Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  Then that dark day intruded when he’d been presented with that damned commission.

  My son is no coward…

  His lips curled up. “I do mean that, Eloise.” He peered down his nose at her. “Tell my brothers they wasted their efforts. It would take far more than you, Eloise, to manage a happy reunion with my family.”

  Her entire body jerked. “Who are you?” she whispered, shaking her head as though she’d had a glimpse of a person she didn’t much like.

  He balled his hand to keep from taking her in his arm and pleading forgiveness. As she took her leave, he stood staring after her. Just then, he quite concurred with Eloise. He didn’t much like himself.

  Chapter 8

  Eloise paced her quiet, lonely parlor, ivory velum in her fingers. A fire crackled in the hearth. She hugged her arms to her chest and rubbed back the unseasonable chill of the spring night, hopelessly wrinkling the sheet she’d received earlier that evening.

  This afternoon, at London Hospital she’d captured glimpses of the man Lucien Jonas had been. He reminded her of a kicked and injured dog, craving a soothing touch and yet snarling and stalking away when one wandered too close.

  She would have to be a simpleton to have failed to realize what he’d intended with his biting words. He wanted to push her away. All because pushing her away was easier than letting her in. That way, he’d not be hurt again. “You bloody, obstinate fool,” she muttered.

  She could well-understand his resentment, the need to place blame in light of all he’d lost; from his arm, to his wife, and child. But for that, his father had loved him and he’d throw away that familial bond, not only with his father, but his brothers merely because Richard and Palmer bore the same blood as their sire?

  Eloise stomped over to the hearth, page in hand. She held it up to the dim light cast by the orange-red fire’s glow and re-read the contents.

  My dearest Eloise,

  The viscount’s condition has worsened. He continues to ask for Lucien, as well as you. Please convey the urgency to my stubborn brother.

  Your loyal servant,

  Richard

  She folded the sheet and laid it upon the mantel. Then catching the pink, Italian marble between her fingers, she rested her head against the cool stone. What a fool she’d been. In all these years, she’d thought the most difficult task would be in finding a man who’d removed himself from the world and shut out all those who’d loved and cared for him—at least the living ones. She’d never imagined convincing him to come back to her, Richard, Palmer, and his father would be a greater task than the whole six-day creation of the universe.

  Eloise released a slow breath, loosening the tension in her chest. She’d once been a lonely girl. There had been no siblings for her to play with. Her mother, who’d died when Eloise had been too young to recall, had left a void in her own household. Lucien and Richard’s friendship had sustained her. Most of the joy she’d known in her life had come from the viscount’s two sons. For the unconventionality of a small girl slipping into the folds of a male-dominated house, devoid of a motherly presence, it was a forged bond that had quite worked—for all of them.

  Eloise’s father hadn’t had to worry of having a forlorn child underfoot. With an absence of female influence, the viscount and his sons had found some comfort in Eloise’s presence.

  A log shifted in the hearth. Embers popped and hissed. She stared into the eerie red and orange dancing flames. It was an arrangement that had worked. Or it had, until Sara had entered the village, lovely and all things graceful, and Eloise had ceased to exist. At least for the one man who’d ever mattered to her anyway. Her friendship with Richard had continued through the years. His brother, Palmer, was too busy seeing to whatever heir-like responsibilities one set to inherit had to see to.

  She loved them all. But Lucien was the one who’d held her heart. From the moment they’d lain upon their backs and tumbled sideways, giggling and laughing all the way down the sides of the steep hills of Kent only to lay breathless and dizzy staring up at the shifting clouds overhead, her heart had been his.

  What do you see, Lucien?

  He’d peered up at the vivid, blue skies so long she thought he’d not heard.

  I see perfection, he’d whispered back.

  She’d turned on her side, unnoticed while he fixed his gaze to the skies, marveling at the beauty around them…and fell in love, knowing she would one day marry Lord Lucien Jonas.

