"You are being absurd."
"Indeed?" She regarded him steadily. "I have yet to see you fail at anything. You have mastered chess, hazard, archery, and cribbage. You charm young children, wary women, and even Meg, who is never charmed. And now you sew a perfect hem."
Surprisingly his amusement faded as he reached out to gently remove the blouse from her hands. He tossed it upon the sofa before turning to grasp her shoulders.
"Jocelyn, I can assure you that I am far from perfect," he said, what might have been regret darkening his eyes. "In truth, there are any number of my acquaintances who would assure you that I have more than my fair share of faults."
She frowned, unable to accept his words. Surely all who met Lucien tumbled into love with him. How could they not?
"I do not believe you."
His fingers briefly tightened, his lips twisting in a rueful fashion.
"You should. I can be irresponsible, frivolous, and inclined to infuriate others with my peculiar sense of humor."
She searched his expression, sensing a vulnerability that she would never have expected beneath his smooth assurance. It pierced her heart in a manner that she had never experienced before.
Barely aware of what she did, Jocelyn raised her hand to lay it against the satin softness of his cheek in a comforting motion.
"I enjoy your sense of humor," she said with a fierce sincerity.
The golden eyes abruptly shimmered in the dim light as he reached up to cover the fingers still pressed to his countenance.
"Oh, my dove, you do know best how to touch my heart."
Her breath caught at the fragile, wondrous moment.
The sensations that filled her were not those she had experienced with Lord Patten. This had nothing to do with vanity or a need for adventure or even the desire for physical pleasure.
What she felt now was deeper, more profound. Her heart, even her very soul, knew the truth.
It was perhaps the most important moment in her entire life.
"Do I?" she whispered.
"Can you doubt it?" he demanded in hoarse tones.
"Lucien ..."
Her lips parted in an open invitation for his kiss, but even as his head began to lower, an unreadable emotion swept over his countenance and he was pulling back.
"Jocelyn, we must speak," he abruptly insisted.
A chill inched down her spine. She reluctantly recalled his manner earlier in the day. She had been so close to confessing her feelings. She had wanted him to know that he had found a place within her heart. But even as the words had trembled upon her lips, he cut her short. .
And now, once again, he was holding her at length.
There was clearly something wrong.
"I thought we were speaking," she said in a failed attempt at humor to cover her fear.
His features became unreadable as he drew in a deep breath. "There are secrets you do not know of me, Jocelyn. Secrets that are not easy to confess."
She stiffened, feeling as if her heart were being squeezed with a ruthless force.
"Are you married?"
He appeared momentarily shocked by her question before he gave a sharp shake of his head.
"No. I have never desired to bind myself to another." His hand moved to touch her cheek.
"Not until now."
She unwittingly hid a sigh. Surely anything could be overcome as long as he was free to offer her his heart.
"Then, what is it?"
Surprisingly she felt his fingers tremble against her face, as if he were struggling to control his inner emotions. The chill within her became more pronounced.
"You said that I was different. I fear that you were quite right. I am unlike any other gentleman you have ever encountered."
Her brows drew together in a puzzled frown. "That does not matter to me, Lucien.
Considering most gentlemen I have encountered, I can only be relieved that you are different."
He gave a sigh, his fingers compulsively moving down her cheek to stroke the line of her jaw.
"That is because you do not yet comprehend what I mean by different."
"You are not making any sense. I know you. There is nothing—"
Her ardent words were untimely interrupted when the door to the sitting room was rudely thrust open. With a gasp of dismay Jocelyn jumped away from Lucien and turned to meet Meg's speculative gaze.
"Meg." She ridiculously ran her hands over her gown, realizing that the servant was bound to have noticed the intimate familiarity between her and Lucien. There would no doubt be a stern lecture on the morrow at her foolish weakness. "Has something occurred?"
The housekeeper flashed Lucien a jaundiced glare before returning her attention to the flustered Jocelyn.
"That gent is here again."
"Gent?"
