Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  Eloise tried to smile. She tried to drum up suitable repartee and dialogue for the kind, warmhearted marchioness who’d been so gracious to invite her to visit when no one in Society really invited Eloise anywhere.

  She tried. She really did. But failed miserably. Quite miserably. Eloise accepted the proffered cup of tea, grateful for something to hold in her slightly trembling fingers. She raised the glass of tepid brew to her lips and sipped, all the while aware of the marchioness’ curious stare trained upon her. She took another sip.

  “I hope you know,” the marchioness began and Eloise froze, the rim of her delicate, porcelain glass pressed to her lips. “I would never dare press you for details that I don’t have a right to.”

  The muscles of her throat worked spasmodically. She managed a nod but feared if she spoke her gratitude the other woman would detect the tremor in her words.

  Emmaline held up the tray of pastries. “I have a shameful weakness for cherry tarts.”

  Eloise clung to the offered change of discourse and set her teacup down. “Then who doesn’t?” She plucked one of the confectionary treats from the tray and the other woman laid the small platter upon the marble top table.

  They shared a smile and sat in companionable silence for a long while, nibbling at their respective pastries.

  The marchioness was the first to break the silence. “Ours was not necessarily a chance meeting, was it?” There was no rebuke, no outraged shock in that question, sentiments the woman was entitled to.

  The dessert crumbled to ash in Eloise’s suddenly too-dry mouth. She choked around the bite and picked up her cup once more. She took a sip.

  Emmaline waited patiently. Then, according to what she’d learned of the woman who’d been betrothed as a child and waited nearly twenty years for her intended, the returned war hero Lord Drake, to come up to scratch—she was quite adept at waiting.

  Eloise sighed, humbled not for the first time. “No,” she admitted, shamed by the woman’s discovery. “I’m sorry.” How very inadequate that apology was for this woman who’d been nothing but kind, when most members of the ton were usually nothing but coolly polite to Eloise. She flicked her gaze over to the entrance of the room, but, of course, he would not be there. Lucien had responsibilities, of which she’d never been one. At the pain of that, she tightened her fingers around her glass.

  As though sensing her disquiet, Emmaline laid her fingers upon Eloise’s hand and she lightened her hold upon the fragile cup. “You needn’t apologize,” she assured her. “Truly.” She winked. “I imagine you’ve not coordinated a meeting with me based on nefarious purposes.”

  “Oh, no, indeed not. I….oh…” Heat splashed her cheeks at the teasing glimmer in Emmaline’s eyes. “You are teasing.”

  “Yes.” The other woman sat back in her seat. “As you’re likely aware, there are not enough opportunities for a good teasing.”

  “Oh, I’m aware,” she muttered under her breath. The moment she’d entered the glittering world of polite Society, she’d come to appreciate how staid, stiff, and generally unpleasant members of the peerage were, and most especially to young women like Eloise, who did not boast the most distinguished of familial connections.

  “Forgive me,” the marchioness murmured. “I’d pledged to not press you for answers and yet, here I am doing that very thing.”

  Eloise shook her head. “No, you aren’t.” She wrinkled her nose. Or perhaps the woman had inadvertently sought answers to questions of the man named Lucien Jonas, or as she knew him, Jones. “I didn’t feel you were,” she added, reassuringly.

  All the while she wondered with a dry humor what the pompous, always proper Viscount Hereford would say to the knowledge his son had altered his surname. That would likely be the final nail in the failing viscount’s steady decline.

  Which only reminded Eloise of the desperate search she’d launched for Lucien and the discovery that had led her to London Hospital. She stared down at her palms, transfixed by the crescent scar on the inner portion of the wrist, remembering the day she’d received that particular mark. Reluctantly, she raised her head. “You are correct. I…” Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I sought you out under information I’d gleaned from a servant in your employ.” She winced. Proud, powerful, noble Lucien had forsaken the life of comfort he’d known and, by the fury in his eyes at her reentry into his life, embraced this new life.

  Emmaline held a hand up. “You needn’t say anything more,” she said quietly.

