The Bareknuckle Groom - Holly Bush Page 0,30

under the eyes of a tall, distinguished-looking man, staring at him with what could only be called malice. Then he saw the older Miss Vermeal speak to him. He did not look at her, but kept his eyes focused on James across the room. James stared back, without blinking, barely taking a breath. Lucinda’s father. They would go a few rounds, he thought.

Dinner was called by the butler a short time later, and he gathered up Aunt Murdoch and the elder Miss Vermeal, who were standing together when he found them, one on either arm, and followed Payden with Muireall ahead of them to the ballroom that had been set up with several long tables to accommodate all of the guests. He took a quick look for Kirsty and saw her on the arm of a tall, thin man with spectacles. She was white-faced, staring straight ahead and saying nothing, which was a surprise on its own. He wondered who the man was.

Elspeth hurried to his side as he stepped into the ballroom.

“Aunt Murdoch, I have you over here near Alexander’s great-aunt and uncle.”

“Put the old tarts together, eh?”

Elspeth rolled her eyes and took Aunt Murdoch’s arm to lead her away.

“It looks like we are seated side by side, Mr. Thompson,” Lucinda’s aunt said, looking up at him.

He did not wait for a servant to manage her chair but seated her himself and stared off a young man in uniform when he came to help James with his own chair. “I’m well able to seat myself,” he said. “Go help some of the women.”

The soup was served, and Miss Vermeal leaned close to him. “So tell me, Mr. Thompson, what is it about my niece that you cannot help yourself from staring at her?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am.”

“Don’t be coy with me, young man. I may be the only thing between you and Lucinda’s father if whatever this is moves beyond flirtation.”

“What could I possibly offer an accomplished and sought-after woman like Miss Vermeal?” he said, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Oh dear.” She laid her fingertips on his arm. “You are quite in love with her, aren’t you?”

“How ridiculous,” he said and stared at the woman beside him.

But was it ridiculous? It explained this obsession he had with her. Planning when he would see her next. Thinking about her at the odd moment during the day. Dwelling on that kiss between the two of them when he lay in bed at night, and often relieving himself of the ache he felt with his own fist as he pictured her in his mind’s eye, her delicate hands above her head in his grasp and the feel of her straining toward him. He shifted in his seat.

“Lucinda clearly finds something of worth in you. I’ve never seen her express more than the slightest interest in any man. Of course, her father has plans to marry her off to someone of his choosing, who would manage the Vermeal holdings when he is gone.”

“He would force her?”

“Lucinda is not easily manipulated, but that path may appear to be for the best, especially if she does not see any alternatives.”

James turned his head to look at Lucinda’s aunt, but she’d already begun a conversation with the man on her other side. That had been a warning, he supposed, that if he was interested in her—other than a quick fuck, which would never happen in any case—he’d better get organized and declare himself. He looked up to see her father focused on him. He stared back.

By the time the main course had been cleared, James was ready to pick up the bounder seated to Lucinda’s left, carry him to his sister’s front door, and throw him out on the street. He leaned too close and even stretched an arm along the back of her chair.

Alexander stood from his seat at the head of the main table. “Coffee, tea, spirits, and dessert will be served in the next room.” Elspeth stood, looking shy and beautiful, and put her hand on her husband’s arm as they led the guests through the open doors behind him.

Lucinda was so thankful that dinner was finally over and she could remove herself from Benedict Bartholomew’s reach. She slipped ahead of two older women as she made her way down the aisle between the tables, putting some distance between herself and Mr. Bartholomew’s hand. She shivered, remembering how he’d stretched his arm around her chair and touched