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starfinss · 1 year

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ɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴀᴛ ʙᴀɴᴄʀᴏꜰᴛ ʜᴀʟʟ — ᴄʜ. 2

Chapter One can be found here!

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Lockwood & Co.

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Anthony Lockwood + Lucy Carlyle

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: SFW

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 5,507

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: The client’s daughter flirts with Lockwood, is a massive nuisance, and Lucy gets jealous, among other things.

It took us far longer than we would’ve liked to find Madeline Quintrell, who had stationed herself in the kitchen, where she was casually eating a sandwich. I was the one who found her; Lockwood had gone to search the living room, and when she saw me, she let out a surprised squeak of fear. My rage reached a tipping point when I saw a rapier from the kit we’d left in the kitchen set across the table, just by her hand. I marched over and snatched it up, carrying it back to its proper bag, zipping it inside.

“What the Devil is wrong with you?” I spat, a bit sharper than I meant to, but I was angry.

I was fed up with this girl prancing about like she was immune to Ghost Touch, and somehow, miraculously, traversing the house without any incident besides my rapier at her throat when she’d startled me in the study.

“I was hungry,” she said simply, setting her sandwich down on the plate in front of her, “could you give that back to me now?”

I stared at her. “Give what back to you?”

“The rapier. I picked it out—”

I laughed, incredulous, and quite tired of this farcical series of events. It was a short, unpleasant sound, but it shut her up. “No. You don’t get a rapier of your own until you pass your Third Grade, and since you haven’t, no rapier for you. I’m not letting you handle a weapon if you’re not qualified. This isn’t a game, Miss Quintrell, it’s a job, and it’s not a safe one. You have no idea what you’re playing at. You try and fight a Visitor with no training, you die. That’s it.”

“But if Lockwood were to protect me—”

“Shut up,” I said, and I knew I probably shouldn’t have, but I was beside myself with rage, “Lockwood doesn’t have timeto protect you. He’s here to investigate your house so you can have a safe place to live. You’re getting in the way of that. Chasing after boys is hardly a reason to try and play act being an agent.”

Her face turned a frankly impressive shade of red, almost rivaling the color of her hair.

“Well,” she scoffed, “he clearly doesn’t have a girlfriend. A shame, he’s a very handsome bloke. The other girl in your agency is pretty, but she doesn’t seem to be interested in him. And you. Why would he be interested in you?”

I didn’t want to be affected by that. I really didn’t think I would be, either. But for some reason, that stung. Not the part about my appearance, I didn’t care about that. I didn’t need to be beautiful to be a good agent. It was the second part that sent a strange jolt of stinging embarrassment through me. Why, though? Why did I even care if Lockwood was interested in me?

“This isn’t about me,” I said finally, but she cut me off.

“But this is about you,” she mused, her expression smug, “at least I’ve got the guts to go after a boy. You’re the one blushing like a schoolgirl every time he smiles at you— don’t think I didn’t see, I’m not blind. You’re jealous.”

Absolute nonsense, I told myself, I was not jealous. Complicated, unpleasant feelings were swimming laps in my veins, and I could feel my face growing hot from them. I had to stay calm. Haunted locations were no place for such feelings. I could sort them out once I was back in my bed at Portland Row, with no hungry Visitors to provoke with my racing thoughts.

I took a deep, cleansing breath. “This is not about me,” I repeated, firmer this time, “this is about you, swanning off when we’re not looking. You don’t seem to care that you could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

The door to the kitchen opened, and Lockwood stepped in. He looked at Madeline with a mix of relief and irritation, sighing heavily. At the sight of him, he stomach did an uncomfortable twist, and I forced myself to look away.

“Right, there you are,” he said, “I’m glad you’re safe, Miss Quintrell. No more wandering off, please, we’ve still got an investigation to complete. If you must stay, stay in here, where the largest amount of iron is. And don’t touch anything in our kit. Come on, Luce, George and Holly are already set up in the master bedroom.”

“No,” Madeline protested, “I want to come, too.”

I rounded on her, my fury outweighing my inner turmoil, but Lockwood put a hand on my shoulder. I could see that muscle in his jaw again, tensing. He was reaching the end of his rope.

“I simply cannot allow that, Miss Quintrell.”

His voice was tense, the usual politeness it possessed when dealing with our clients rapidly draining away.