  She braced for the stiff disapproval…that did not come.

  The marchioness trailed a distracted finger halfway around the rim of her cup and then back again. She repeated the movement several times, her gaze directed inward. Then she paused, her index finger on the center of the rim. “Do you know how I met Mr. Jones?”

  Her heart stuttered. “I do not,” she said between tense lips, both craving a piece of the missing years of his young life and fearing the words the woman might impart. The crisp, clean, yet lonely, London Hospital flashed behind her eyes. The broken, sorrowful men in their beds. The muscles in her stomach tightened with thoughts of Lucien as alone and somber as the Lieutenant-Captain.

  “He was a patient at London Hospital,” Emmaline finally said.

  She battled a momentary twinge of regret at the already known fact. Eloise cleared her throat and glanced guiltily over at the door, detesting gossip, but this was different. Wasn’t it? She turned her attention to the marchioness. “What was he like?” her voice emerged a hoarse croak. Please, say he was one of the charming, smiling sort like the soldier Emmaline had read to earlier yesterday afternoon.

  A sad light lit the woman’s pretty, brown eyes and the knot in Eloise’s belly grew. “He was…serious. Quiet.”

  Her heart spasmed. Of course he had been. He’d returned from war to discover his wife and his son, a child he’d never even met, dead and gone. Eloise clenched her eyes tightly. Would he blame her if he knew the truth? Would he see she’d failed Sara and Matthew and, in doing so, failed him? How could he not?

  “I do not know if you are aware of the losses he suff—”

  “I am aware,” she said, her voice rough with emotion. Eloise coughed into her hand. “Forgive me for interrupting.”

  Emmaline cocked her head and studied her. At the marchioness’ scrutiny, Eloise shifted in her seat. Only as the long-case clock ticked away the passage of silent moments, the resolve that had driven her these past six months stirred to life with a renewed vigor. She’d known when she ultimately found Lucien and presented the truth of his father’s circumstances, he’d likely flatly reject her request to return to Kent, to his family’s fold. Yet, she’d believed with every fiber of her being she could ultimately convince Lucien to see his father and brothers and again know a semblance of the peace—a peace they’d had before life had shown them the cruelties of existence.

  It was that resolve that allowed her to raise her head and meet Emmaline’s patient stare. “It is not my place to discuss the circumstances of Lucien…” She warmed. “Mr. Jona…Jones’, past. However, I have news of his family.” News he’d rather likely never care about hearing. “And I would not forgive myself if I somehow failed to bring him and his family together.” She knew that because she’d suffered too many losses where words had gone unfinished, pledges incomplete. Lucien might not believe he would ever move in a world with anything but anger and resentment for the father, who’d secured his commission, but the time would come…and he deserved that closure.

  Emmaline touched her palm to her mouth. “Oh, my,” she said softly.

  Yes, the loss of her husband had shown Eloise that there were never adequate words to capture an appropriate level of sympathy for death and impending death. Eloise longed to share the burden she’d carried these many years, but had been alone for so long, she oft forgot how to speak freely, and unfortunately with marriage to Colin, she’d been thrust into a society that did not value or welcome those honest, unfiltered w
ords.

  So, the secrets she’d carried, the same ones that haunted her dreams and days, remained firmly buried beneath the surface seen by none, suffered only by her.

  “Whatever you or…” Emmaline looked to the door. “Mr. Jones may require, you need but ask.”

  It was a gracious, sincere offer from an equally sincere woman. “Thank you,” she said. Though she could not impose upon the woman’s kindness more than she’d already done. Any other noblewoman would have had her tossed out for her clear orchestration of a meeting with their lead servant. Eloise finished her tea and set the cup down on the table. She came to her feet.

  Emmaline immediately followed suit. “You must promise to visit again.” A mischievous sparkle reflected in her eyes.

  Eloise widened her eyes with a sudden understanding. And for a moment, the two practically strangers, forged a bond as two ladies who according to what she’d gleaned from the gossip columns, both had known a similar unrequited regard. She gave a slight nod. “Thank you.” She paused. “For everything.”

