In Bed With Lord Byron

said. ‘I’m utterly bored here. The conversation is all pure
cant
.’
    Murray gave him a faintly admonitory but affectionate smile, as though Byron’s short attention span was something he’d had to deal with on many an occasion.
    He’s coming with me? Oh shit! Oh wow. I’ve got him. I’ve got him.
    ‘I must just say goodbye to Keats,’ I said when we got to the door.
    ‘If you want to waste your time saying goodbye to that pathetic would-be poet, who frigs his imagination in piss-a-bed verse, then you can take another carriage home. I want to leave
now
.’
    I smiled prettily and went outside, though I couldn’t help feeling slightly upset on Keats’ behalf.
    As we got into the carriage, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so nervous in my entire life. It was like my first day at school, my first job interview and my first kiss all rolled into
one. My body was shaking; my palms were slippery with sweat; my breath was a hot fog. The carriage was dark, lined with a deep purplish silk, and was also incredibly small. Despite my attempts at
demureness, I found that my knees touched Byron’s as he slid in opposite me.
    ‘My man will drop me off first, then he’ll take you,’ said Byron.
    I nodded shakily, swallowing. I hadn’t a place to stay, but hey, I could worry about that later.
    The carriage set off. By God, it was rattly; I felt as though I was being shaken up in a beanbag. I’ll never complain about the Northern Line again, I thought.
    I waited for Byron to seduce me. To gaze at me longingly, to kiss my hand, to compose couplets for me. To my complete and utter outrage, he closed his eyes and, despite the frenetic bumping of
the carriage, appeared to fall asleep.
    I sat there working myself up into a fuming frenzy. For God’s sake, what was the matter with him? I mean, here I was, young and sexy and available. OK, I wasn’t Kate Moss, but come
on, it wasn’t as though Byron was fussy – he slept with his half-sister, for God’s sake!
    The carriage turned a corner. How far away was Byron’s house? What if I never saw him again after tonight; what if this was my one chance? Come on, Lucy, I shouted at myself,
think.
Do something. Something different. Something sexy. Something to make you stand out.
    It was then that I realised I was being pathetic. Here I was, smiling at him like some goofy teenage girl, draping myself over him like all the rest. No wonder he was bored. I had to be cool, I
had to be tough, I had to be the nineteenth-century equivalent of
Charlie’s Angels
.
    When inspiration struck, I acted before my nerves could get the better of me. Leaning forward, I slapped him sharply around the face.
    Byron woke up in shock.
    ‘Urgh?’
    I slapped him again, on the other cheek.
    ‘What in God’s name d’you think you’re doing?’
    ‘That,’ I said, ‘was for Caroline Lamb.’
    ‘You’re a friend of Caroline’s?’ Byron rubbed his cheek, his eyes thunderous.
    ‘No,’ I said, ‘not at all. I’m just slapping you on behalf of women everywhere, for the way you treat them so appallingly.’
    I glared at him – I didn’t have any trouble feigning anger – and he glared back. For a moment I was terrified that he was going to tip me out of the carriage. Then, to my
amazement, he suddenly burst into roars of laughter.
    ‘And who are you again?’ he asked.
    ‘Lady Lucy Lyon,’ I said.
    ‘I’ve never heard of you. Where are you from?’
    ‘None of your business,’ I retorted.
    A slow smile curled on Byron’s lips. The carriage continued to rattle. Byron stared at me.
    And stared.
    And stared.
    It was then that I understood the full force of his charisma. It was like being seared by a blowtorch.
    I fought the wild sensations in my body and stared back at him. It became like one of those silly games Anthony and I used to play where you compete to see who drops their eyes first.
    Then the carriage came to a halt.
    ‘Where are you staying tonight?’ he asked.
    ‘At – at an inn,’ I improvised. ‘I would appreciate your help in finding a suitable dwelling.’
Ask me in
, I begged him silently.
OK, I know I’m not
supposed to sleep with a guy on the first date but please just—
    ‘I suggest you stay at my friend Tom Moore’s house,’ said Byron, stepping out of the carriage. A blast of freezing night air came in, cooling the sweat on my forehead. ‘I
shall ask my footman to take you there. Moore will not refuse you.’ He paused and then took my hand and