Madeline stood up, pulling her dress down. It took me a few moments to realize what she was doing; trying to appeal to Lockwood with physical appearance rather than smiling and batting her eyelashes. If Lockwood was affected at all, he hid it well, dark eyes remaining fixed on her face.

I really doubted he was affected, though. All she succeeded in doing was making herself look rather silly.

“Please?” She asked, in a soft, simpering tone that made me nearly erupt with fury.

“That’s quite enough of that,” Lockwood said with a cough, and I could see what I could have sworn was a faint blush on his pale cheeks, “I’ll be calling your father now.”

“Why isn’t it working?!” She erupted, and Lockwood stopped mid-stride as he was crossing the kitchen to where the phone was hanging on the wall.

He stared at her, puzzled. “Why isn’t what working, Miss Quintrell?”

“I’ve been flirting all night. Blokes like it when we want their help, yeah? I—”

“Ah, there it is,” the skull drawled, “letter opener. I’ve had just about enough of this girl. Letter opener, I say!”

“Ah,” Lockwood said, “that’s what you’re doing. I’m sorry, Miss Quintrell, but I don’t tend to go around with my clients.”

“I’m not your client,” she supplied, “my father is.”

Lockwood shrugged his narrow shoulders. “That’s quite close enough for me.“

Ignoring anything else she said, Lockwood finished his journey across the kitchen, where he dialed the number to the guest house. The phone rang twice, and when Sir Quintrell picked up, I could hear him from across the room. He didn’t seem pleased that his daughter had snuck out, however, even with how much he seemed to dote on her.

Lockwood and I remained with Madeline until her father came from the guest house to fetch her, apologizing profusely (and loudly) for her behavior before putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her out the front door and away.

The rest of the investigation passed as smoothly as it could in a haunted location, and by the time Lockwood and I joined George and Holly in the master bedroom, George had already located the source, and was pulling up floorboards while Holly fought off an angry Specter in the form of a man in a high Victorian collar with impressive mutton chops. Off in the corner, a Shade was hovering, a grey smudge of a thing in a Victorian style nightgown.

Lockwood joined Holly, and I knelt beside George, aiding him in tugging up the floor. With much sweating and swearing, we discovered a bundle of letters, unreadable due to age, but once we shoved them into a silver link pouch, the Visitors blinked out of existence and were gone. For a moment or two, the four of us sat there, panting, as we took in the silence, before moving to gather our kit, then back down to the kitchen.

“You sorted the Shade upstairs, then?” I asked, and Holly nodded.

“It didn’t put up much of a fight,” she said, “just stared at us rather crossly while we looked for the Source.”

I grunted in assent before rising to my feet from where I’d been sitting cross-legged, folding the iron chains up and packing them away.

“I’m going to do a final sweep of the house.”

I stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining room, letting myself breathe. I really was going to do a sweep of the house, but I also needed to clear my head. I was trying to figure out why what Madeline said had gotten to me the way that it did. I was fond of Lockwood, I knew that much. Maybe I didn’t like it when other girls looked at him like that, but what of it?

With racing thoughts, I walked the length of the dining room once, then again, before exiting into the main hall, and finally drifting into the living room.

“You don’t seem well,” the skull said, startling me, “don’t tell me that tart got to you, Lucy.”

“No,” I said, a tad sharply, “I’m fine.”

“You’re a horrid liar.”

“Shut up. I am not.”

“You absolutely are. It’s the way she was looking at Lockwood, right? You don’t like when other girls get too close to him. I’ve been telling you as much for a while.”

“I am not. And even if that is true, I don’t have time for this.”

A dark chuckle. “If not now, when? You never have time. And you think I’m the weird one.”

“You are,” I said, “you’re a haunted skull in a jar. That’s textbook weird.”

“Are you alright, Luce?”

Lockwood’s voice startled me even further than the skull’s had. I heard him bite back a laugh at the way I jumped, and I glared at him.

“Fine,” I said, “just peachy.”

“Liar,” the skull reiterated, its voice adopting a taunting, musical quality, “liar, liar, pants on fire.”

I had half a mind to turn the tap closed, and I was setting my bag down on the ground to do so when Lockwood spoke, rendering me sidetracked.

“You don’t seem peachy,” he said, regarding me with dark eyes, “Miss Quintrell didn’t do or say anything to bother you, did she? Other than the obvious, of course.”

I snorted half-heartedly, offering what I hoped was a reassuring look. “It’s nothing you need worry about, Lockwood. She got on my nerves, but I’m able to deal with any further feelings on my own.”

