And tonight during the play he’d been muttering with Mr. Fletcher. She hadn’t caught the words, but his face had been grim. Why wouldn’t he confide in her? Surely that was part of marriage, for the wife to be a helpmeet to her husband and take some of his cares onto her own shoulders. To provide relief from his worries. She thought when they’d married that she and Simon would become closer. That they would attain that state of harmony that she’d glimpsed in some older couples. Instead they seemed to be growing ever further apart, and she wasn’t sure what to do. How to bridge the gap, or was it even bridgeable? Perhaps her marriage ideal was merely the naive dream of a maiden. Perhaps this distance between them was the reality of marriage.
Mr. Fletcher leaned down. “Should have tipped Simon better.”
Lucy smiled at his silly jest. She turned to reply and felt a shove from her right. She fell to her knees on the hard marble steps, her palms stinging even through the leather of her kid gloves. Someone grabbed her hair and pulled her head back painfully. Shouts. She couldn’t see. Her vision was composed of skirts and the dirty marble beneath her palms. A kick landed on her ribs. She gasped and then her hair was released. Mr. Fletcher was grappling with another man directly over her. She shielded her head as best she could, fearful of being trampled or worse. Rosalind screamed. Another blow to Lucy’s bottom and a weight shoved against her back.
Then Simon was there. She could hear his furious shouts even from beneath the pile. The weight left her back, and he pulled her up.
“Are you all right?” His face looked as pale as death.
She tried to nod, but he was lifting her into his arms, carrying her down the steps.
“Did you see where he went?” Mr. Fletcher panted beside them.
“Simon, he meant to kill her!” Rosalind sounded shocked.
Lucy was shivering, her teeth chattering together uncontrollably. Someone had tried to kill her. She’d just been standing on the theater steps and someone had tried to kill her. She clutched at Simon’s shoulders, trying to still the violent shaking of her hands.
“I know,” Simon said grimly. His hands flexed against her back and legs. “Christian, will you escort Rosalind home? I must take Lucy to a doctor.”
“Of course.” The young man nodded, his freckles standing out starkly in his face. “Whatever I can do.”
“Good.” Simon stared intently at the younger man. “And, Christian?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” Simon spoke low. “You saved her life.”
Lucy watched over Simon’s shoulder as Mr. Fletcher’s eyes widened, and a shy smile lit his face before he turned away with Rosalind. She wondered if Simon knew how much the younger man admired him.
“I don’t need a doctor,” she tried to protest. Her voice wheezed, which certainly didn’t help her case.
Simon ignored her. He strode down the steps, shouldering through the mass of people with impatient arrogance. The crowd thinned when they reached the street.
“Simon.”
He quickened his pace.
“Simon, you can put me down now. I can walk.”
“Hush.”
“But you needn’t carry me.”
He glanced at her, and she saw to her horror that his eyes were shining. “Yes, I do need.”
She subsided then. He kept up the pace across several streets until they reached the carriage. Simon bundled her inside and rapped on the roof. The carriage jolted forward.
He held her across his lap and undid her hat. “Should’ve had Christian direct the doctor to the town house.” He swept off her cloak. “I’ll have to summon him when we get back.” He turned her just enough to reach her back and began unbuttoning her bodice.
Surely he didn’t mean to undress her in a moving carriage? But his face was so serious, so grave, that she asked the question gently. “What are you doing?”
“Finding where you’re hurt.”
“I told you,” she said softly. “I’m all right.”
He didn’t answer but simply continued working on the buttons. He drew the dress off her shoulders, opened her stays, then stilled, looking at her side. Lucy followed his eyes. A thin line of blood stained her chemise just beside her breast. There was a corresponding tear in the fabric of her dress. Gently, Simon loosened the chemise’s tie and pulled it away. A cut lay underneath. Now that she saw it, Lucy suddenly felt the burn. Somehow in all the confusion, she hadn’t noticed the pain before. She’d been stabbed, but not deeply.
“He nearly had you.” Simon traced underneath the cut. “A few inches farther in and he’d have hit your heart.” His voice was calm, but Lucy didn’t like the way his nostrils had flared, making white dents beside his nose.
“Simon.”
“If his aim hadn’t been off . . .”
“Simon—”
“If Christian hadn’t been there . . .”
“It’s not your fault.”
His eyes finally met hers, and she saw that the tears had overwhelmed him. Two trailed unchecked down his cheek. He didn’t seem to be aware of them. “Yes, it is. It’s my fault. I nearly got you killed tonight.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
She’d supposed her assailant to be some kind of pickpocket or other thief. Perhaps a madman. But Simon was implying that the attacker had been after her specifically. That he’d wanted to kill her. Simon smoothed his thumb over her lips and tenderly kissed her. Even as she accepted his tongue into her mouth and tasted the salt of his tears, she realized that he hadn’t answered her question. And that scared her more than anything else had that night.
HE KNEW HE SHOULDN’T.
Even as he swept Lucy into his arms and carried her into the house, Simon knew he shouldn’t. He shouldered aside Newton, who exclaimed in concern, and bore her up the stairs like a Roman plundering a Sabine maiden. He’d pulled Lucy’s chemise and gown up without fully hooking the back and had thrown her wrap about her to carry her in. She’d convinced him in the carriage that she really didn’t need a physician. The cut over her ribs was the only wound, besides bruising, he could find. Nevertheless, someone had tried to kill her. She was shaken and hurt. Only a cad would demand the rights of a husband now.
Ergo, he was a cad.
Simon kicked open the door to his bedroom, bore her across the silver and black carpet, and deposited her on the bed. She lay on his cobalt-blue cover like an offering. Her hair had loosened and was spread over the silk.