  Emmaline inclined her head and with a final smile, Eloise started for the door and then froze. She spun back around.

  A question reflected in Emmaline’s eyes.

  “It…I…my visit to the hospital, it was not solely about…” She flushed. “Arranging a meeting with you.” She’d needed to see the place Lucien had called home for too long. She’d needed to know about his life after war and Sara and Matthew. And she’d hated the glimpse she’d had into his world. All those words went unspoken.

  “I know,” Emmaline said simply. She crossed over and rang the bell. “I could tell that with a single glance of you at London Hospital.”

  Eloise wrinkled her brow. “How—?” The words on her lips died as Lucien appeared.

  Emmaline smiled. “Jones, will you please escort Lady Sherborne out.” She held Eloise’s gaze. “Again, I look forward to your continued visit.”

  Chapter 5

  He always possessed powerful, long legs. Unfairly long, she’d always said as a girl. He’d always raced faster than her, an unfair advantage made all the greater by the skirts she’d donned as a small girl.

  Eloise grit her teeth, quickening her steps to keep up with the deuced pace he’d set for them. He stalked purposefully through the enormous townhouse. She drew to a stop and waited for him to note her absence.

  He turned right at the end of the corridor.

  Filled with annoyance at his high-handedness, she tapped the tip of her slipper on the thin, red carpet and folded her arms across her chest.

  Lucien came back around the corner, a thunderous expression on his face.

  At the menacing stare trained on her, a desire to flee this fierce, scowling stranger consumed her. Eloise dug her toes into the carpet, refusing to be cowed. This was Lucien. He continued, coming closer. The boy who’d taught her to bait her hooks and fly fish. Gone were all traces of the grinning person he’d been.

  He stopped with five feet of space between them. “My lady,” he bit out.

  Eloise searched for Lady Emmaline before realizing… “Are you referring to me?” she snapped.

  “What else would you have me call you, my lady?” She flinched at the coarse, clipped tones of his speech. Gone were the smooth, polished tones perfected by a nobleman’s son. “What?” he taunted. “Do you wonder what has happened to the fine gentleman you remember?”

  “Yes,” she said with a bluntness that momentarily froze him. She quirked an eyebrow. “Come, now? Surely you’d not believe I would not note this transformation in you.” A transformation she didn’t like but certainly understood. When life robbed you of innocence and introduced you to ugliness, you either retreated into yourself, or allowed it to destroy you. She’d retreated. Eloise passed a sad glance up and down his beloved frame. Lucien had been destroyed.

  She shook free the chill of that thought. No, she had to believe there was still…

  “I see the look in your eyes,” he spat. “I know what you are thinking.”

  “Do you?” she tossed back, not knowing where she found the courage to hurl a rejoinder at his harshly beautiful face.

  “You wonder what happened to me.” He continued as though she’d not spoken. “You see the boy of your youth. A viscount’s son.”

  She sucked in a breath. “That isn’t fair,” the child’s words tumbled from her lips, unheeded, unchecked. “I never cared about that, Lucien,” she said wounded by this charge. “It never mattered to me if you were…”

  “A nobleman or a servant,” he said, his lips curled up in a jeering smile.

  Ah, he saw her as a lady now. One who surely valued her new station and likely spurned the life he’d crafted as a servant. Then, he’d been gone many years now. He did not know she’d entered into a glittering world to which she’d never, nor would ever, truly belong. Wedding an earl didn’t make a young lady who’d not left the countryside until her eighteenth year a lady or hostess. It merely made her a countess. Eloise took a step. “Do you imagine I would judge you for being a servant?”

  His body stiffened at her question.

  She advanced toward him. Did he, too, have a desire to flee? Yet, the man she knew him to be possessed too much courage to leave. Eloise stopped with a mere hairsbreadth between them. She tilted her head back and looked up his impossibly tall, powerful form. “I was never that woman, Lucien. You may now spurn my presence here, but you know that. And you may be mean and angry and hurt, but you are no liar.” They stood so close she detected the slight, nearly imperceptible narrowing of his steel gray eyes.