He wasn’t convinced. “Luce—”

“I’m fine,” I said. And I was. Probably.

Prettiness wasn’t my profession. I was content with my apprentice, even if it wasn’t much to be proud of. I had nice eyes, and I liked the way my waist was shaped. I had some things about myself I was fond of. I wasn’t about to let the words of a cosmetically challenged rich girl define my self worth. And I didn’t blush every time he smiled at me, did I? That was ridiculous. George would’ve teased me about it ages ago if I’d been doing that.

“Liar,” said the skull, once more. I glared pointedly in the direction of the jar.

“Oh, all right, then,” I retorted, “tell me what I’m lying about. Enlighten me, Skull.”

“Besides always claiming to abide by the one biscuit at a time rule, you’re lying about what you feel for Lockwood,” the Skull drawled, “It’s sickening, I tell you. You’re going to wind up Ghost Touched, the lot of you, for all the time you spend smiling and blushing and staring at one another. I wish you’d just get it over with, telling him, so you stop with all your blasted sighing.”

“I don’t do that,” I retorted, even though I felt heat beginning to rise to my cheeks, “and what she said about— never mind. I don’t know why I’m entertaining this. I’ve got thicker skin than to let someone who I don’t even know do my head in.”

“Hold on,” Lockwood said, and honestly, for a moment, I’d forgotten he was there, “what’d she say to you? I can surely take it up with our client if she offended you. My patience with her is already rather thin, with her disrupting the investigation, and I prefer not to have my operatives face disrespect if I can help it.”

“Yes, tell him,” the Skull said, “tell him that she said you’re an unsightly troll and that’s why he isn’t interested in you.”

This was all becoming too much. I felt heat settle in the apples of my cheeks, much to my annoyance.

“That isn’t what she said at all,” I said, leaving out the added troll comment, “she didn’t say anything about my appearance. Why do you care about this, anyway?”

“Because I like watching you squirm. But you don’t deny the last bit, do you?”

“First of all, rude,” I said, “and second of all, no, I don’t. She phrased it differently than that, though.”

“Phrased what differently?” Lockwood said, and I ignored him.

“Right, right, she said;” the Skull cleared its nonexistent throat, warping its voice into a hideous falsetto, “and you? Why would he be interested in a troll like you?”

“No,” I said, “why are you so set on her calling me a troll? I think you’re the one who wants to call me a—”

“Lucy!” Lockwood cried, successfully getting my attention this time, and by now, the color in my cheeks had spread down to my neck, and I felt hot with embarrassment.

“Did she upset you in any way?” Lockwood said, “I noticed you were particularly cross in the kitchen, when we found her.”

“I was already cross,” I said, “you would be too if you found someone messing about during an active investigation.”

“Well, cross-er ,” Lockwood relented, “she called you a troll?”

I sighed. “No. That was something the skull added.”

“I was merely reading between the lines.”

“Shut up,” I said, nudging the bag containing the jar with my foot, “what she said isn’t important. I’m fine. I’m just frustrated that she managed to get under my skin.”

“Well,” Lockwood said, a half smile tugging at his lips, “for all intents and purposes, I think you’re lovely.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what face I was making in that instant, but I probably resembled a deer in the headlights. It was like something in my brain just completely stopped working as I stared at him, unsure of how to even begin to formulate a response. My heart was doing that familiar, funny thing it does whenever Lockwood is involved, but on a far greater scale than I was used to. My face was hot enough to fry an egg on, and I was surprised that steam wasn’t rising from my skin.

For someone as perfectly lovely as Lockwood to say that I could be described as the same word wasn’t something I really knew how to comprehend.

Surely, he was simply commenting on my abilities as an operative, or as a friend. He was probably just trying to make me feel better, which was strange, because not even I was sure what I was feeling. Whatever it was, it was extending dangerously beyond the realm of platonic that I tried hard to stay within when it came to Lockwood.

I wanted to say a retort of some kind, sharp and snappy; in an effort to deflect his confusing compliment with the banter I was more used to between the two of us, but instead, all that came out of my mouth was:

“What?”

“She commented on your appearance?” He said, as casually as if he was discussing the weather, “well, now, so am I, if I may.”

“She didn’t,” I said, stupidly.

“Oh,” Lockwood said, “well, I still stand by that statement regardless.”

I wasn’t sure what to do. Before he’d followed up with that bit, I was going to politely thank him for commenting on what had to be my abilities as an agent, but that had completely evaporated. He didn’t mean my skills. He meant me.

