Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  “Wh-what is the meaning of this?” the earl stammered. He retreated as Lucien advanced with slow, deliberate strides into the parlor.

  The sight of him after all these weeks blotted out the humiliating, horrible things leveled at her by the earl. “L-Lucien,” she whispered. Why is he here? Why, when he’d been so very clear that after his father’s passing he would return to the life he’d lived all these years without her?

  Her brother-in-law found his brash arrogance. “Why are you here, sir?” He puffed his chest like a preening peacock. “There is no room for a mere butler—”

  “You’d be wise to not finish those words, either,” Lucien intoned on a silken, steely whisper.

  The color drained from the earl’s cheeks. He found the courage, however to tug at his jacket and say, “I am the Earl of Sherborne and I’ll not be spoken to in…”

  Lucien continued striding forward and the lean bully of a man stumbled over himself in his haste to place the sofa between him and the threatening gentleman. Lucien stopped beside Eloise. He passed that inscrutable, powerful stare over her face, the grays of his eyes dark like the summer sky after a tempestuous storm.

  Then, with seeming reluctance, he shifted his focus back upon the earl. “You are to leave this home, Sherborne. And you are no longer to sully Eloise with your presence here. If you speak to her,” he said, as he stepped around the mahogany piece between them and then closed the distance between him and her bastard of a brother-in-law. “If you so much as speak to her, I will demonstrate just how capable I am with one arm,” He lowered his tone to the gravelly, harsh one that had initially terrified her upon their reunion at the marquess’ home. “And I will make you regret whatever vile word you uttered.” He leaned close. “Are we clear, Sherborne?”

  The earl’s cheeks turned ashen and in spite of the obvious quake to his slender frame, he managed a jerky nod.

  Eloise’s heart tripped several beats at his bold defense of her. She pressed her eyes closed a moment. She’d been on her own for so very long, she’d grown accustomed to relying on no one but herself. She opened her eyes once more and caressed Lucien with her gaze. For the first time in a long time, she was not alone. Joy swelled inside and a wave of emotion so strong slammed into her that she could not speak. Her throat worked painfully.

  Lucien looked at Sherborne through eyes of impenetrable slits and then gave a belated nod. “You’re done here.” He stepped aside and her brother-in-law all but sprinted from the room. With his awkward gait, the earl knocked into a side table and then upended an ivory, open-backed armchair before scurrying from the room like a rat chased from Cook’s kitchens.

  Her shoulders sagged with relief at the man’s exit. However, with his parting and the vitriol of Lucien’s exchange, she registered his presence. She fiddled with her skirts. “Lucien.”

  “Is that all you’ll say?” His deep baritone washed over her.

  Eloise stilled her distracted movements. “Hullo?”

  He closed the slight space between them. “I suppose that is a good deal better than get out,” he said dryly. He raised his hand, his knuckles hovered awkwardly at her cheek, and then he dropped his hand back to his side.

  Eloise mourned the loss of that slight, desperately desired touch. “Wh-why would I order you to leave?” She loved him and always would. She would take him in any way she could—even if he was merely a visiting friend.

  A humorless grin hovered at his lips. “Perhaps because you should order me gone.”

  She shook her head. “I’d not do that.”

  “Not even if I deserve it?”

  “Why would you deserve it? Because you never loved me the way I loved you?” She bit the inside of her cheek, the startling honesty of that admission twisted her insides. Suddenly, his body’s nearness was too much. She wandered over to the ivory sofa and trailed her fingertips over the mahogany back.

  “I—”

  She held a hand up. “You loved and married. I’d never begrudge you the happiness you knew.” Even as the lost dream of him had shredded her heart.

  “I—”

  “I long ago accepted that anything more between us, it was a mere dream, Lucien.” The truth of her words twisted like a blade in her belly. She hugged her arms to herself. “I knew that, even as my heart did not.” Except, even now she lied to herself. Her love of Lucien defied all logic and knowing. It was based on friendship and emotion and those undefinable sentiments only carried deep within a person’s heart.

