“No,” she said, confirming his silent supposition. She stroked his jaw, the sweetly, soothing gesture brought his lids closed, feeding a hunger he’d not realized he’d had for a warm, gentle touch. This touch. Eloise’s touch. “I am lonely.” Her wrenching admission brought his eyes open. “Yet even in my loneliness, I crave more than that empty meeting of two people.”
He knew that same loneliness. Had known it since he returned from the Continent to confront a life in which the only person who’d sustained him through countless battles, was dead and gone, and with her, the son he’d never known. Only in this moment, with Eloise here, for the first time, he didn’t feel alone. Lucien knew better than to ask dangerous questions that would only yield more dangerous answers. “What do you crave?” And yet, the question came anyway.
A wistful smile hovered on her lips. “You still don’t know, do you?” she said, a quiet awe underscoring that question.
He stiffened.
She shook her head. “You never really saw me, did you?”
A blinding panic built inside his chest as he sought for words to stop the flow of the admission on her lips.
“You never realized that I loved you.”
Oh, God.
He staggered away from her. His heart thumped loudly, deafeningly in his ears, drowning out logic and reason and leaving him with a numbing dread to the implications of Eloise’s declaration.
She stepped away from the door, and advanced toward him. And God help him, he’d have chosen to face down Boney himself again and all his armies on the fields of battle than this young woman who’d have him reenter a world he no longer belonged in. “I don’t expect those words from you, Lucien,” she said pragmatically. “I know your heart was and forever will belong to Sara, but I wished I’d told you, even as I would have humbled myself at the feet of a man who loved another, because then mayhap when you returned from battle and found your wife and child gone, you’d have known there was another who desperately loved you and ached to help you resume living.”
“Stop.” The plea tore from him, desperate and hoarse. He didn’t want to imagine a world with Eloise silently loving him and him having so callously forgotten her. He was shamed by the wrongs he’d committed in dismissing her from his life.
Eloise proved more relentless than Wellington’s soldiers at Waterloo, continued walking and stopped when the tips of their feet brushed. “And I know what happens from here, you’ll forever resent me for it, but know I did everything I did for that love of you.” She inclined her head. “Now, I really must see the marchioness.”
He managed a jerky nod, even as her words confounded him. He focused on the overwhelming relief of the pardon and he spun on his heel. He didn’t wait to see if she followed, knowing from the soft tread of her satin-slippered feet that she followed him from the parlor and trailed behind at a sedate, respectable pace. Lucien was never more grateful to step foot into another parlor. He cleared his throat. “The Countess of Sherborne,” he said coolly.
The marchioness seated at the windowseat with a book on her lap, glanced up. She smiled and moved her gaze between him and Eloise. Never more had he resented his new post in the marquess’ household, being made an object of scrutiny to Eloise. If he were still the viscount’s son, he would have wheeled around and left. Instead of this pained, prolonged moment of waiting to be dismissed.
“That will be all, Jones,” the marchioness said, politely inclining her head.
Lucien gritted his teeth. He should be glad to be well-rid of Eloise and the memories she represented. Yet, what was this niggling deep inside to remain precisely where he was and damn the marchioness’ orders to the Devil?
What in the hell?
Eloise stepped into the room, her impossibly large eyes trained on him and as he took his leave, he rather thought fighting down those bloody Frenchmen on the field of battle would be preferable to facing these two determined women.
Chapter 10
Eloise stared at the door Lucien had just fled through. He may as well have been a stranger to her now, with a gaping hole in the years of their friendship, but she well knew the look of horror she’d roused in his eyes with her admission. Hurt and fury warred for supremacy with outrage ultimately triumphing. How dare he treat her as though she were nothing more than a stranger? Why, if he returned, by God she’d clout him upon his head.
“Would you care to sit?” Emmaline questioned softly.
