Lucas hadn't screamed.
Not out loud, anyway.
But by the time he was eased into the back seat of the sleek black Fitzgeralt car, because, of course, it was sleek, black, and built like something that devoured lesser vehicles in parking lots, he was convinced his dignity had been left behind somewhere on the stairs.
The Marchioness slid in beside him with the grace of a woman half her age and twice his stubbornness, snapped her seatbelt into place, and tapped the privacy screen.
"Drive," she said to the front. Then, without missing a beat, she turned to Lucas and gave him a look so sharp it could've cut diamonds. "Smile, darling. Or at least stop grimacing like you've been shot."
Lucas adjusted the lapel of his coat. "This is kidnapping."
"This is character building."
"I have plenty of character," he muttered.