  “Eloise, I—”

  She curled her hands over the back of the sofa and studied her white-knuckled grip upon the furniture. “You don’t need to apologize,” she assured him, picking up her gaze, she met his stare directly.

  “I’m not here to apologize.” Heavy regret shaded his words.

  Oh. Warmth crept up her neck and heated her cheeks. “Uh. Well, then.” She shifted awkwardly on her feet. “Why are you here?” she blurted and then at the frown on his lips she added, “Not that I’m not incredibly happy to see you.” Regardless of his feelings or lack of feelings for her, she would, always be filled with joy at seeing him. Even when he was snarly and angry and foul. “I am,” she added as afterthought.

  His eyebrows dipped.

  “Happy to see you,” she clarified. “I’m merely…” Rambling. You’re rambling, Eloise.

  Lucien strolled over, impossibly cool and hopelessly elegant with his long, graceful movements. He stopped in front of her with the sofa between them. “May I speak?”

  She nodded.

  “I didn’t come to apologize,” he added.

  Eloise sighed. “I know. You said as—”

  “Eloise.”

  “Er, right, sorry,” she said on a rush. “You were saying?”

  Lucien reached his hand across the space dividing them and cupped her cheek. “I’m not here to apologize because every apology I make will be inadequate and you deserve so much more than that.” She leaned into his caress. The expensive, tailored leather glove cool and soothing upon her skin. “I was a bloody fool,” he said with a directness that widened her eyes. He lowered his hand to his side. “You deserved more from me as a friend. You deserved a better man than me as your husband.” He surveyed the luxurious, mahogany, Chippendale furnishings of the parlor, his gaze lingering upon the large and ornate golden bevel mirror upon the far right wall. “And I’d wager my other arm that you had him in Sherborne.”

  Yes, her husband had been good and more than she had deserved. But he’d never been Lucien. She’d not disrespect Colin’s memory with the truth in her heart.

  With a distracted movement, he picked up a porcelain shepherdess and turned it over in his hand, studying it. “My father left me property to manage—unentailed land in Kent.”

  Eloise tipped her head. Is this why he’s come? She wet her lips and searched for the proper reply. “You will do splendidly in taking over the running of that estate,” she said at last. For she did not doubt a moment with his intelligence and strength, he was more capable than any other landowner in the whole of England. And yet, she wished it was more that brought him here. Wished it was her.

  A normally unflappable Lucien set down the shepherdess. The delicate piece wobbled on the table, then righted itself. He dragged his unsteady hand through his hair. “I’ve not come here to speak about the property,” he paused. “Though it seems important you should know of it.” He slashed the air with his hand and knocked the figurine once more. The golden-haired shepherdess tipped and fell on her side, unbroken. Lucien gave his head a shake. “That is, it seemed you should know about my acquisition of the property.” Lucien frowned. “Nor have I come to apologize.” His lips pulled in a grimace. “I am bumbling this.”

  She desperately tried to sort through his ramblings. “Bumbling wh—?”

  He raised his gaze to hers, silencing her question with the burning intensity in his gray eyes. “I’m here to tell you I love you.”

  Her heart froze, suspended. �
��You…” And then the organ resumed hammering a frantic rhythm. “What?” The word emerged on a halting whisper. Lucien crossed around the sofa and stopped. “I don’t understand.” Because after years of loving him and dreaming for that sentiment returned, she’d long ago given up the hope of it.

  The muscles of his throat worked. “You don’t understand because I’ve been a bloody fool.” He lowered his brow to hers. “It took me too long to understand that I love you, Eloise Constance. I’ve loved you as long as I’ve known you.” He raised her knuckles to his mouth and brushed a kiss against them. “I just didn’t realize it. I realize it now and know it’s likely too late—”

  “No!” The exclamation burst from her.

