Seduced by a Lady's Heart

by Christi Caldwell

  The innkeeper pressed the door handle and motioned them inside.

  And now a bed. His gaze fixed on the wide, surprisingly tidy, feathered bed with crisp, white linens and a floral coverlet.

  Eloise removed her hand from his sleeve and entered the chambers. She walked a small circle about the room, taking it in silently. Then, she favored the innkeeper with a smile. “Thank you, Mr…?”

  “Rooney,” he supplied quickly. His cheeks turned pink and he eyed her with a mooncalf expression.

  “Mr. Rooney.” She widened her smile. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  Did the older man sigh?

  Lucien balled his hand into a fist, detesting her impact on men. When did little Eloise learn to smile like…like…that? As though a man was the only one in the room. A seductive smile that reminded him very clearly that she might still possess the cheeky smile and tenacious spirit but was no longer a girl. Had one of those scoundrels vying for a place in her bed schooled her on such lessons? “That will be all,” he snapped.

  Mr. Rooney jumped and, with an incoherent mutter, tripped over his own feet in his haste to take his leave.

  Eloise’s smile faded and it was like a cloud had blotted out the sun. “I do not like this side of you, Lucien,” she said, as though she were scolding a child.

  He took a step toward her. “And which side is that, Eloise?” he said on a lethal whisper.

  She retreated. “The angry one.” She slashed the air with a hand. “The gentleman who now speaks like…like…”

  He advanced. “Like what?”

  “Like a man who was not raised as though he’s a viscount’s son.”

  Lucien paused before her. Their knees brushed. “And it matters so much to you that I’m no longer that viscount’s son?”

  Eloise craned her head back to look at him. “You will always be the viscount’s son. You may take on the position of stable hand, footman, or butler but you will always be a gentleman.”

  He wanted to spit scathing words at her. Taunt her for daring to believe he could ever be Mr. Lucien Jonas, the third son of an affluent viscount. End whatever foolish pull that existed between them.

  Only…he took a step away. He turned and stared blankly at the window. For five years, the ultimate revenge, the only revenge, he’d had against his father, insistent on that commission, was Lucien’s rejection of his family. He’d returned from war and turned his back on his family, his lineage, and the role of gentleman. Not realizing until this very moment with Eloise’s words that his was a hollow victory. The work he’d taken on, though honorable and sure to infuriate his father, would never bring Sara back.

  Lucien called forth her face. He squeezed his eyes tight and tried to draw in an image he’d carried in his heart and mind for almost six years, a visage that wouldn’t come. Instead, tightly coiled, blonde curls, a blue-green stare, and a slender frame flooded his mind.

  Eloise touched his shoulder.

  He jumped. His heart thumped hard and fast in his chest as panic besieged his senses.

  “What is it, Lucien?” Her husky voice wrapped around those four words.

  Lucien shook his head and started for the door.

  A rustle of skirts and the soft shuffle of slippered feet filled the quiet space. Eloise placed herself between him and the door, blocking his escape. “No.” He took a step right. She matched his step. “I said no. You don’t simply get to run away.” Again.

  “Is that what you believe I’ve done?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

  “You don’t know a bloody thing about it.” He strode around her.

  “For someone who is a friend, you certainly have a low opinion of me,” she called out, staying his hand. “You consider me weak. You believe I don’t know the first thing to Sunday about struggle. You believe I haven’t faced tragedy and why?” Her voice hitched. “Because I didn’t go off to fight a war, Lucien? I lost, too, in life.”

  Her words had the same effect as a lance being driven through his heart and the muscles of his stomach contracted under the weight of her admission. She spoke, clearly interpreting his tense silence for condemnation. “But if I allow myself to dwell on the unfairness of it all, it would drown me and I deserve more.”

  She did. She deserved so much more.

  “And you deserve more, too,” she finished, her words so faint he strained to hear.

