic and interesting.

  “Have we met?” he asked.

  “No, I’m sure we haven’t.”

  “You look as if I should know you from somewhere.”

  She was definitely recognizable. There were often sketches of her on playbills, but she was recognized by her stage name too: Little Libby Carstairs . . . Mystery Girl of the Caribbean!

  “I have a good memory,” she said, “and I’m positive I’d remember you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You’re a handsome devil who’s probably a great rogue and breaker of hearts.”

  “Me? A breaker of hearts?” He laughed. “I can categorically state that I have never broken a single heart.” He paused, then scowled. “Well, there was a neighbor when I was twelve who was sweet on me, but I can’t be held responsible for any amorous misadventures I committed as a boy.”

  “You’re correct, and I won’t demand you share the gory details.”

  “I didn’t even kiss her. I wasn’t yet intrigued by girls, and I thought the entire episode was silly. I might have given her a rose from the garden though.”

  “It would have created exactly the wrong impression, so she’s likely still pining away.”

  “If she is, then I will confess to breaking that one heart, but just that one.”

  He realized how they’d leaned toward each other, as if their bodies couldn’t resist, and he drew away, but there wasn’t any space to maneuver.

  “What brought you to the party?” she asked.

  “I was bored, and a friend insisted I’d enjoy myself.”

  “Are you?”

  “Not really. Why do you imagine I’m lurking out here in the dark?”

  She chuckled. “You poor thing. You’re more of a recluse than I am.”

  “What about you? What spurred you to attend?”

  “My cousin dragged me to it. He’s a social climber who likes to see and be seen. If it had been left up to me, I’d have stayed at home and drunk a whiskey by the fire.”

  He raised a brow. “You—a female—would have been drinking a whiskey? What a scandalous admission.”

  “I’m full of outrageous behavior.”

  “I’ll bet you are.” He snorted at that, then he sighed, sounding as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “It’s odd for me to be in London.”

  “It’s the center of the universe. Why would you declare it to be odd? I’ve always deemed it to be thrilling.”

  Most of her life, she, Harry, and Simon had journeyed around the country with a traveling troupe. She’d performed at fairs and on stages in village greens. She’d charmed audiences with her poignant accounts of the shipwreck and her rescue.

  It was only recently that she was wallowing in London. There was more money to be made in the city, and she was able to glom onto a richer class of acquaintances.

  “I’ve been away in the navy,” he said.

  “You’re a sailor?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how many years?”

  “Too many.”

  She chuckled again. “Your tale of woe is more depressing by the moment.”

  He scoffed with disgust. “Don’t listen to me. I’m in a foul mood. It’s why I’m on this dock. I was glowering at the guests inside—as if I’d never previously been to a ball. My friend claimed I was scaring people.”

  “Were you?”

  “Probably.”

  “I think we’re destined to be great chums.”

  “I’m flattered,” he said, “but why have you decided so hastily? What if I turn out to be a grouch and a complainer?”

  “I have a special affection for members of the British navy.”

  “Why is that?”

  The instant she uttered the remark, she mentally kicked herself. She’d been hoping to have a pleasant chat where Little Lost Libby wasn’t mentioned once. She wasn’t about to clarify the reason she was fond of the navy, but she still dreamed about that large, imposing capt
ain who’d found her hiding in that trunk.

  She’d only been on his vessel for a few days before he’d handed her over to British authorities, then she never saw him again. Dear Captain Miles Ralston. For years, she’d pretended he was her father, that he was searching for her so he could whisk her off to be his pampered daughter.

  “My father and uncles were sailors,” she breezily lied. She was adept at lying; she’d spent her life doing it.

  “Tell me their names. Perhaps I know some of them.”

  “I’m sure not,” she swiftly said. “From the cut of your evening suit, I’m certain you were quite a bit higher in rank than any of them.”

  “From the cut of my clothes? What about your own? You’re not exactly dressed like a pauper yourself.”