  How very naïve. How very foolish she’d been. Hers had been the wishes of a girl who’d believed the bond between them was so great, that one day he would realize he carried the same love in his heart that she did in hers. She marveled that she’d ever been so blessedly innocent. Eloise tightened her mouth. However, just as he was not the same man, she was not the same woman. She knew with the experience of a woman who carried regrets in her heart that if he did not do this, if he continued to forsake his family for decisions of the past, the burden he carried would be even greater.

  Filled with a restive energy, she pushed herself away from the mantel and began to pace the hardwood floors, padding silently back and forth. He would not come. Her naiveté in believing she could sway his opinion, that what they’d once shared as children would be enough to convince him that the hatred he carried in his heart was futile and a waste of good emotion, was staggering.

  Her gaze wandered unbidden to the forgotten crumpled sheets of parchment upon her secretaire. She yanked her stare away, refusing to look at the hastily discarded notes.

  If she were to reclaim that seat and finish one of those notes, it would be a betrayal Lucien could never forgive, nay would never forgive. This bitter animosity he’d carried since his return from war was testament to that. He’d always been a man who loved passionately, which was splendorous to the recipient of that love. Yet, by the man he’d become, it was clear he felt all emotions with that staggering intensity. If she penned that note, if she did this thing she would relinquish the right to everything they’d shared before.

  Eloise pressed her fingers against her temples and rubbed the pained ache of indecision throbbing in her head. She’d never been accused of being selfish before. Not when she’d left the comforts of her own home, a recently wedded young lady, to care for Lucien’s wife and son while he was off fighting. Not when she’d stayed beside them, caring for them when the bloody doctor had said nothing else could be done. Not when she’d fallen ill for her efforts.

  But in this, she wanted to be selfish. She wanted to cling to the idea that Lucien might, for all the acrimony he carried, come to care for her as he once had. With slow steps, she wandered over to her secretaire and sank onto the delicate, mahogany chair. She slid to the edge and picked up an empty sheet. The moment she put those words to paper the dream of him would be lost to her.

  Eloise fisted the edges of the page and closed her eyes drawing in several, slow breaths. Then opened her eyes and set the sheet down. Even as she loved him, he’d never been hers. And she loved him enough that she’d sacrifice their friendship if it meant he could be happy once more.

  She plucked the pen from the crystal ink well and proceeded to write.

  My Lady Drake…

  A knock sounded at the door and her fingers skidded along the page. She dropped the pen, smattering ink upon the vellum. Eloise jumped to her feet as her butler appeared in the doorway, beside the frowning visage of her brother-in-law, and now since her husband’s death, the Earl of Sherborne.

  “The Earl of Sherborne,” the nasal pronouncement of the graying servant filled the quiet.

  Eloise bit back a sigh of regret and forced a smile to her lips. “Kenneth,” she began.

  “Eloise,” he stalked into the room as bold as if she were his countess, which she never would have been. She’d not have wedded one such as him, if it would have afforded her the title Queen of England. He paused with the pale pink, upholstered sofa between them and tugged at his lapels. “This is not a matter of a social call,”
he said coolly.

  She sighed. It was to be this manner of visit. Again. By the flush on his hard cheeks and icy cool stare, she’d done something to earn his displeasure. Eloise pasted on a falsely serene smile and inclined her head. “It is ever a pleasure,” she lied through her imperfect teeth. “Though I must admit to surprise at your late,” as in extremely, unfashionably late, “visit.” She waved a hand to the sofa. “Would you care to—?”

  “I understand you are a widow, madam, but I have expectations for you.”

  She narrowed her eyes while fury stirred to life in her belly at his highhandedness. “You have expectations for me?” she asked slowly.

  Kenneth jabbed a long finger in the air. “My brother could have wed any young lady.” Yes that much had likely been true. Affable and pleasantly handsome, he was everything his brother, the new earl, was not. Then, mayhap it was his rotten soul that was ugly more than anything else. “And he wed you,” he snarled that last word allowing her to know exactly what he thought of his late brother’s selection in wife.