  Lucien focused on the ping of rain slapping the leaded windowpane and the creak of the floorboards as Eloise shifted on her feet. Those innocuous sounds prevented him from thinking about his own loss, but on everything she’d suffered, all the loss she’d known. Agony turned in his belly and he nearly cracked under the weight of that pain. The girl Eloise had been and the woman she’d become deserved more than a tragic, empty, lonely existence. That fate was reserved for cold-hearted bastards who did things in the name of battle and were consigned to hell for those sins—men like Lucien and so many others. But not Ellie. Ellie was good and pure and worthy in ways he never would be.

  “I have to go,” he said, his voice hoarse. Without a backward glance, he left.

  Chapter 17

  Eloise stared at the untouched tray of food brought up earlier that evening by a pretty, blonde serving woman. Not her husband. Or at least her pretend husband, anyway.

  No, Lucien had hightailed it out of their room and disappeared. The moments had ticked by. The storm eventually broke with the faintest traces of sunlight slanting through the gray, storm clouds. Eventually, the night sky drove back all hint of day…and he still did not come.

  She lay down and looked up at the plaster ceiling. Faint chips marred the paint. With a sigh, Eloise flung her forearm over her brow, blotting out her view of the depressing ceiling. And why should he return? One, she was not his wife and he protected both his position with the marquess and her reputation lest he share her room and word of that reached others. Two, he resented her for interfering in his familial relationships. She turned onto her side and stared out at the night sky. Three, he no longer liked her. Her lips twisted. Oh, he liked her enough to kiss her to silence as he was now wont to do, but a kiss borne of annoyance was not love. It wasn’t even a polite regard.

  Eloise chewed at her lower lip. And he would like her a good deal less if he discovered she’d failed Sara. What would he think of Eloise then?

  Lucien was a man who loved with a grand depth but was also given to other emotions with a like intensity. The antipathy he carried for his father, the resentment he bore for his brothers, her… She swallowed past a ball of emotion clogging her throat. It was an inevitability. He’d ultimately learn the truth and Lucien, that man of great passions, would never be able to separate her from that heartbreaking loss he’d suffered.

  Eloise would slice off her littlest fingers if she could have him see her as more than little Ellie Gage. But in having spent those final, sorrowful days with the one and only woman who would ever truly hold his heart, nothing more could ever come of her and Lucien. And likely now, not even a friendship. In her, he would forever see the woman who failed to save his wife and child, and be forever reminded of that loss.

  Eloise blinked back the useless tears that blurred her vision. She grabbed the coverlet and dabbed at the corners of her eyes where the blasted drops had squeezed out.

  The click of the door handle blared like the flare of a pistol. She froze. The door closed once more and then the click of a lock. In the time she’d spent with Lucien since she’d found him in London, she’d already come to identity the stealthy, graceful steps of one so tall. He strode over to the bed and she pressed her eyes closed feigning sleep. She drew in slow, even breaths.

  Lucien froze at the edge of the bed and remained rooted to the spot. He stood so long that Eloise’s body ached from holding herself immobile under his scrutiny. She remembered to maintain a slow, even cadence of her breathing. Seconds? Minutes? Hours later, the floor creaked in protest as he lay down. Eloise stared unblinking at t
he opposite side of the wall. He’d come.

  Granted, he intended to sleep on the cold floor without a blanket or pillow and—

  “I know you aren’t asleep, Ellie.”

  She jumped. Without a word, she grabbed the pillow beside her and dropped it over the edge of the bed, hitting him in the face. “Oomph.” She heaved the coverlet over the side of the bed. It landed with a thump on his chest.

  “You’re angry with me.”

  Eloise screwed up her mouth. She was angry that he was angry; at life, his family, her. She grabbed her own pillow and dropped it on his head.

  He sighed.

  She flipped back over onto her side, knowing she was being a petulant child, and really wished she hadn’t given over her own pillow as well. The lout.

  Lucien tossed the white, feathered pillow back onto the bed. It hit her in the cheek and bounced several inches, nearly falling off the bed. “Would you care to talk of it?”