And everything imploded. It was like someone smashed the thin glass window between us, as my suppressed feelings, the ones I only ever entertained when I was alone, rushed in like an unblocked river. I denied it relentlessly, but every shared glance with Lockwood made my heart feel like it was twisting into the Windsor knots he wore his ties in. I’d long dismissed it as nerves when I was in the field, and as pure silliness when I was at Portland Row, because that was what it had to be.

There was no way he’d look at me like I was sunshine when I was standing in the kitchen the morning after a case, spreading jam on toast and dressed in my silly pink-and-yellow nightie. There was no way I’d catch him looking at me like I was precious and incredible when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, or that his caution and care for me was in any way different than his concern for George or Holly when we were in the field. I’d dismissed it as imagination, because it had to be. I was silly for all of it.

But he’d demolished all of that in a single blow, and with so few words that it was astonishing. I stared at him some more, at a complete loss for words, and an infuriating, mirthful glitter worked its way into his dark eyes.

“What?” I said, once more, my voice a little strangled, “you— you what?”

“I said I stand by—”

“No,” I interjected, “I heard you. I think. You think I’m pretty? That’s what you’re saying?”

A short chuckle. “Well, that’s usually what people mean when they call someone else ‘lovely,’ Luce.”

I was too stunned to formulate any kind of intelligent response, and it didn’t help that the skull was being suspiciously quiet.

“How long have you thought that?” I asked.

“Great question,” the skull said, “do you have any others just as silly?”

“Always,” Lockwood said, as if it were obvious, “I think I realized just how lovely you were when we went to the Fittes ball together. Blue really is your color, I think. But really, I’ve thought that about you since we met.”

I reached up unconsciously, to where the very same pendant he’d given to me that night rested just below where my collarbones met. I didn’t understand how he could say things like this so casually, like when he’d ever-so-nonchalantly told me he’d die for me beneath the department store during the Chelsea Outbreak. Now, it was this. A casual confession of attraction, said in the same unapologetic way.

He continued to stare at me, glimmering mirth and something dangerously close to affection in his eyes, and I knew.

“Have you… been flirting with me?”

He laughed at that. A merry, lovely sound. He stepped closer, just a few paces, and I had to bend my neck back a bit to look up at him.

“What do you think?”

I felt annoyance bubble in my chest. It joined with the other emotions I was feeling in an exhilarating concoction as I stared up at him with wild, incredulous eyes, and I finally allowed impulse to take over, because I couldn’t take itanymore.

“You’re an idiot, Lockwood,” I said.

Faster than even I could comprehend, and before I even knew what I was doing, I was grabbing the front of his greatcoat by the lapels, and in another quick motion, I was on my tiptoes, my lips molding against his.

He made a sound of surprise when our mouths met, and when he did, it seemed to break through the impulsive haze that had overtaken me. Mortification growing, because I’d just kissed my employer, I was about to pull back to apologize until I was blue in the face, but then his hands found my waist, and he was pulling me flush against his body, stopping any thoughts of doubt in their tracks.

My hands moved from the front of his coat to his chest, and then my arms were around his neck, and one of his hands was in my hair, drifting down so his palm could cup my face as he sighed against my lips.

He tasted like the Earl Grey tea he’d been drinking earlier, something that didn’t surprise me, but thrilled me nonetheless.

He pulled back for a mere second before diving back in, repeating the action a few more times before I felt his teeth graze my lower lip, sending sparks dancing down my spine, and I knew for a fact that the dam between us was breaking for him as well. He’d been craving this just as much as I had.

I made an unintentional sound against his mouth, a soft, breathy gasp, and I could feel him moving, crowding me against the wall not far behind me. The kiss grew fierce and unrestrained and passionate, turning into the kind of kiss that came from an endless amount of pining; the kind where you couldn’t help yourself anymore. My mind was full of something similar to Ghost Fog, only far more pleasant.

It felt good to kiss Lockwood, I realized. It was fulfilling a need I didn’t even know was there, or maybe one that I’d been ignoring. I didn’t particularly care which it was at this point, and from the way Lockwood’s hands slid down my body to slip under my coat, resting comfortably in the bend of my waist, he didn’t care, either.