  She bit back the tart words she really wanted to hurl at his face. “I imagine some more pressing matter has brought you ’round than to demean your brother’s widow,” she said, infusing a droll note into those words that increased the earl’s ire.

  He opened and closed his mouth like a trout, trying to shake free the metal hook in its mouth. Kenneth rested his hands on the back of the sofa and leaned across. “When my brother set up the magnanimous terms of your betrothal contract,” he said with such vitriol she took a step back. “He did not imagine that should anything happen to him, his wife would become such a shameful, scandalous creature.”

  A shocked gasp burst from her lips.

  He continued his stinging diatribe. “The gossip has begun circulating,” he hissed. Her body felt awash in shame with the truth she’d been discovered in Lucien’s arms, shame which had nothing to do with his station in the marquess’ household and everything to do with her longing for a man who would never want her. “You were seen at London Hospital.”

  “What?” she blurted and blinked at him.

  He slashed a hand through the air. “I’ve learned you were seen visiting London Hospital without a chaperone, paying a visit to men. In their beds.”

  By God, this is what he should find an egregious offense? A hysterical giggle escaped her lips. What would he say if he were to discover she’d been passionately kissing Lord Lucien, a man in the Marquess of Drake’s employ? He’d likely find that the kind of offense punishable by hanging. Her giggling increased and she buried it in her hands. Her efforts proved futile as it escaped through her fingers, all the more damning for it being the sole sound in the otherwise silent room.

  “Do you find this a matter of humor, Eloise?” his barking question more reminiscent to a stern papa with a recalcitrant child than an annoyed brother-in-law. In fairness, he was a good deal more than annoyed.

  Not for the first time since her husband’s passing she gave thanks for the magnanimous terms of the contract that had seen her cared for in the unfortunate event of his demise. Modestly comfortable with earnings of one-third of his properties, he’d seen to it that she’d never be dependent upon another man. She was never more grateful than staring at his rabid brother with spittle forming at the corner of his fleshy lips.

  “Do you have nothing to say?”

  She composed herself, schooling her features into a collected mask that conveyed little, knowing in his inability to do so, he’d only be more infuriated by her response. “There is nothing shameful in my visits to London Hospital.”

  His blond eyebrows shot to his hairline.

  Eloise took a step toward him, emboldened by his silence. “The men there are heroes.” And lonely. A prick of needle-like pain stuck in her heart in thinking of Lucien as one of those heroes, alone. The solitary man described by the marchioness and it only fed her infuriation with the earl. “And if it brings them a measure of peace, my being there, then I intend to visit.” Her voice increased in volume under the force of her emotion. “Whether or not that offends your sensibilities.” Her chest heaved. “Have I made myself clear, my lord?”

  He sputtered. “Abundantly.” He gave a disgusted toss of his head, dislodging an oiled blond curl over his high brow. “My brother would be ashamed by your ac—”

  She cut into his words. “If you believe he would be ashamed by my actions, then you didn’t know your brother.” Eloise strode to the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord. It is late.” She paused and pasted a hard smile on her lips. “And I have plans for tomorrow morning.” That now, in addition to her shameful visit with the marchioness, would first include a visit to London Hospital.

  He gave her a long, black look and then stalked out of the room.

  The tension went out of her and her shoulders sagged with the weight of relief at his departure. She returned to her secretaire and stared at the black ink marring the page, the three word greeting penned, now undecipherable. Only looking at the blank pages before her, the heinous accusations leveled at her by her brother-in-law infiltrated her thoughts and she could not shake them free. Would her husband have found her actions scandalous? Knowing the supportive man he’d been, she would have wagered all her security as his widow, that he’d have supported any charitable ventures.