  Now? Now he’d speak of it? She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reminding him that he’d dashed off, also like a petulant child. “There is nothing to say,” she said automatically.

  “Would you have me ruin your reputation?” he shot back. His tone hinted at annoyance over her dismissal.

  Eloise flipped back onto her side and leaned over the side of the bed. “I’m a world-wary widow, Lucien. I can’t be ruined.”

  “You know that’s not true,” he said, shoving himself up onto his elbow. “You’re susceptible to gossip, my lady.”

  Her gaze was involuntarily drawn to the empty space his arm had once been. Odd, he moved with such grace, elegance, and confidence that she often forgot he’d lost one of those precious limbs. Eloise sat up. She drew her knees close to her chest and folded her arms about her legs. “I have loved you longer than I remember, Lucien, and yet, for all the years I’ve known you, you’ve always infuriated me. You are stubborn and obstinate—”

  “They mean the same thing,” he pointed out unnecessarily.

  “But you never pushed anyone away, until you returned…” From the war. She let the thought go unfinished. She knew nothing of war or what men were forced to do or be on those battlefields but imagined those experiences were indelibly burned on each soldier’s memory. “Until you returned,” she repeated softly, to herself. Perhaps the demons he now hid from were not her, the viscount, his brothers, not even Sara. Perhaps he hid from the life he’d lived while away from them all. She rubbed her chin back and forth over the tops of her knees. “Have you missed them?”

  He sat up and mimicked her pose, drawing his knees against his chest. “Them?”

  Eloise pointed her eyes at the ceiling. “Do not pretend to misunderstand.” She inched closer to the side of the bed. “Your brothers.” She took care to omit mention of his father. “They’ve thought of you often.”

  “Have they?” he inquired, his tone non-committal.

  “There’s not been a time I’ve seen them when they’ve not mentioned your name.”

  The darkening of his eyes, however, indicated anything but regard for his loving, loyal brothers. “You’ve seen them often?” he asked gruffly.

  She nodded. “They were there when I made my Come Out.” She slid her gaze away. “And when my father died and then my husband.” They’d also been there to see her cared for after she’d fallen ill tending to Sara and his son. The finest physician had been sent at the viscount’s bequest, the original family doctor sacked after Sara succumbed to fever.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice, still scratchy as if from ill use, penetrated her thoughts.

  She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “It’s—”

  Lucien stood and claimed a spot on the edge of the bed. The feather mattress dipped under his weight. “For not being there,” he said. “I should have been there.”

  Their legs brushed and she glanced down at his thick, well-muscled leg pressed against her more delicate one. How very different this powerful, imposing man was than the boy of her youth. “Yes,” she whispered. “You should have been there.” Suddenly those words, a freeing admission gave her strength. “I do not begrudge you for loving Sara. But I was a friend to you and you simply forgot me.” His skin turned an ashen gray, but she’d not allow guilt to stifle the flow of her words. “I needed you, Lucien. You were my friend…and you would have chosen death over me?” If it hadn’t been for the marchioness, he would have. Eloise would be forever indebted to the other woman, but she’d always be hurt that she herself had meant so little to him.

  He caressed her cheek. “There are far too many things in my life I’ve done that I’m not proud of.” Lucien ran his gaze over her face. “But having turned away from you, when you needed me, that has to be one of my greatest offenses.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip, that simple touch scorching.

  And knowing these handful of days would be the last she ever had with him, Eloise leaned up and kissed him.

  He should pull back. He should turn his head, stride over to the door, yank it open, and find his sleep in the stables. There were a number of things Lucien should have done. Now…and in his miserable life on the whole.

  However, he’d developed an abysmal habit of doing the opposite of what he should.

  So, he kissed Eloise. Kissed her because the four kisses he’d known before this moment were not enough, nor would they ever be enough. He cupped his hand about the graceful arch of her neck so he could better avail himself to her mouth. She opened in invitation and he slid his tongue inside. Eloise moaned and he reveled in the sweet, vibrating hum of her desire. Lucien shifted his hand down, guided it about her waist, and lowered her down upon the soft, feather mattress.

