B00Y3771OO (R) (20 page)

Some of the tension left Richard’s shoulders. Lucien, however, remained so still he gave no indication as to his thoughts.

“You should rest, Eloise,” Richard comforted breaking the silence.

Her skin prickled with awareness of Lucien’s gaze upon her person. Yet, he said nothing, continuing to stare at her with that probing, intense look she’d come to expect. Eloise nodded, wanting Lucien to say something, needing him to.

Yet, as Richard led her down the hall to her guest chambers, Lucien maintained his cool silence.

Chapter 21

T
he next morning, Palmer ordered the bell tolled six times to signify the viscount was near passing. By the afternoon, he sucked in a final, labored, gasping breath and then slipped into the next world. Shortly thereafter, the funeral furnisher employed by Palmer in anticipation of the viscount’s passing, arrived to set the formal burial plans into motion.

With the day gone, ushered in by the black of night, Lucien sat numbly in the quiet of the Blue Parlor now somberly draped with black baize. The candles placed about the room cast eerie shadows. For the lives he’d taken down in the field of battle and the loss he’d known of his wife and child, he’d imagined himself immune to any further pain. Staring at his father’s unmoving, lifeless form—he realized one never truly became accustomed to the eternal permanence of death.

Since he’d set himself up as vigil, shutting himself in with his father until tomorrow when the viscount would be formally buried in the family burial grounds, his own life had played out before him in the silence of the room.

He could place his life neatly into two categories. The unfettered happiness he’d known as a young man, unmarred physically, mentally, and emotionally by war…and everything to come after the commission that had been purchased. Lucien shoved himself to his feet and wandered closer to his father’s now peaceful form. He would forever bear the scars of the life he’d lived. The war had changed him, as had the loss of his wife and son.

But who was he now? The Marchioness of Drake had drawn him back from the precipice of despair in which death had been preferable to life. She and her husband had given him work and through that, purpose. A reason to wake up, put one leg in front of the other, and exist.

He’d not realized that he wanted more than to merely exist—until Eloise. Lucien took the final steps between him and his father. He brushed his knuckles along the expertly tailored, black coat prepared by the man’s loyal valet. Just eight days ago, he would have both celebrated in his death and envied him that final rest. Now, since Eloise, he was forced to confront all the empty pieces of his own life. The viscount had left two sons, prosperous landholdings, and through Palmer and his wife, future offspring.

How very empty, how very alone Lucien’s life was.

It doesn’t have to be
, an enticing voice whispered.

There was a woman, a woman he didn’t deserve, who’d been loyal and loving. He swiped his hand over his face. She’d been a girl just out in London and for her station and young years, cared for his wife and child, sat beside them, until they’d drawn their last breaths.

You never held someone in your arms while they died. You never knew the agony as that person sucked in a final breath and was no more…

Those cruel, erroneous words he’d hurled at her mocked him. For that, she’d still maintained her silence. How many other things had he been wrong about where Eloise was concerned? She’d opened his eyes and, in her, he saw a world of things he’d not imagined for himself—happiness, love, a child—all became tangible dreams within his grasp.

Nay, not just any child. A precious, stubborn girl with tight, blonde curls. “You would have liked that, wouldn’t you?” he asked quietly.

Of course, there was no answer. No reaction. Nothing but the absolutism of death’s dark quiet. He drew his hand back.

The floorboards creaked and he stiffened.

“Lucien,” Eloise said softly, her greeting, one word, his name drifted over.

The rustle of satin skirts filled the room. He cast a glance down at the slender slip of a woman who sidled up to him with a crimson bouquet of poppies wilted in her hands. She’d donned black mourning attire. Again. His heart wrenched in at last setting aside all the grief he’d known these years to confront the tragedy in a woman of her young age wearing these same dark skirts to bury her husband and then father.

“Eloise,” he murmured. “What—?”

