Page 80 of Dare to Love a Duke
When Tom turned back, Lucia approached him, cradling the doll in the crook of her arm. At her exultant smile, more warmth bloomed in his chest. He itched to put a crown of laurels upon her head and carry her triumphantly through the fair.
“Devious.” Unable to stop himself, he kissed her—quickly. “Hiding your aptitude at ring-a-bottle.”
“You’ve stumbled across my cunning plan to conquer England, one carnival game at a time.”
“The nation should quake in terror.”
His heart pounded. Hell, but he delighted in her. This obsession with her body and the pleasure they created together continued to transform, changing into something far more complex than lust.
“Hold a moment.” Tom approached a small girl who’d spread a ragged blanket on the ground. Lying atop the blanket were a handful of whirligigs, assembled from scraps of paper that had clearly been scavenged from found debris.
“Whirligig, sir?”
He tucked his winnings into her tiny palm.
Her eyes went wide. “You can have ’em all.”
“I’d rather you had this,” Lucia said, handing her the poppet.
The girl didn’t waste words on thanks. The doll tucked under her arm, she ran straight to a pieman without a backward glance.
As Lucia and Tom moved on, she said, “The odds were steep, and you wagered in my favor, anyway.”
“Only a fool would bet against you.”
Her dark, depthless eyes gleamed, and his body filled with surging energy, as though he could accomplish anything—scale any height, bridge any distance, and become more than himself. There were no obstacles when she looked at him like that. There was only possibility.
“Learn the future,” a woman called out from her tent, breaking his thoughts. “I can see beyond time! Come and discover what fate has in store for you.”
She sat on a cushion in front of a low table draped with a shawl, with another bright shawl around her shoulders.
Tom gave his head a tiny shake. “Prognostication is a skill, not a power.”
“You sound very certain of that,” Lucia said wryly.
“My friend Blakemere, he went to one of those soothsayers. Got everything wrong—including the fact that Blakemere had just come back from Waterloo.” Tom clicked his tongue. “Turned out the fortune-teller was drunk and couldn’t see worth a damn.”
“The sight isn’t here,” Lucia said, tapping the corner of her eye. “It’s here.” She pointed to her forehead.
“Anyone with good eyesight—or listens well—can position themselves as a fortune-teller.”
Lucia lifted a brow. “Sounds like a challenge. I think a demonstration of your abilities is in order.” She nodded toward a man shepherding his family around the fair. “Tell me his tale.”
“I can do better than that.” A wild impulse gripped him, and before he could question it, he approached the mystic. “Please, go and have a cup of tea.” He dropped a handful of coins into her palm.
Baffled she looked at him, then rose slowly to her feet. “Don’t you want me to tell your fortune?”
“Sometimes, it’s better to be surprised,” he said, gazing at an amused Lucia.
The fortune-teller tucked the coins into a purse before strolling off toward a vendor selling mugs of hard cider.
“I think His Grace has descended into madness, like the king,” Lucia said with a laugh as he settled himself down on the soothsayer’s cushion. It was slightly lopsided from years of use, and much mended.
“Tomorrow,” he said in a low voice, “I’m going to publicly sever the ties that have long bound my family to a man of great power. He won’t take kindly to what he’ll see as my betrayal and desertion. It might cost my sister the lad she loves.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if he could hold back the impending disaster.
“Ah.” She reached out and cupped his face, her touch profoundly gentle. “Mayhem tomorrow. A bit of play today.”
The tension in his chest loosened, and he opened his eyes. Gratefulness for her understanding nearly brought tears to his eyes. She understood and accepted. The gift she gave him with that faith had no price.