  She was wearing a red velvet gown, with cap sleeves and an obscenely low neckline. Her corset was laced so tight she could barely inhale, so she was displaying a shocking amount of bosom. Her throat, ears, wrists, and fingers were dripping with red jewelry that matched her gown. The stones were fake, but they looked real.

  Fish had styled her hair in an elaborate concoction of curls and braids, with flowers and feathers woven in the soft strands. She appeared rich and glamorous.

  “Was that a compliment?” she asked.

  “Gad, it was, wasn’t it? I’ll have to guard my wayward tongue or you’ll assume I’m flirting.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “You don’t like flirting?”

  “I can’t abide it.”

  “What a peculiar female you are. I thought every woman enjoyed flirting.”

  “Not me. I never learned how, so I’m not good at it, and it seems to be rife with pitfalls.”

  “So you’ve never wed?” he asked.

  “No. How about you?”

  “No.”

  “We’re a miserable pair, aren’t we? But then, who would want us?”

  He snorted again. “If a dashing prince rushed up and proposed, would you accept? Or are you completely averse to the entire notion of matrimony?”

  “If a prince rode up, I might consider it, but otherwise, I’m content to remain a spinster.”

  “That’s the strangest comment I’ve ever heard. What female wouldn’t like to wed? You grow more abnormal by the second.”

  “It’s what I’ve always been told: I’m abnormal. What about you? How old are you?”

  “I’m thirty this year. And you?”

  “Twenty-five. Will you ever break down and permit some debutante to attach a leg-shackle?”

  He gave a mock shudder. “I suppose I’ll have to eventually.”

  “Your opinion about matrimony is worse than mine.”

  “Can you imagine me fettered to a debutante? The very idea leaves me nauseous.”

  “You’re a pathetic character, aren’t you? Every fellow like you marries sooner or later, and thirty is on the edge of decrepit.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you always feel this sorry for yourself?”

  “Only since I arrived back from the navy.”

  “Have you resigned your commission? Or are you on furlough?”

  “I’ve resigned.”

  “You’re at loose ends.”

  “Yes, my brother died, so I have to take over at home, and it means I’m about to become a gentleman farmer. That prospect leaves me nauseous too.”

  “Oh, you are such a baby!” she scolded. “You’ve had an exciting career in the navy, and now, you have a country property to inherit. In my view, your life is perfect. Stop whining.”

  “I sound like an ingrate, don’t I?”

  “Yes, and ungrateful people annoy me.”

  “Then I shall try to mind my manners. We should talk about something more interesting. You, for instance. Tell me more about yourself.”

  “I’m so boring that any details would put you to sleep. I find you to be incredibly entertaining though. Let’s stick with you.”

  She flashed the smile for which she was renowned. It was a special smile—one Harry had her practice in the mirror—that riveted those who observed it. It made her appear young and vulnerable, and of course, she was very beautiful. It wasn’t vanity to admit it.

  She had long, curly, golden-blond hair and big, expressive blue eyes. When she’d been a girl, Harry had dressed her like a homeless waif, as if she was still lost and alone and being forced to beg for alms.

  Men were swept up by her mesmerizing allure, and she used it to captivate and enchant. If she chose to flaunt herself, she had a stunning effect, and Luke’s reaction was typical.

  They stared forever, and it was very thrilling to endure his potent assessment. He had a powerful focus that tantalized her, that had her wishing he’d never look away, and the result he produced was unsettling.

  She wasn’t an innocent miss. Over the years, she’d been kissed occasionally by tedious, vain oafs, so she recognized passion when it was stirring, and it was definitely stirring. She’d never felt anything like it. It seemed as if their bodies were generating sparks, as if the air around them was crackling with energy.

  Fish, who’d disgraced herself in numerous torrid flings, swore that human desire could sizzle hot enough to burn a female to ash, but Libby hadn’t believed her. The men in her world were too dreary to ever create any ardent stimulation, so Luke’s attention had her flummoxed.