She jumped and flushed, turning her attention to the oft-smiling marchioness. “Uh, yes, thank you.” The woman eyed her with a knowing gleam in her kindly eyes. Eloise claimed a seat on the powder blue sofa, reminded once more of the horrible person she herself was because of the niggling resentment that settled in her heart. The marchioness’ presence had pulled Lucien back from the pit of despair…when Eloise hadn’t been even a memory he’d carried.
She ran her fingers over the rose etched in the blue upholstery, the pale hue putting her in mind of that sky she and Lucien had once gazed at. Eloise picked her gaze up and found Emmaline patiently waiting. She forced her fingers to cease their distracted movement “I do not know if you remember what I’d mentioned several days ago.” She looked to the doorway, ascertaining he was truly gone and then shifted her attention to Emmaline. “About Lucien…Lieutenant Jonas…Jones,” she corrected a third time.
Emmaline glided over. Her sapphire blue skirts rustled as she claimed the spot beside Eloise. “I remember any number of things you shared with me.” She waited and gave an encouraging nod.
“About…” Aware of a sudden of the volume of her voice, Eloise spoke in a hushed whisper. “Lieu…oh bother, would you be horribly scandalized and outraged if I were simply to refer to him by his Christian name?” she asked, never one to prevaricate.
A little laugh escaped the other woman. “Not at all. I imagine having been acquainted as children you are entitled that freedom.”
“Yes, I suppose you are indeed correct.” Eloise liked the marchioness more and more. And with every word to leave her lips, Emmaline chipped away at the unfair jealousy she’d carried since learning of Lucien’s relationship with the lovely woman. “I had mentioned that a familial matter brought me here.” Which was largely true, but not totally true. Her love had driven her search and determined effort to find him. She drew in a slow breath and tried to dredge up the words.
How could she try and force his hand in this manner? She looked down at a wrinkle in her skirts that traversed a path from her upper thigh to her knee. Nor was Lucien’s story hers to tell.
“What is it?” Emmaline encouraged quietly.
“His father is ill,” she said finally, settling for the simplest truth. “The viscount—”
Emmaline’s eyes formed moons in her face. “The viscount?”
“I believed you knew.” Guilt twisted even greater at unwittingly betraying his secret. “His father is a viscount.”
The marchioness sat back in her chair, flummoxed. She shook her head. “I assure you, we did not.” By the troubled glimmer in the marchioness’ kind, brown eyes, Eloise suspected Lucien would have never been given his current post had that truth been known. Steward to the marquess, perhaps. But never, butler.
She bit the inside of her cheek. Oh God, he would never forgive her. But worse, if he did not journey to Kent once more and have his parting with his father, he’d never forgive himself. This betrayal of sorts was an attempt on her part to put to rights his broken family. Coming here, to this household had never been about Eloise or the dream of more with Lucien. It had only been about him. “His father is dying.” Pain suffused her heart at the reminder that the viscount, the garrulous, smiling man she’d known since she was a child, was nearing the end of his days.
Emmaline pressed her hands against her cheeks. “Oh.” That single syllable utterance conveyed all the depth of painful emotion known by a woman who’d also known loss. It was not, however, Eloise’s place to delve into the loss she herself had known.
/> They spoke simultaneously.
“He must go see him.”
“He will not go see him.”
Their words ran together, and perhaps it was the jumbled confusion of their blended voices or perhaps it was shock at Eloise’s words, but the marchioness widened her eyes and said, “Beg your pardon?”
She treaded carefully, seeking to divulge only the details she must. Though no matter what paper and ribbon were selected to dress it up, a betrayal was a betrayal. “It is not my place to share Lucien’s history, but strife between them came when the viscount insisted on his youngest son,” she paused remembering belatedly this woman, for all she did know of Lucien, didn’t know all the parts of his life, the way Eloise did. “Lucien wanted to join the clergy. His father insisted he follow the drum.” She moved her attention away from the other woman and her gaze collided with an urn filled with flowers.
“What happened?”