My hands rose to tangle in his hair, and I felt electricity buzzing in my blood at the soft sound he made against my mouth as my fingers combed through thick dark locks, nails gently scraping his scalp. His hands slid further down my body to rest on my hips, long fingers bunching in the fabric of my skirt before drifting upwards once more and slipping under the bottom hem of my sweater. The feel of his palms against my bare skin drew a sudden gasp, sending my head spinning off into outer space. One of my hands slipped from his hair to the back of his neck, then sliding down to wrap around his tie, fingers catching in the knot, using it to tug him gently closer.

Slowly, reluctantly, Lockwood pulled back, enough to put a small gaps between our mouths, and I wanted to close the distance once more, but he spoke before I could do so.

“Were you jealous? Of Miss Quintrell?”

In response, I pulled him back into a kiss, which he allowed for a frenzied moment before gently pulling away.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, brain still wreathed in fog.

“So that’s a yes, then?”

The laugher in his voice made my blood boil, but a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I looked down, my eyes fixing on a fleck of salt that was stuck to Lockwood’s collar, debris from a salt bomb we’d set off during our tangle with the Visitors in the master bedroom. I moved my hand from where it remained on his tie, flicking the granule away with my thumb.

Lockwood’s hand found my face, cradling my jaw, an action that seemed almost forbidden when coupled with the unfamiliarity of it, and I unconsciously leaned into his touch.

“Luce, please. Tell me, did she upset you?”

“It’s stupid, really,” I said, “she just said I didn’t have the guts to go after a boy I fancied, and that she did.“

Smug satisfaction settled on Lockwood’s face. “So you fancy me?”

I stared at him. “Obviously. Why do you think I spent the last few minutes snogging you? That’s a usual activity between people who fancy one another. She also implied I wasn’t very pretty, but I don’t particularly care about that. Prettiness has never been my profession.”

He ignored the former part of my statement, brow furrowing. “Who ever told you that you’re not beautiful, Lucy? And who taught you that rubbish?”

I shrugged, indifferent. “My mother.”

Lockwood made a displeased face. “I reckon I’m going to have to have a serious talk with your mother.”

That one sentence alone sent butterflies swarming my stomach, but the mental image of Lockwood facing off against my mother was enough to make me smile, my heart glowing with warmth.

“Before you do that,” I said, “do me a favor?”

Lockwood smiled lopsidedly. “Yeah? And what would that be?”

“Kiss me again.”

And he did. It was softer this time, with less of the frantic energy from before, now that the mutual affection we had for each other was firmly established. There was no Madeline Quintrell now, just Lockwood and me, in each other’s arms. We were so wrapped up in each other that we didn’t hear the door opening.

“I finished the sweep of the upper floor— Oh!”

It was Holly. Lockwood and I broke apart quickly, and I realized how compromising our position was. I was still backed against the wall, lips kiss swollen, and Lockwood’s usually neat hair was in disarray, even though he still somehow made it seem intentional and elegant. It was clear what we’d been doing.

Lockwood and I looked at each other, identical deer-in-the-headlights expressions adorning our faces, and I turned my head to look at Holly.

As she took in the scene, I watched as a slow smile spread across her lips, broadening to a grin, before she turned halfway to the door behind her.

“George! You and Kipps owe me twenty quid! Each!”

“What?!” Came George’s muffled voice, “why?!”

Holly looked at us and then back to the door, giving us a knowing smile before turning and walking away.

“You know why!” I heard her say as she closed the door behind her.

“Did they bet on us?” I asked, astonished, and Lockwood chuckled.

“Seems so. I wasn’t exactly subtle with the flirting, I’m surprised it took you as long as it has to realize what I was doing. I suppose they caught on before you did.”

That was embarrassing. I felt my cheeks warm again.

“Yeah, well, excuse me for that,” I said dryly, “I’m not exactly used to being flirted with, especially when someone like you is doing the flirting.”

Lockwood looked at me quizzically. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I laughed, astonished. “You mean— Lockwood, you’d have to be completely thick not to realize how attractive you are. You’ve surely seen the effect you have on girls— Madeline Quintrell is a testament to that.”

I was surprised I was able to be as blasé about that as I was, but snogging the life out of someone kind of gets rid of the need to beat around the bush, I think.

“I’m aware I’m charismatic,” Lockwood said, stepping away from me, but remaining close, “I know how to talk to people and tell them what they want to hear. I’m also aware that I’m what’s considered to be conventionally attractive, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t see what that has to do with me finding you to be lovely.”

I combed my hand through my hair, patting it down, and straightening my clothing.

“You’re sort of out of my league,” I said, “that’s what I mean.”

