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.
“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.
“I blamed my father for my enlistment,” Drake said quietly. As though filled with a sudden disquiet, the other man picked up his glass. He stared into the half-filled contents, seeing a world that only existed behind his eyes. Though Lucien ventured he knew a good deal about those visions there.
“Captain?” They were the kind of memories that robbed you of sleep and stole your sanity with one loud sound that transported you to the bloody battlefields.
The marquess gave his head a shake and took another sip. “It was the height of immaturity to enlist. I resented my betrothal to Emmaline and sought to escape my father’s domineering control of my life.” His lips twisted in a hard, bitter smile. “Yet, ultimately it was my decision. I spent years hating my father. Hating myself.”
Lucien well knew that. He lived with that very same hatred. Perhaps every man who returned did.
“It took my wife to teach me that hate is futile and useless. We lived, when others died…and to live our lives full of loathing and bitterness is a waste of that life.”
“You have a reason to live,” Lucien spat. The marquess hadn’t lost his wife and child.
Lord Drake shifted his hip. “I imagine you do, as well. If you’d but see it.” With that, he shoved himself up from his reclined position and carried his glass behind his desk. “I’m giving you three weeks.”
He shook his head slowly, uncomprehendingly. “I don’t—?”
“You’re welcome to a horse in my stables and a carriage.” He sat in his leather seat, the aged chair crackled noisily. “Go see your father, Jones.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. The marquess commanded with the same decisive firmness he’d evinced on the battlefield.
He gave his head a jerky shake.
“I’m not asking you,” the marquess confirmed that which Lucien had already suspected.
Rage thrumming through his body, filled his legs and brought him upright. He paced in front of the immaculate, mahogany desk. “I have a new life. I have responsibilities—”
“And the under butler will see to those obligations while you’re gone,” the marquess assured.
He raked a shaking hand through his hair. He’d not seen his brothers and father in five, almost six, years. But for the one volatile visit when he’d first returned, he’d stormed out, made for London and never looked back. The stricken expressions on his brothers’ faces—faces so similar to his own, as young men—it had been the same as looking into a mirror.
Only the glass had cracked and he was now the distorted, amorphous figure on the other side of that bevel glass. His father’s insistence had ultimately plunged Lucien into hell. His brothers, however, their only crime was reminding him of what had once been and what would never again be.
A wry grin formed on the marquess’ lips. “You know me enough to know by now I won’t sack you.”
A momentary relief surged through him.
Lord Drake quelled that elusive feeling with his next words. “But neither are you permitted to stay here for three weeks.” He waved a hand. “If you’ll not go, then take yourself somewhere where you can think clearly and logically, and then hopefully that time to reflect brings you back home.”
Before it is too late. The words hovered, unspoken in the air between them.
The set, imperturbable lines of the marquess’ face proved that, once more, Lucien had been robbed of choice yet again. “Is there anything else you require?” The question emerged harsher than he intended…or could help.
Lord Drake shook his head.
With a curt bow, Lucien took his leave, closing the door behind him.
Goddamn you, Eloise. Goddamn you.
Chapter 12
A loud bang jerked Eloise upright. She squinted in the dimly lit room, trying to make the numbers out on the ormolu clock atop her mantel. Ten o’clock in the evening. Quiet descended upon her chambers once more and giving her head a shake, she settled back to continue reading.
Angry shouts and her usually stoic butler’s stammering cries penetrated the perceived peace. Eloise set aside her book of Coleridge’s poems and flung her legs over the side of the bed. She dragged on her modest robe at the foot of her bed, concealing her equally modest nightshift.
Whatever…? If it was her blasted brother-in-law with his zealous opinions about her actions and inactions, she’d have him tossed on his ear this time, she would. She pulled the door open and started down the corridor. With every step she took, Forde’s shouts grew frenzied in volume and passion.
“How dare you, sir? Her Ladyship is—”
“Oh, she’ll receive me, Goddamn it.”
Her feet drew to a sudden halt at the familiar, gruff baritone. She widened her eyes. Oh, dear.
“Find her now.”
For one moment of sheer cowardice, she cast a longing glance down the corridor toward the safety and peace of her chambers.
“If you do not leave this instant,” Forde rumbled, “I will have you forcibly removed.”
That threat propelled her forward. Eloise sprinted the remaining length of the corridor and halted at the top of the stairwell. She rested a trembling hand along the top rail. As if he felt her presence, Lucien looked up, volatile rage simmering in his eyes. She chewed her lower lip a moment and then managed a forced smile. “H-hello.” She gave a halfhearted wave. “S-so lovely of you to call.”
The butler, Forde, stared up at her as though she’d sprouted wings and intended to fly the distance down to the front entrance.
Lucien took a step forward, effortlessly striding past the ineffectual, aging butler. “This is no social call.” That seething whisper carried in the generous foyer like a shot in the dead of night.
She bit back a sigh. First her horrid brother-in-law, now her long ago friend. Did no one pay social calls, anymore? “Oh.” She took a tentative step, pausing at the top step. “Then perhaps we might wait until the morn—?”
“Oh.” Poor Forde. He gulped nervously.
She took pity on the graying servant who’d likely just added a handful of additional silver streaks to his coarse hair. “Forde, it is quite all right,” she assured him. Or lied. By the seething tension emanating from Lucien’s taut frame, she rather suspected it was not at all…all right.
The loyal servant hesitated.