  Eloise’s denial ripped through him. No less than he warranted but still agonizing for what it represented. It had been the height of arrogance to come here and expect she should put aside the freedom she had as a widow to wed a broken, unworthy gentleman such as himself.

  With pained reluctance, Lucien released her. “No,” he repeated in deadened tones. He flinched at the regret tinging that one word. He’d not have her feel guilty. He gave a stiff nod and backed away. “Forgive me,” his voice emerged hoarse. “I understood it was unlikely that you should indeed return my sentiments after my years of gross neglect.” He took another step away from her, never removing his gaze from her person. “I will always be your devoted servant and friend.” He bowed. “If you’ll excuse me.” With that, he hurried to the door.

  “Is that all you’ll say?” she called out, staying his hasty flight. “You’d just leave?”

  Her words jerked him to a stop. His muscles tightened under the folds of his jacket. He turned around and looked questioningly at her. He’d not convince her that he was worthy, because he did not himself believe it—and so he would leave.

  Eloise sprinted over. She placed herself between him and the doorway. “You misunderstood me.”

  Lucien looked at her probingly. The first stirrings of hope fanned in a heart he’d only recently realized wasn’t deadened. The organ still beat. It beat for Eloise. He spoke slowly. “I misunderstood—?”

  “No it is not too late, you great lummox.” The words burst from her lips. “I love you, L-Lucien,” she said. Her voice broke. “I always have.” She smiled tremulously up at him. “I always will.”

  Lucien drew in a harsh breath, and momentarily closed his eyes. “You were everything I never knew I needed, Eloise. You were always there and I never saw it.”

  She leaned up on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his in a slow, gentle kiss. “You see it now,” she whispered. “And that is all that matters.”

  She was wrong. What he’d become in the years since their youth mattered. The years had changed him. War had changed him. But then, hadn’t life changed us both? “You can love me, even as I come to you missing an arm, a man who has acted as a servant—?”

  Eloise touched her fingers to his lips silencing him. “None of that matters.” She moved her palm and pressed it over his heart. “This is what matters. Only this.”

  Ah, God. He loved her. He wanted her in his life. For now. Tomorrow. And forever. “Marry me.”

  She blinked, retreating a step. “What?” Her hand fluttered about her chest.

  He raked his hand through his hair and cursed. “I’m making a bloody mess of this.”

  Eloise let her hand fall to her side. Did he imagine the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips?

  He cursed. Again. “I’m cursing.” He couldn’t even put to her a proper offer of marriage.

  Eloise’s shoulders shook in clear amusement. “Uh, yes. I hear that.” He dropped to a knee. “What are you—?” Her words ended on a gasp.

  “I have had three weeks to find the perfect words for you, Eloise, and, even with that, I can’t manage to be what you deserved.” She opened her mouth but he went on, not allowing her to speak those likely contradictory words. “Will you marry me? Marry me because I love you and I’ll spend the remainder of my days showering you with every happiness you deserve.” He frowned. “Though I’m not the same witty young gentleman I once was.” He looked to the pinned up sleeve of his jacket. “Nor am I the young, more pleasing gentleman you likely fell in—”

  A breathless laugh escaped her. “Yes, Lucien.”

  His heart froze and hope exploded through him. “Yes, I’m not the pleasing gentleman you fell in love with?” He stood slowly. “Or yes, you’ll marry me?”

  She looped her arms around his neck and leaned up. “The latter,” she whispered against his mouth.

  A smile turned his lips. “I love you, Eloise.” He lowered his mouth to hers and claimed her lips in a gentle, searching kiss.

  He was home.

  The End

  Captivated by a Lady’s Charm

  By

  Christi Caldwell

  Dedication

  To Rory.

  For serving as a daily reminder that heroes and heroines come in all different forms. Each story that I ever wrote, or will write, is because of you. I love you.

  And

  To my Readers

  I often say I’m not sure what I’ve done to be so very blessed with the most amazing readers in the world, but for whatever reason, I have been. And for that, I thank you. Each story I write contains a piece of my soul, and I’m so very honored that you care to share in those stories.