  “So beautiful,” he whispered, trailing kisses from the corner of her lips, down her neck, and lower to the gape in her nightgown. Push me away.

  Eloise wrapped her hands about his neck, anchoring him in place. “Please don’t stop.” Her entreaty came out as a whispery moan, knowing his thoughts because this was Ellie and she’d always known what he was thinking, even when he himself did not. “I’ve spent my whole life loving you, Lucien. I want all of you.”

  There would be time enough for regrets and reasons and logic in the morn. For now, there was just the two of them. As he slipped off her modest robe and tugged her nightshift over her head, Lucien committed himself to memorizing every last inch of Eloise. He cupped her breast and raised it to his mouth.

  A sweet sigh escaped her as he closed his lips over the peak of her breast. He sucked and laved the engorged, pink tip until her breath grew rapid and her legs fell open in an invitation. He drew back and shrugged out of his jacket. His hand went to his breeches and he paused. With that prolonged stretch, he willed her to be the lone person of reason in this moment of madness.

  Eloise pushed herself up. “Here,” she murmured, her voice husky with desire. She worked his breeches off. He kicked them aside.

  A groan slipped past his lips as her clever fingers found his throbbing shaft. Eloise fisted him and tugged gently. “You will be the death of me,” he said on an agonized whisper.

  “I certainly hope not.” Her words ended on a moan as he guided her back down once more. He braced himself on his side and ran his hand down her body, his fingers seeking out her hot center, pausing at the thatch of golden curls. For a moment, reality reared its vicious head reminding him the woman he made love to was, in fact, Ellie Gage, now a countess and he a mere butler. Two people who could never share more than a past…

  She splayed her legs and bit her lip. “Please,” she begged.

  And he was lost. Lucien slipped a finger inside and found her passage slick with desire. She cried out and clenched her legs about his hand, encouraging him. He played with the slick, swollen nub at her center until keening, senseless moans of desire blended with her pleading cries for surcease.

  Lucien shifted his weight above her and parted her legs with his knee. Sweat dotted his forehead. A lone bead dripped into his eyes, blinding and he
blinked. He’d have gladly traded his vision for the glory of this moment. He guided his shaft to the apex of her thighs and then went still. Lucien took in Eloise’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

  Take her. You are two adults who know your bodies and minds. A pressure tightened inside his chest.

  I cannot. For all the ways in which he’d neglected Eloise as a friend through the years, he could not simply make hard and fast love to her. Could not, when she, as a lady and as a loyal woman, deserved more than a quick coupling with a man who’d never been worthy of her. If he did this, he would be no different than those roguish bastards who’d vied for a place in the young widow’s bed.

  Now knowing the same effort called forth by that Titan God, Atlas, with those celestial spheres, Lucien drew back, the agony of his decision a near physical pain. He rolled away from her and stared at the dreary paint-chipped ceiling. His breath came harsh and fast, blending with Eloise’s rapid gasps.

  The mattress dipped as she came up on her knees beside him. “Why…what…?” She ran her passion-clouded eyes frantically over his face, as if she searched for answers to account for his abrupt withdrawal.

  He flung his forearm over his eyes. “I’m s—”

  Eloise yanked his arm back with a stunning force. “Don’t you do that.” She glared. Her eyes, previously heavy with desire, now flashed rage. “I don’t want your apologies. I’m a woman, who knows my mind.”

  “You are a lady.”

  She jutted her chin out. “I am a widow.”

  Lucien sat up and flung his legs over the side of the bed. He captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “But you’re still a lady.” And he’d not disrespect her by taking her outside the bonds of matrimony. He imagined a wedded state with her. A small girl born to them with impossibly thick, tight, blonde curls. Marriage to Ellie? He choked on his swallow. Surely he could not, would not, ever dare consider marriage to Eloise. She was his friend. Then this desire for her defied all bonds of friendship.