"That one who ruined my floors."
With her thoughts still tangled by Lucien, it took a while before Jocelyn at last realized Meg must be referring to the Bow Street Runner who had called before.
"Mr. Ryan?"
"Aye."
Her hand lifted to press to her heart. It was far too late for any callers. What could he possibly desire?
"I see," she murmured. "I suppose you should show him in."
Meg planted her hands upon her hips. "At this hour?"
Jocelyn gave a lift of her shoulders. "I would rather discover what Mr. Ryan has to say than to spend the entire night speculating."
The servant gave a disapproving click of her tongue. "The man should be abed, not out disturbing young ladies."
"He is only doing his job, Meg. Please show him in."
Just for a moment the woman hesitated, as if determined to protect Jocelyn from the intruder.
Then with a sniff she turned on her heel and stomped toward the door.
"Indecent," she muttered as she stepped into the hall.
Dismissing the housekeeper's obvious annoyance, Jocelyn slowly turned to meet Lucien's searching gaze. She did not want to be interrupted at this moment. Not when she needed to know what Lucien had to say, and to be reassured that everything was going to be well. Not when she needed to be held in his arms and for this night forget the ugly streets and fear that lurked just outside her door.
But it was impossible.
Mr. Ryan would not have called if he did not have something of importance to reveal.
Whatever her reluctance, she knew that she had to see him.
"Lucien, I must meet with Mr. Ryan. Perhaps you—"
Without warning he stepped forward to grasp her upper arms firmly. "No."
She gave a startled blink. "What?"
The elegant features hardened to a determined expression. "He can speak with me present."
"But why? This has nothing to do with you."
"Of course it does. If it affects you, then it affects me. I will not leave."
A ridiculous rush of relief threatened to buckle her knees. She had prided herself on her strength. She depended upon no one, and that was precisely how she desired it to be.
But suddenly she realized that there was some-thing very wonderful in knowing Lucien was near.
Not that she intended to confess her desire for his company, she wryly acknowledged. He was far loo confident as it was.
"Is that a command?"
He grimaced, belatedly realizing how sharply he had spoken. "No, I am not that foolish. But you need not brave your troubles on your own, Jocelyn. I am here to be at your side. Will you allow me to remain?"
She allowed her expression to soften. Really, this was the most remarkable of men.
"If you wish."
With a swift motion he bent downward to brush his lips over her forehead before pulling back and moving discreetly away. She resisted the urge to touch the tingling skin, instead attempting to smooth her countenance to the calm composure she had once found so very easy.
It would not do to appear like a giddy schoolgirl in the first throes of love.
It was scandalous enough to be discovered with a gentleman in her sitting room at such an hour.
Squaring her shoulders, Jocelyn was prepared as the burly gentleman entered the room, clutching his hat in his hands. His shrewd gaze briefly rested upon the silent stranger near the empty fireplace before he was offering Jocelyn a small bow.
"Ah, Miss Kingly, forgive me for intruding once again. And at such a late hour."
She managed a small smile. "Not at all. May I introduce you to Mr. Valin? Mr. Valin, this is Mr. Ryan. He is from Bow Street."
The two gentlemen shared a long, silent gaze before the Runner was giving a nod of his head.
"A pleasure, Mr. Valin."
"Mr. Ryan," Lucien murmured.
"Would you care for tea?" Jocelyn politely offered. "Or perhaps you would prefer brandy?"
"Nothing, I thank you. I will not intrude long."
"Do you have word of Molly's killer?" she hopefully prompted, not at all surprised when he gave a regretful shake of his head.
"I fear not. Despite my numerous nights upon the streets, there does not appear to be anyone willing to admit they were acquainted with Molly or if they noted her upon that specific evening."
Jocelyn knew his words were a gross understatement. Those of the streets were wary of strangers. Any stranger. And if they suspected that Mr. Ryan was a member of Bow Street, they would be as likely to slit his throat as to confess to any knowledge of crimes in the neighborhood.