My Fallen Angel by Pamela Britton Read Free Book Online Page B

color blended within them—green, blue, silver, so complex they reminded her of a stained-glass window or the colors of the sea.
    “I’m sorry I’ve been so much trouble.”
    He didn’t respond, just continued to stare down at her. She waited for a reaction, any reaction. Perhaps a slight lift to the corner of his mouth. Perhaps a minor softening of his remarkable blue eyes.
    She got nothing.
    Disappointment almost made her look away. Almost. Was she so hopeless then? Were her feelings so totally one-sided?
    And then she saw him tense. Saw him move an arm. A finger rose to her chin, tilted it up. Hope beat a rhythmic staccato in her breast like the flutter of a bird’s wings as it soared through the sky. Her breath caught, held, then released in a soft sigh as he gently stroked the line of her jaw.
    “You should be careful,” he murmured, his eyes scanning her own.
    He
does
feel it,
she thought.
He does, he does, he does.
She hadn’t imagined yesterday. Hadn’t imagined a moonlit night and warm, mingled breaths.
    “I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you.”
    She nodded slowly, hardly daring to move, hardly daring to breathe, wondering if she were imagining the words, the moment. And then his head began to dip toward hers.
Yes,
her heart cried out.
Oh, gracious, yes. Thank you, Lord. I will never ask for another thing again. He likes me. He truly likes me.
Her eyes closed. Anticipating. Waiting. Dreaming.
    Warm lips pressed against her on the forehead.
    Her eyes sprang open.
    He stepped back, then patted her on the head.“You see, I wouldn’t want Dear Harry to get angry with me.”
    And with that he turned away.
    Lucy watched him go, feeling wretchedly deflated.
    •  •  •
    It took Lucy nearly fifteen minutes to collect herself enough to fetch Tom. The stairs of her aunt’s home creaked as she made her way up them.
    She found the boy sitting on a window seat in his room, his knees tucked up under his elbows. His head—with its mop of unruly blonde curls—rested on his knees, the expression on his face as glum as she herself felt. He didn’t bother to look at her. Not even when she walked up behind him did he glance up, which was odd, for usually he loved to bait her with a lecherous grin, loved to tease her in that cockney accent of his—an accent she’d done her best to rid him of, and failed, over the past two weeks that he’d been in her care.
    “What’s the matter, Thomas Tee?” she asked gently, using the pet name both she and her friend Salena, Duchess of Warburton, called him.
    Tom turned to look at her, his violet eyes lacking their usual luster. He shrugged.
    Misery loves company,
she thought, and so she patted him on the knees, indicating that he should make room for her on the seat.
    He sighed, then dropped his feet to the floor and scooted over.“I dunno,” he said at last.“I gots a feeling.”
    Lucy’s brows rose, for when Tom got a feeling it usually meant he’d eaten too many sweets.
    “What kind of feeling?” she asked warily.
    He shrugged again.“Like somethin’ bad’s about to happen.”
    Lucy’s eyes widened.“Bad? How do you mean?”
    He seemed to mull her question over.“Bad like last night.” He looked up at her, his normally cherubic face troubled.“You near ‘bout got killed.”
    “Who told you that?”
    “Wolf.”
    Lucy’s brows rose. So he had met the boy? She wondered when. It must have been this morning, sometime before she’d gone downstairs.
    “I never asked to be no bleedin’ nobleman’s son,” Tom continued.“Always thoughts y’all a bunch’a crackpots, I did,” he mumbled to himself, then suddenly looked up, obviously realizing what he’d said.“Except for you an’ Salena an’ Adrian an’ Beth, o’ course.”
    Lucy contained a smile.“Of course.”
    He was silent a moment, then said, “I s’ppose I’m just afraids that next time you really will gets hurt.” He looked up at her in pensive admonishment.“You’re ‘bout