She gave him a reassuring smile and with that, he moved with stiff steps…until Eloise and Lucien were—alone. “You do know you really shouldn’t come around at this late hour frightening my servants, Lucien. It isn’t at all well-done of you.”
“I don’t give a damn what it is,” he hissed, rocking forward on the balls of his feet as though he were one wrong comment from her away from stalking up the stairs.
She swallowed hard. “I gather you are here following a conversation you had with the marquess.” Her fingers quaked in an involuntary tremble and she buried them within her dressing gown to keep from revealing her unease.
His black eyebrows met in a punishing line.
Oh, dear, he was a good deal more menacing than she recalled. She mustered a smile. “I take it he was as supportive and kind as the papers purported him to be.”
And that proved to be the one Eloise-comment that set his feet into motion. He boldly climbed the stairs as effortlessly as if he were the master of her modest townhouse—a role she’d gladly have him in forever. She scrambled backward. Well, mayhap not in this icy, domineering role he’d assumed since he’d terrified poor Forde. “What are you doing?” she asked as he continued his slow, menacing climb.
His silence was all the more infuriating. And terrifying. Her heart hammered hard and she retreated another step. She didn’t believe he’d hurt her, but his unpredictability made him dangerous. Her heel caught the hem of her robe and she teetered precariously.
She threw her arms out searching for purchase when Lucien closed the distance, easily catching her to him. He folded his arm about her and braced her against his chest. “You bloody fool. Are you trying to break your neck?”
Oh help her. Her eyes slid closed of their own volition and she soaked in the comforting feel of his form pressed to hers. Until she left this Earth she would recall the moment—his powerful body strong, powerful, heated. “Wh-why would I try to break my neck? That’s utter nonsense.” Her weak-hearted attempt at levity did little to diminish the hardness in his dark gray, now very nearly black, eyes. “Perhaps we should meet in my receiving room?”
He jerked and it was the moment he remembered himself. As a butler in the Marquess of Drake’s employ, he likely knew the frequent gossip to fly about a household. Lucien gave a brusque nod, setting her away from him.
Eloise led the way down the stairs, through the foyer, and down the darkened corridor lit by but a handful of sconces to the receiving room. Lucien trailed behind, remarkably stealthy for one of his commanding size. So much so that she shot a quick glance over her shoulder to be sure he still followed. Fury marked his face and she gulped hard. This is Lucien. Her dearest friend. Once closer than any two souls could be. He’d never harm her. His low growl echoed behind her. She jumped and quickened her strides. Then, he was in many ways a stranger now.
As they entered the handsomely decorated room with Chippendale furniture, she closed the door softly behind them, knowing her efforts at privacy were futile. She had little doubt that word of this scandalous nighttime visitor would reach her brother-in-law’s condescending ears. “I understand you are upset,” she said, speaking to him the way she had her mare after the poor creature had injured his front hoof.
He matched her steps. “I am not upset,” he whispered.
Eloise hurried to place much needed distance between them. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of her relief. She smiled. “Splendid, then! I—”
“I’m livid.”
She flattened her lips. “Oh.” Eloise raced behind the rose-inlaid, rectangular table and placed her palms upon the surface. “I needed to reason with you.”
Lucien continued coming and stopped at the opposite end of the table and leaned across. “But you didn’t reason with me, did you? You forced my hand.”
Eloise removed her hands and made to step back. “I can explain.” Guilt needled at her conscience once more. She really was very justified in her actions, if he’d but listen.
“There is nothing to explain, madam.” A gasp escaped her as he shot his hand out and captured her wrist, halting her flight. Her skin tingled at the power of his hard, callused palm upon her skin. She closed her eyes a moment. Not once in all the years that her husband had come to her chambers had she bu
rned from his touch. She’d believed herself incapable of passion and never expected to know the thrill of desire. Until she’d again found Lucien and had at last known his kiss…and his touch.
“What, do you have nothing to say?” he jeered.
How very humbling it was to ache for a person so wholly unaffected by you. Forcibly she thrust aside any and all weakness, knowing she required strength in this exchange. “I had no other choice,” she said, angling her chin up.
Lucien moved a cold stare over her face and then with a black curse that scorched her ears, swiftly released her. “My family is not your business, Eloise,” he said, this time there was no lethal edge to his words, but rather a matter-of-factness that was all the more painful for it.
“No, they are not my business,” she said softly. “They are like my family.” With her father’s death the same year Lucien had gone off to fight, the bond between she and Lucien’s brothers had only been strengthened. They’d sustained each other, offering and providing solace in some of those darkest times.
Lucien strode around the table and held a finger up. “Ah, yes.” He paused, then stopped so close she was forced to crane her head back to meet his gaze. “But they actually are my family.”
She flinched. When had he become so cruel? Had it been the years of fighting? Perhaps he would have returned this same cynical, wary man to his wife and child. Her heart spasmed. No, their love would have restored him to who he’d been. By the expectant glint in his eyes, he anticipated her volatile outburst. Tears, even. She’d not rise to his bait. Instead, she claimed his hand and held it between her own. “I am glad you at last remembered that important fact, Lucien.”
His body jerked erect at her touch. She expected him to wrench his hand free. Instead, he remained rooted to the floor, gaze fixed on her hands twined with his one. The muscles of his throat moved up and down.
A gentle hope stirred in her breast that she’d managed to reason with him. Help him see that for all he’d lost, he still had known love. But for the affection of her doting father, that emotion had been rather sparse in her own life. “Your father loves you,” she said. “He—”
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