Lockwood smoothed his hair back into place, straightening his tie.

“Nonsense,” he said, “if anything, you’re out of my league. I don’t deserve you, Lucy. London doesn’t deserve a girl as wonderful as you.”

And that was where he ended the conversation, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of my nose, and sending my emotions into a tailspin once more. Thoroughly flustered, I reached down and pulled my backpack onto my shoulders. Lockwood and I finished sweeping the lower floor with minimal chatter, bathed in a comfortable silence as his hand rested on the small of my back.

After we’d finished, we met the others in the kitchen, where Holly was smiling like the cat that got the cream, and George looked like someone who had just lost twenty quid. He quickly busied himself with calling a night cab, ignoring us.

We’d booked a hotel in the nearby village in advance since the trains back to London wouldn’t be running again until morning. I was to be rooming with Holly, which wasn’t a problem, I was used to doing so when cases took us away from London for a few days. What was a problem, however, was the way she was looking at me like she wanted to wring me out for information every time I caught her eye. It also wasn’t helpful that the skull kept bemoaning about baring witness to Lockwood and me in the living room back at Bancroft Hall.

“If I weren’t already dead, I’d carve out my own eyeballs and die again. Disgusting.”

I decided that was enough of that, and turned the tap closed for the night.

I took a shower and tucked into bed after that, and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

All of us were so tired that we didn’t particularly care for conversation as we packed our things and boarded the train back to London. I fell asleep in our train compartment, and only woke when George shook me awake. Lockwood kept stealing looks at me, giving me smiles that made my stomach do backflips, and I could think of nothing but what had happened the night before in the living room of Bancroft Hall. I hoped it wasn’t a one-off thing, and that Lockwood’s attraction was more than just attraction, as mine was for him.

I’d dismissed it as a silly crush at first, and tried to push it down until it faded out, like crushes tend to do. I thought my stint away from the company after the Chelsea Outbreak would remedy that somewhat, but if anything, it just made it stronger. It reached a boiling point when I actually rejoined, and by then, I realized that my feelings for Lockwood were very much not platonic, like I’d been insisting to myself. I’d just been the last to realize it.

I’d have to get the outsider’s perspective from Holly, since the last thing I wanted to do was talk about boys with George, but I was still a little too mortified to look her in the eye after she’d walked in on us. Good thing she’d split from us upon our return to Portland Row, undoubtedly on her way to her apartment to see Dalia.

George started on a late breakfast after dropping his things in his room, and I retreated to my own as well. I figured I’d have a nap a bit later, after I’d eaten.

I didn’t even hear Lockwood come upstairs, and I didn’t even notice he was there until he cleared his throat. I jumped so hard I almost tripped over my discarded boots.

“Blimey,” I said, “knock next time.”

He smiled. “Sorry. I wanted to talk to you.”

I looked at him warily, crossing my arms. “Alright. I’m listening.”

“What happened last night,” he started, and I tensed, waiting for what he said next. I was waiting for him to say that it couldn’t happen again, or that it was a mistake, but instead, he said, “I meant every word of what I said to you.”

I blinked, a little owlishly. “You did?”

He stepped closer, and I did as well, tentatively. “I fancy you, Lucy Carlyle,” he said, and I felt my heart stutter in my chest, “would you…”

Would you believe it? He was blushing. I’d never seen him blush before, and it was even more obvious because of how pale he was. It was one of the most endearing things I’d ever seen.

“Would I what?” I asked, voice quiet; expectant.

“Would you like to have dinner with me? Just the two of us, obviously. I know the head chef at a restaurant in Kensington, he owes me a favor. If you’d accompany me, I’d be honored.”

I was smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “Yeah,” I said, “I mean, yes. I’d love to have dinner with you, Lockwood.”

He swallowed, sighing, then broke into a smile. “I’d like to take you to so many more places, Lucy. It would make me very happy to be yours.”

I stepped closer, taking his hands in mine, squeezing. My stomach was aflutter with butterflies and ladybirds and every other thing that flies. I wasn’t used to this, but that didn’t mean I didn’t like it. It thrilled me and terrified me all at once. It was incredible.

“And I would be happy to have you,” I replied, raising my head to look at him. His hand slipped from mine to cradle my jaw.

“You really are so lovely,” he whispered, nothing but affection in his dark eyes.

And he leaned down to kiss me, a smile still on his lips. It was perfect.

And, for the record, so was that dinner.

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