  His gaze dipped to her mouth, and it was obvious he was thinking about kissing her which, on one level, was extremely hilarious. They were strangers, and he hadn’t bothered to supply his surname. Wasn’t it exactly like a man to immediately ponder amour?

  Yet on another level, she would deem it perfectly appropriate to be kissed by him. While they’d just crossed paths, there was a delicious perception of lengthy acquaintance. Why shouldn’t he kiss her?

  But that sort of rumination was dangerous and absurd.

  She knew his kind of gentleman, knew what they expected from a woman like her. There could never be a benefit for her in getting closer.

  She’d suffered too many losses in her life, and she was a very gentle soul who bonded with a desperate determination. When a relationship ended—as they always did—she mourned for ages, so she’d built high walls to guard her tender heart, and she never let them be breached.

  “Are you sure we haven’t met?” he asked.

  “I’m positive.”

  “I’m gaping to the point of rudeness.”

  “I’m very arrogant,” she said, “so I enjoy your gaping.”

  “You look like someone I know, but I can’t figure out who it is.”

  “Don’t all British women look alike? Don’t we all have blond hair and blue eyes? Perhaps you’re confusing me with every other female in the kingdom.”

  “You haven’t confused me. In fact, I’m betting there’s no other woman quite like you out there in the whole world.”

  “My goodness. If you keep complimenting me like that, I won’t be able to walk back into the house. My head won’t fit through the door.”

  He chuckled, his cheeks heating with chagrin. “You’ve driven me to an embarrassing ledge where I’m nearly spouting poetry about you, and I have no idea why.”

  She jokingly batted her lashes. “I have that effect on men.”

  “On me especially.”

  He pressed her into the bench, and she was convinced yet again that he would kiss her. If he tried, she’d decided to allow it. She suspected it would be shockingly pleasant.

  But he eased away and asked, “How do you occupy yourself in the day?”

  “I suppose like every young lady. I eat, read, shop, and write letters.”

  “Do you ride?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  She was actually a very nimble equestrian. During lean times, mostly when Harry had been hiding fr
om creditors or the law, they’d traveled with circuses where she’d learned all sorts of tricks and acrobatics.

  She could ride better than any man she’d ever met, and she could even accomplish it hanging upside down!

  “Will you ride with me tomorrow?” he asked. “Where are you staying? I’ll fetch you at two. How does that sound?”

  He rested a hand on her waist, his dazzling eyes searching hers, as if he could dig out the secrets buried there. She was enthralled by that hand, and she held herself very still, reveling in a pretty picture of the liaison they could pursue. They’d socialize in the afternoons and dance at balls in the evenings. They’d chat and dine and grow very close. It would be precious and delightful, and she’d fall madly in love with him. Then . . .

  He’d propose an illicit alliance, and she’d refuse. He’d start nagging and pressuring her, and her refusals would be more strident. Eventually, they’d quarrel, and he’d leave in a huff. She’d never see him again, and the loss would spur her to pine and regret for months afterward.

  Or, more likely, she’d begin to see him at various soirees, and he’d have a beautiful woman on his arm, one who’d been decadent enough to latch onto him when he’d suggested his indecent association.

  She’d be crushed by waves of jealousy, would pine and regret for months afterward over that ending too. So, no, an affair was impossible.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m busy tomorrow,” she told him.

  “How about the next day? Or will you always be busy?”

  “It’s not in the cards for us to be friends.”

  “Are you sure about that? It seems to me that there’s a remarkable attraction stirring between us.”

  “I won’t deny that there’s a powerful impulse swirling, but if I jumped into a relationship with you, there’s only one role that could open up for me. And it’s not a role I would ever play.”

  “It’s merely a ride in the park.”

  She tsked with exasperation. “It would turn out to be much more than that.”

  He pondered, then nodded. “You’re probably right. I haven’t offended you, have I?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “I’m not usually so inept in my banter.”