“I came to pay my respects.” As always, she interpreted his unfinished thoughts with an uncanniness that spanned the course of their relationship. “To say goodbye,” she added as an afterthought. She set the poppies they’d picked yesterday, yesteryear, a lifetime ago, upon the viscount’s chest.

He blamed the exhaustion of their travels and lack of sleep for the swell of emotion that clogged his throat. “I cannot ever repay what you’ve done.” She’d allowed him a small measure, but an important measure, of peace.

Eloise touched her fingers to his cheek. “There is nothing to repay, Lucien. You are my friend,” she said simply.

His gut clenched. She’d claimed to love him, to want more of him. Perhaps she’d wisely realized there were any number of more suitable options; all of whom had never lain prone in a hospital bed, wallowing for years in the misery of their lives, and then taken on the work as a servant.

“He was a good man,” Eloise said. A sorrowful smile tugged her lips ever so slightly upwards. Her sadness with those words caused a viselike pressure to tighten about his lungs and make it difficult to draw a steady breath. “When we were children and played hide and go seek, he would allow me to hide in his office.” She gave him a look and her smile widened. “Most men would have sacked the nursemaid for allowing a child to be underfoot.” She lovingly stroked the viscount’s cold, lifeless hand folded in front of him. “But then I was always so curious.” She had been. About everything. “I would tire of you searching for me and sit in his enormous office chair and ask him a thousand and one questions. All of which he answered.” A golden tress fell across her eye. She brushed it back. “Odd how often I spent waiting for you to find me.” A shift occurred in their conversation. Her words transcended mere children’s games.

Tell her.
His father’s booming voice bounced around the walls of his mind as clear as if he now spoke before them, so much so that he froze and glanced about.

“What is it?” she asked, following his gaze.

Regardless, this was not the place or time and the words withered on the faint echo of a memory of his father’s voice. “It is nothing.” The fire cracked and hissed in the hearth. “My father told me what you did, Eloise.”

Her narrow shoulders went taut. “What I—?”

He brushed his knuckles along her jaw. Even now she’d not share in the truth of her great sacrifice. “Come, Ellie, you know.” For years he’d thought only of himself and his hurts and regrets, and all along Eloise had been there, loving, caring for his wife, his son, his entire family. He was humbled by her selflessness and shamed by his total unworthiness of her. “I refer to what you did for Sara.” He braced for all the old hurts at the mention of his wife’s name. Hurt that did not come.

Eloise wetted her lips. “You know?” Soft surprise underscored her question.

He nodded once. “I know.”

Eloise angled her chin up, as though braced for his criticism. “You would have done the same for me.”

Ah, God, he was undeserving of her faith and devotion. Regret twisted inside him. He clenched and unclenched his jaw. For would he truly have done the same? From the moment the new vicar had entered the village with his winsome daughter, Lucien had not been the friend Eloise deserved—the friend he’d once been. Hell, he’d not even known her husband’s name, how they’d met, any details of the courtship preceding her marriage. Her husband, who’d seen her cared for in his passing had been a better, far more worthy man for Eloise than Lucien ever could have been. Perhaps fate had known that. Shame stuck in his throat and made it impossible to speak.

She cleared her throat. “It is late.” When had Ellie Gage ever worried about things such as time? She held his gaze and then with infinite slowness moved her eyes over his face as though committing him to memory. “As I said, I came to say my goodbyes.”

Lucien caught her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “Not goodbye, Eloise. Good night,” he corrected.

A sheen covered her eyes and she blinked rapidly. Then as quick as they’d come, the crystalline drops were gone.

Without another word, Eloise pulled her hand free and left.

He stared after her. She didn’t realize that, if she would allow him, there would never be another parting between them.

Chapter 22

Three weeks later

W
ith the Marquess of Drake’s horse returned weeks prior, Lucien, in his brother’s carriage now, made the lonely return to London, along the rain splattered streets of the city. After nearly a day’s worth of rain, the thick, gray storm clouds had parted. He tugged the curtain back distractedly and peered out at the familiar passing scenes and he reflected on Eloise.

