“My lord!” Newton ran down the front steps, wig askew, pot belly jiggling.
“I’m fine,” Simon muttered. “Just a scratch. Hardly bled at—”
For the first time in his employment, Newton interrupted his master. “The viscountess has returned.”
HER FINGERS WERE SPREAD OVER HER CLOSED EYES. Dear Lord. A shudder racked her frame. Protect him. Her knees were numb from the cold. I need him. The wind whipped against her wet cheeks.
I love him.
A scrape came from the end of the aisle. Please, God. Footsteps, slow and steady, crunched on the broken glass. Were they coming to tell her? No. Please, no. She curled within herself, huddled on the ice, her hands still shielding her eyes, blocking out the dawning day, blocking out the end of her world.
“Lucy.” It was a whisper, so low she should not have been able to hear it.
But she did. She dropped her hands, raised her face, hoping, but not daring to believe. Not yet. He was bareheaded, ghastly white, his shirt covered in gore. Blood was crusted down the right side of his face from a cut on his brow, and he cradled one arm. But he was alive.
Alive.
“Simon.” She clumsily wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying to get rid of the tears so she could see, but they kept coming. “Simon.”
He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees before her.
“I’m sorry—” she started, and then realized she was speaking over his words. “What?”
“Stay.” He’d grasped her shoulders with both hands, squeezing as if he couldn’t believe her solid. “Stay with me. I love you. God, I love you, Lucy. I can’t—”
Her heart seemed to expand with his words. “I’m sorry. I—”
“I can’t live without you,” he was saying, his lips skimming her face. “I tried. There isn’t any light without you.”
“I won’t leave again.”
“I become a creature with a blackened soul—”
“I love you, Simon—”
“Without hope of redemption—”
“I love you.”
“You are my salvation.”
“I love you.”
He finally seemed to hear her through his own confession. He stopped still and stared at her. Then he cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, his lips moving tenderly over hers, wanting, comforting. She tasted tears and blood and didn’t care. He was alive. Her sob was caught in his mouth as he opened it over hers. She sobbed again and ran her hands across the back of his head, feeling his short hair tickle her palms. She’d nearly lost him.
Lucy tried to pull back, remembering. “Your shoulder, your forehead—”
“It’s nothing,” he murmured over her lips. “Christian pricked me, that’s all. It’s already bandaged.”
“But—”
He suddenly lifted his head, his ice eyes staring into hers, melting. “I didn’t kill him, Lucy. We dueled, it’s true, but we stopped before anyone was killed. Fletcher and his family will go to America and never return to England.”
She stared at him. He hadn’t killed, after all. “Are there more duels?”
“No. It’s over.” He blinked and seemed to hear what he’d said. “It’s over.”
Lucy laid a hand on his cold, cold cheek. “Darling.”
“It’s over.” His voice broke. He bowed his head until his forehead rested on her shoulder. “It’s over and Ethan is dead. Oh, God, my brother is dead.”
“I know.” Gently she stroked his hair, feeling the sobs that he would not let her see shake his frame.
“He was such a pompous ass, and I loved him so much.”
“Of course you did. He was your brother.”
Simon choked on a laugh and raised his face from her shoulder. “My angel.” His gray eyes swam with tears.
Lucy shivered. “It’s cold here. Let’s go inside and get you into bed.”
“Such a practical woman.” He struggled to rise.
Lucy stood stiffly and put her arm about him to help him up. “And I insist on a physician this time. Even if I have to drag him away from his Christmas breakfast.”
“Christmas.” Simon stopped short, nearly knocking her down. “Is it Christmas?”
“Yes.” Lucy smiled up at him. He looked so confused. “Didn’t you know? It’s all right. I don’t expect a present.”
“But I have one for you, and one for Pocket as well,” Simon said. “A toy naval ship complete with sailors and officers and rows of little cannons. It’s really quite clever.”
“I’m sure it is. Pocket will adore it, and Rosalind will not approve, and I expect that’s your intention.” Lucy’s eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness, Simon!”
He frowned. “What?”
“I invited Pocket and Rosalind to Christmas breakfast. I forgot.” Lucy stared up at him horrified. “What should we do?”
“We’ll inform Newton and Cook and leave it to them.” He kissed her forehead. “Rosalind is family, after all. She’ll understand.”
“Maybe so,” Lucy said. “But we can’t let them see you like this. We’ll at least have to get you cleaned.”
“I bow to your every wish, my angel. But humor me and open your present now, please.” He shut the conservatory door behind them and slowly made his way to the hall table where she’d earlier set the blue book. “Ah, it’s still here.” He turned with the battered rectangular package and held it out, looking suddenly uncertain.
Lucy’s brow wrinkled. “Shouldn’t you at least lie down?”
He offered the package mutely.
Her mouth curved in a smile that she could not suppress. Impossible to be stern with him while he stood in front of her like an earnest child. “What is it?” She took the package. It was rather heavy, so she laid it on the hall table again to unwrap it.
He shrugged. “Open it.”
She began working at the string.
“I should’ve given you a wedding present before now,” he said beside her. She could feel his hot breath on her neck.
Lucy’s mouth twitched. Where was her sophisticated London aristocrat now? Funny that Simon would be so nervous about giving her a Christmas present. She unwound the string.
“You’re a viscountess, now, for God’s sake,” Simon was muttering. “I should’ve bought you jewels. Emeralds or rubies. Sapphires. Definitely sapphires and maybe diamonds.”