  Acknowledgements

  Fourteen years ago, I had the honor of being part of the University of Connecticut Dodd Center’s National Archival Project to record the stories of veterans who served during World War II. I spent a year interviewing soldiers and transcribing their tapes. Something I took away from each of those interviews was the men I spoke to, despite their heroics in battle did not see themselves as heroes. Many of them spoke of the regret, guilt, and pain they carried.

  Christian, the Marquess of St. Cyr came to be from all the heroes I had the honor and privilege of knowing.

  Chapter 1

  Lesson 1

  It is sometimes necessary to slip away from one’s chaperone.

  December 1820

  Lady Prudence Tidemore had always dreamed of her first London Season.

  Now she dreamed of ways to avoid that same blasted event. After all, she well knew the gossip and whispers that would come with her being one of the scandalous Tidemore siblings. Such was the fate of an unwed young lady when your brother married the governess and your sister’s failed elopement with one gentleman ended with a hasty union to another. No, there would be nothing exciting in attending a single event, as one of those de facto scandalous Tidemores.

  As such, it was rather hard to look forward to one’s first Season. From where she stood at the back row of Madame Bisset’s, Prudence took in the sight of her mama and the modiste conversing. The thin, elegantly clad modiste held up scrap after scrap of white, ruffled fabric.

  There was also nothing exciting about the blasted color white.

  “Egads, there is nothing exciting about a white gown,” a familiar voice sounded from beside her.

  Prudence shifted her attention away from her mother and looked to her younger sister, Penelope. “Indeed,” she muttered.

  Except, by the eagerness of their mama’s too quickly nodding head, the French modiste, who was as much French as Prudence herself, may as well have presented her the Queen’s satin.

  “Egads, did you see all that white fabric?”

  Prudence and Penelope looked to their youngest sister, Poppy, who stood with her eyes widened in something akin to horror. “Indeed,” they muttered in unison.

  They fell silent and stared on forlornly as another bolt of white fabric was brought out by one of the seamstresses and laid upon the counter.

  More frantic nodding.

  And another blasted white dress.

  Frustration ran through Prudence, and her toes twitched with the urge to take flight from this dull world her mother and brother sought to thrust her into. All the excitement she’d
dreamed of; the bright satin gowns and more, the hopes of love, and a charming gentleman who’d love her, had been dimmed with their talk of propriety and politeness and all things dull.

  Poppy shuddered. “If this is what there is to look forward to, then I am not at all anticipating my London Season.”

  Prudence and Penelope exchanged a look but otherwise remained wisely silent. With their sister, now fifteen, she’d still managed a blissful innocence of the severity to that great scandal that shook their family two and a half years earlier. “Well, I am not looking forward to it for altogether different reasons,” she said to herself. It had taken very little time for her to understand the ramifications of her sister’s failed elopement with one gentleman and then her hasty marriage to another a few months later.

  In short, there were no kind words issued for the sisters of those scandalous ladies. Apparently, Society believed scandals passed through the bloodline. Or anyway, that is what their mama had said. Prudence wrinkled her nose. Surely there were some strong-minded peers who had opinions of their own?

  Poppy scoffed. “But you always wanted a London Season.” And yet, she still did. Just not this unkind, whispered about affair her mother warned awaited her. Poppy turned to Penelope, the only practical one of the Tidemore girls. “Didn’t she? Tell her it will be grand.”

  A bored yawn escaped Penelope. “It will be grand,” she replied automatically, wholly lacking any real conviction.

  Poppy shoved an elbow into her sister’s side eliciting a grunt from Penelope. “Whatever was that for?”

  “For being unconvincing. She needs you to be convincing.”

  “I do not need—” Alas, Poppy didn’t seem to require any confirmation of what Prudence did in fact need, or not need, in this particular case, for her two younger sisters launched into a very public debate about the proper manner to feign excitement.

  Of which Prudence did not require a lesson.