Page 29 of Unmasking the Diamond
He pressed a hand to his heart. “That almost sounded like envy.”
“And what would I possibly have to envy?”
“If this is your way of flirting—” he began.
She poked him hard in the chest. “I would never flirt with you.”
“Promises, promises,” he teased. “But then why are you trying to lure me into the most romantic of conveyances? A carriage ride, with only the two of us? Admit it, Diamond, you would ravish me before we reached Hyde Park.”
“You are impossible,” she muttered.
“Now you are complimenting me?” Luca quipped, delighting in her vexation. “You truly are all over the place. I can’t keep up. But alas, I must go. Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
Charlotte didn’t even dignify that with a reply. She simply turned on her heel and strode towards her townhouse. He watched her go, fighting the urge to call after her. Why did he always needle her? Was it some perverse instinct to keep herbristling, to crack the perfect mask she wore for Society? He wasn’t entirely sure himself.
He exhaled and left the gardens, striding down the pavement until he arrived at his coach. After giving the address, he settled into the coach and let his head fall against the worn cushion. The gentle rocking soon lulled him into a light doze, but his rest was shattered when the coach jolted to an abrupt halt.
Blinking himself awake, Luca stepped out and took in the modest three-story townhouse before him. Whitewashed brick, iron railing, tidy front—nothing about it seemed remarkable. He pushed through the small gate and mounted the step.
He rapped on the door. Silence.
He tried again, harder this time. Still nothing.
An uneasy sensation slid down his spine. Something was amiss. He leaned towards one of the bay windows, cupping his hands against the glass and his heart lurched. An elderly woman lay sprawled on the floor, motionless.
“Botheration,” he declared, and without hesitation, he tried the handle. It gave easily beneath his hand. Unlocked. He shoved the door open and rushed inside, boots echoing against the narrow entry hall.
“Ma’am!” he called, darting into the drawing room. He dropped to his knees beside her unconscious form. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyelids fluttered, but remained shut.
“Ma’am?” he pressed, louder now, desperation edging his voice.
A soft groan escaped her lips. “Must you be so loud?”
Relief flooded him. She was alive. “Are you hurt?”
Her hand came up, trembling, to her temple. “I have a terrible headache.”
“May I help you up?”
Her eyes blinked open—and instantly widened. She recoiled. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my home?”
Luca immediately shifted back, giving her space. The last thing he wanted was to terrify the poor woman further. “My name is Lord Luca Dexter. I came hoping to speak with you, but when I saw you unconscious on the floor, I forced my way inside.”
Suspicion clouded her gaze. “Were you the one who struck me?”
“No, Ma’am. I swear it. When no one answered, I looked through the window and saw you on the ground.”
With visible effort, she pushed herself upright. “My housekeeper went to the market. I heard a noise… when I turned, someone struck me.”
Luca steadied her arm, though she stiffened at his touch. “Are you Miss Blythe Dawlish?”
“I am,” she admitted as he helped her to a settee. She sank onto it, pale but proud. “You said you wished to speak to me. What about?”
“That can wait. You’ve just been assaulted. Allow me to fetch a doctor.”
She waved the notion aside with surprising vigor. “What can a doctor do but give me powder for my headache? Save your concern.”