Those cheerful, delicate blooms served as a mark of cheer upon Eloise’s dark thoughts. The white daisies within the arrangement beckoned, and she stood and wandered over. She leaned down and inhaled the sweet, fragrant scent that transported her to fields of spring flowers.
I am quite cross with you, Lucien. You were to help me pick flowers and… And that was the last he’d ever picked a flower with her. Or walked with her. Or teased her. “He fell in love,” her voice, the faintest whisper. She straightened, glancing over her shoulder at Emmaline.
The marchioness stared at her with wide, tragic eyes. “Oh, Eloise.” She gave her a sad smile. “You love him.”
Tears filled her eyes and she blinked back the useless tears of weakness. Emmaline’s words merely served to bring her to the purpose in coordinating their first meeting and coming here this day. “He is quite obstinate.”
“Indeed he is.”
“He’ll not come merely because I ask it, or because he should.”
Understanding dawned in the other woman’s brown eyes. “Ahh.”
Eloise hurried over, her skirts snapping wildly at her ankles. “He will not listen to me.” She sank into the seat beside Emmaline. At one time he would have. No longer. “If you reasoned him out of London Hospital, my lady, then you can convince him to make this journey with me.”
Emmaline said nothing for a very long while and Eloise suspected she didn’t intend to help, thought she might gently, but politely, beg to not interfere in personal matters that did not belong to her. But then, she nodded slowly. “I imagine if I cannot see he makes this important journey, my husband will.”
Her eyes slid closed on a wave of gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” she said dryly. “I’ve not accomplished anything yet. And knowing your Mr. Jones as I do, if he does not wish to make this journey, well then it will not be an easy task for either me or my husband to accomplish.”
Eloise opened her eyes and looked to Emmaline. She shifted under the weight of the marchioness’ scrutiny.
Then Emmaline asked, “How long have you loved him?”
“All of my life,” she said softly, remembering back to the day she’d first met Lucien and his brothers. Her father and the viscount, owners of property in the same county, had been fast friends from their youth. A wistful smile tugged at her lips. “Well, not my whole life. We were, however, children when we first met.” The hard, angry frown an adult Lucien had turned on her moments ago bore traces of the child’s frown he’d worn at their first meeting. “His father gave him the task of playing with me.” Her lips pulled in remembrance of that long ago day; the fire in his gray-blue eyes, the tight set to his angry mouth. “Needless to say, he resented being made to play with a small girl.”
Curiosity lit the other woman’s eyes. “What did you do?”
She grinned. “I punched him.”
Emmaline’s laughter echoed off the high-ceilings and plastered walls. “I imagine that did not earn you a friend in Mr. Jones.”
“Oh, no, you’re wrong, my lady.” Eloise shook her head. “He accused me of punching like a lady and took it upon himself to instruct me on the proper way to plant one a facer.” From that point, he’d become her best friend—whether he wanted her friendship or not. Then, he’d welcomed her friendship. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried the flesh. Now was an altogether different tale.
The marchioness placed a hand on Eloise’s and she started. The woman held her stare and then said, “I visited Jones for several years…and upon each of my visits, he never opened his eyes. He would sit with his face directed at the window, but his eyes closed. I despaired of ever seeing them. I sometimes wondered if he were incapable of opening them…and yet, one day, he just…” Her expression grew far-off. “He just opened his eyes,” she repeated. “I believe he will open them once more, Eloise. I truly do.”
Not after this. Not after her great interference in his contented life. “Thank you, my lady,” she said, not able to contradict the erroneous claim.
“Emmaline,” the woman graciously reminded her.
“Emmaline,” she murmured. And as Eloise took her leave a short while later, she felt the first stirrings of hope.
Chapter 11
Lucien stared at the Marquess of Drake’s closed office door. He’d been summoned. And he rather suspected he very well knew what this particular meeting was about—the steward’s position in the country.