  Had he always been this blasted terrifying? She swallowed hard and when he remained silent, she asked, “Did I say mean?”

  “You did.” The ghost of a smile played on his firm, sculpted lips.

  Or did she merely imagine the slight grin there? She tipped her chin up. “Because you are. Mean.” Hurling that ineffectual charge at him did not eliminate any of the unease around this new, harder version of the young man she remembered.

  “And angry,” he pointed out.

  It didn’t escape her notice that he’d omitted the very key word of hurt.

  “It seemed worth mentioning twice,” she said, her voice breathless with an awareness of him.

  His chest moved up and down in deep, rapid breaths and he slowly dropped his gaze to her mouth. Some emotion flashed in his eyes. Her heart pounded wildly. He desires me. Or were those merely her own yearnings? Then, Lucien moved his eyes lower and he settled his stare upon her décolletage. She closed her eyes a moment. There was a place reserved in hell for her, because in this instance, she didn’t care that his heart had died with Sara. She wanted him and she would never forgive herself if she moved through the remainder of her lonely existence never knowing the taste of him.

  Eloise leaned up on tiptoe.

  His body jerked erect. “What are you—?”

  She brushed her lips against his. She kissed him as she’d longed to for too many years and then with the dream she’d always carried, his lips reluctantly met hers in a hesitant meeting.

  Yet he did not pull away. Emboldened, Eloise twined her arms about his neck, twisting her fingers in the thick, black strands of his silken, soft hair. “Lucien,” she whispered against his lips. I have missed you. Only, if she breathed those words into existence, he would pull away.

  Lucien stiffened at her use of his name and then he folded his arm about her, drawing her close. He slanted his lips over hers again and again. Gone was the hint of warmth, instead replaced with this blaze of fire. He plundered her mouth with his and she welcomed the swift, hot invasion as she met his bold thrust and parry with one of her own.

  He drew back and Eloise moaned her regret, but he merely trailed his lips down the side of her cheek. “Lucien,” she pleaded. Her words may as well have had the same effect as a bayonet piercing his skin.

  He pulled his arm away and retreated…one step…two…and three, eyeing her like she was a two-headed serpent com
e to destroy. “What are you doing here?” he asked now in total for a third time.

  The truth hovered on her lips—the pledge she’d made to his brother, Richard. No, that wasn’t truthful. If she couldn’t be honest with him, at least she could manage honesty to herself. I love you. “I—”

  “You found a titled lord, did you, Ellie?” he asked, using her girlhood moniker, though it wasn’t as warm or teasing as it once had been. “What would Lord Sherborne say to his wife kissing the Marquess and Marchioness of Drake’s servant?” His words, cruel and mocking, lashed against her heart.

  Eloise fisted the fabric of her gown. “My husband is dead,” she managed.

  Lucien opened his mouth and closed it. He opened his mouth once more. “I didn’t know,” he said, gruffly, in his stranger’s voice. Not the gentle friend she’d once known.

  Eloise shrugged, feigning indifference, though she was anything but. Tension hummed through her body with the knowledge of his kiss at long last, if even from this dark, unyielding man. “How would you?” she asked softly. The man he’d been would have taken her in his arms and cradled her close. He would have allowed her to cry and helped drive back, if not completely erased, the guilt that dogged her. “You left.” Me. You left me, as though I was as guilty as your father for that damned commission.

  The man he was now did none of those things. The harsh, angular planes of his face remained set in an inscrutable mask, as though she were a nuisance he’d be glad to rid himself of.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice painfully detached. He slashed his hand through the air. “I’ve created a life for myself and I’ll not go back to the life of indolent gentleman.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, to ward off the chill of his eyes, not knowing where she found the strength to say, “No, Lucien. You shouldn’t be here.”

  He lowered his head, so close his coffee-and-mint breath fanned her face. “Why, because there is no value in the work I do?” She fixed on the one familiar scent, one unfamiliar because it was easier than focusing on the vitriol in his eyes.