  Eloise laid her arms upon the table and folded her hands together. What would he have said about her relationship with Lucien, though? She lowered her chin to her hands, her gaze absently trained on the thick, gold brocade curtains. She’d spoken of Lucien to Colin quite frequently. He’d, of course, known the stories of her childhood and part of the affection she’d had for Lucien. Much of the laughter they’d shared had been with the memories she’d imparted of Lucien and his brothers. Her marriage had never possessed the burning love that set hearts afire, but rather kind, comfortable companionship. No, there had been no grand passion between them.

  Unlike Lucien.

  She pressed her eyes closed. In the time she’d been wed, in all the awkward visits Colin had paid to her bedchamber, her body had never thrilled with desire for his touch.

  Then there was Lucien. Their relationship had never been one of volatile emotion. They were merely two emotionally charged persons who’d had a powerful friendship. Never anything more. Just friendship. Only…Her lips burned with the memory of his kiss upon her lips, the memory of him forever stamped in her heart, mind, and now body. His commanding possession of her mouth had been no act of a friend.

  Then, after what she intended, she would stake all the money left in her dowry that she’d not even have Lucien’s friendship.

  Eloise picked up the pen once more…and wrote.

  Chapter 9

  The following afternoon, Eloise stood outside the Marchioness of Drake’s townhouse. She’d written the note. Eloise frowned at the door. “It is a good deal harder being furtive when the gentleman in question is in fact—” Her words died as Lucien pulled the door open.

  He glared down at her.

  —It was a good deal harder to be furtive when the gentleman happened to be the butler.

  She gave him her winningest, I-do-not-have-any-underhanded-actions-planned-that-will-make-you-hate-me-forever smile and completed her step. “Hullo, Lucien.”

  “Remember yourself, madam.” He gritted his teeth so loud, even with the space between them and the carriage rattling by, she heard the snap of them. He glanced up and down the street and, for the span of a heartbeat, she thought he intended to slam the door in her face. For all his ire with her for making a nuisance of herself, he was first and foremost a gentleman and had a sense of honor where responsibilities and obligations were concerned. He motioned her inside.

  A nervous stone settled in her stomach and before her courage deserted her, she sprinted up the steps. “Lucien,” she greeted.

  The footman who rushed forward to help her out of her cloak paused at the familiarity between her and the head servant. Lucien turned a
glower on the handsome, liveried servant who gulped audibly and hurried off with her aquamarine, muslin cloak.

  “You needn’t be so surly with—”

  “I’ll not have you telling me how to handle my responsibilities.” Odd, she should forget he was a servant and not the master of this great home. “Would you have servants gossiping about you?” he demanded on an angry whisper. “Imagine the scandal of the Countess of Sherborne carrying on with the Marquess of Drake’s butler.”

  She considered her brother-in-law, the earl, last evening. Oh, she could very well imagine his outrage. If he’d been foaming at her visits to London Hospital, he’d have suffered an apoplexy for her extreme familiarity with Lucien. She gave a flounce of her curls. “No matter.”

  He took a threatening step toward her, backing her away. “No matter,” he repeated on a menacing whisper.

  Her back thumped against the doorframe and she shook her head. The door rattled at her back.

  “Why, Eloise? Because you still harbor some illusion that I’m that nobleman’s son?”

  She pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Well, you are a viscount’s son. That can’t be undone.” No matter how much he wished it. A startled squeak escaped her as he tugged her into an opened room. He closed the door behind them. Had it been anyone other than Lucien, she’d have trembled with terror. She swallowed hard. Even so, he was quite menacing in his ire.

  He flexed his jaw. “Do you prefer the viscount’s son to the servant, then?”

  I prefer you in any way and every way. With one arm, two arms, no arms. “Well, the viscount’s son was ever more charming.”

  His eyebrows dipped in a threatening fashion. It was so very wrong, but she reveled in his absolute lack of control. If he were indifferent toward her, their past, his family, he would be composed and unaffected…and he was not.

  Lucien lowered his mouth close to hers and whispered against her lips, “Or perhaps you delight in the prospect of tupping a mere servant.”