His mind had shied away from anything and everything that reminded him of Sara. The wife he’d loved and the happy life he’d imagined for them, belonged in the past. Yet, the post dangled responsibility in the respected position using his mind for business matters, a task he’d enjoyed once upon a lifetime ago, before he’d killed too many men on the fields of battle. Accepting the position would also mean he’d be free of Eloise, who’d inserted herself so effortlessly, so seamlessly, into his life. Eloise who, with her kiss and words of love, made him hunger for…more.
He raised his hand to knock. Then froze.
If he accepted the position, he’d never see her again. There would be little chance or need of the Countess of Sherborne to visit the marquess’ country landholdings in Leeds. By all rights, that very truth should have easily sealed his decision. He closed his eyes tight. But by God, now that she’d reentered his life, he could not imagine a world in which she was no longer in it.
Lucien squared his jaw. And yet that great sacrifice would maintain the walls he’d erected about his heart, to keep him safe. He rapped once.
“Enter,” the marquess’ deep baritone carried through the thick panel.
Lucien pressed the handle and entered. “Captain,” he greeted. “You wanted to see me?”
The other man looked up, something, an emotion very nearly pity and regret flashed in his eyes. “Yes, come in,” he said quietly, motioning him forward. “Please, close the door.”
Lucien hesitated a moment, the first stirrings of unease traversed a path along his spine. He closed the door and it clicked shut. He turned to face his employer and a sudden, horrifying niggling entered his thoughts. Did the marquess know Lucien had kissed Eloise, the marchioness’ guest not once, but twice and very nearly a third time this afternoon when she’d arrived? His neck heated with shame and he resisted the urge to tug at his suddenly too-tight cravat.
Lord Drake shoved back his chair. Wordlessly, he crossed around his desk and walked with purposeful strides to the sideboard in the corner. He picked up a decanter of whiskey and pulled off the stopper. “Would you care for a drink?” He splashed several fingersful into a glass.
“No, thank you, Captain,” he said.
The marquess was a man of honor. A gentleman who’d not tolerate his servants, even if they had served under him on the battlefields, to go about kissing his wife’s company. His stomach muscles clenched involuntarily at the horrifying prospect of losing his post. After years of living in a depressed state and resisting the urge to kill himself, he’d found purpose. He couldn’t lose this stability.
&nb
sp; “As you’re aware, Lady Sherborne visited with my wife this afternoon.”
The pressure built inside his chest. He nodded slowly. “I’m aware of that, Captain,” he said cautiously.
The marquess carried his glass over to his desk and propped his hip against the edge. “Why, don’t you sit, Jones?” He waved his glass, motioning to the leather winged back chair at the foot of his desk.
Lucien hesitated and then with wooden movements, crossed over and took the proffered seat. Nausea churned in his belly. Since he’d fled Kent, thin, haggard and broken, he’d handled himself with an unflappable composure. Or he had. Until that blasted momentary loss of sanity in his employer’s foyer just a short while ago. With his lone hand, he tightly gripped the arm of his chair.
Lord Drake swirled the contents of his glass and then took a sip. “The Viscount Hereford is your father,” he said without preamble.
Lucien blinked. “Captain?” The question emerged haltingly as he tried to piece together not only the marquess’ discovery but also his interest in Lucien’s origins.
The other man took another sip and then set his glass down beside him with a soft thunk. “Surely you didn’t believe that I believed with your bought commission of lieutenant that you were not of some means.”
He narrowed his eyes. By God this was not about his kissing Eloise until she was pliant in his arms.
… I know what happens from here, you’ll forever resent me for it, but know I did everything I did for that love of you…
“I’m not of some means,” he said coolly. By God…Eloise! A slow, seething rage fanned out. He balled his hand into a fist. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“Very well, then you didn’t believe you came from means? It’s the same, though isn’t it, Jones?” he said pragmatically.
“It isn’t.”
“It is not my right to pry into your past.”
Then don’t. Lucien snapped his teeth together hard, gritting them to keep from hurling those disrespectful words at the man, who with his wife, had breathed life into him once again.
Seduced by a Lady's Heart Page 8