Odd, he’d gone years not noticing Eloise and now, he saw her everywhere. Including something as simple as a carriage ride. The memory as she’d been seated across from him, sopping wet from the cold rain, her cheeks wan from the motion of the carriage roused pained regret inside him.

The night Eloise had come to pay her respects and make her goodbyes to his father, the Viscount Hereford, Lucien had failed to realize that he was, in fact, the person she’d bid fare thee well to. And for all the years of having failed to notice Eloise Gage, this keen, awareness of the woman she’d become, had made the loss of her all the greater.

With her parting, he’d been forced to navigate the former relationships he’d once known as brother to men he considered his closest friends and ultimately became strangers by decisions he himself had made. Eloise had opened his eyes to so very much including the realization that for all that had come between him and his family, they were still his family. The years had melted away and despite the grief of their loss, there too had been the assurance in at last knowing one another as friends and brothers. Again, it was because of Eloise. All because of her.

The carriage rocked to a slow halt and he stared out the window at the familiar London townhouse—the place he’d resided, worked, and called home for two years. He’d left this very townhouse angry and furious. Furious at Eloise for her interference. Furious at life for having taken so much from him. Furious with being forced from the one place he’d managed to find a shred of peace after the war.

Now he returned, a changed man. A man who’d been forced to confront the demons in his life and if not destroy, then conquer them enough to live a life devoid of the agonized pain that would have slowly destroyed him.

The driver pulled open the door. Lucien made to step down. He held the edge of the doorway and paused a moment. The reservations crept in, their tentacle-like fingers crept around his brain, reminding him the inferiority of a limbless man amidst a world of glittering perfection.

A flash of sunshine streamed through the thick clouds overhead and spilled light upon the metal lions of the Marquess of Drake’s doorknocker. It was time. Time to resume living—fully. Lucien climbed down and strode with purposeful steps up the stairs. He knocked. He turned and stared out momentarily at the quiet London streets, waiting for the man who now held his post and likely would continue to hold his post after he left.

The door opened. The young under butler, Gatwick, opened his mouth to greet him and then blinked. “Mr. Jones,” he said slowly. He ran his gaze over Lucien’s immaculate, fawn colored breeches and sapphire blue coat, the stark, white cravat. He opened and closed his mouth several times. “Mr. Jones,” he repeated again and then scrambled over himself in his haste to allow Lucien entry.

He grinned. “I’m here to speak to the marquess.”

Gatwick closed the door. “Of course, of course.” He took a step forward and then faltered. “Er…” He scratched his brow as he tried to navigate Lucien’s now uncertain role—butler or visitor.

He relieved the other man of his difficulty. “The marquess is…?”

“In his office, Mr. Jones.”

Lucien inclined his head. “I shall see to it. As you were, Gatwick.”

The younger servant bowed and backed away.

Lucien stared after him a moment. The men and women here had never been a family to him. He’d not allowed himself a connection with anyone after he’d lost Sara and Matthew. Instead, he’d constructed walls about his heart to protect himself, until Eloise had taken them apart in her capable hands one bitter memory at a time. And yet, in this next parting, there was a new loss, a passing of a life he’d lived, that second phase of his life, the dark, lonely world he’d embraced all these years.

But it was time. Lucien started through the foyer, footsteps silent upon the white marble floor. It was time to move forward and begin again. He curled his hand at his side. If she would let him. If it wasn’t too late. How many opportunities had he had with Eloise and how many times had he ignored and rejected the beautiful offering of her?

He turned right down the corridor and strode along the long, empty hall. What if she rejected him? Which by all intents and purposes, she should do. What was he without her? Lucien paused outside the marquess’ office. He’d been a coward long enough. It was time to go to her and offer her all he was capable, all he was, all he had, which in the scheme of what she was worth and entitled to—was nothing.

He knocked once.

“Enter,” the marquess called out.

Lucien stepped inside.

Lord Drake glanced up from his ledgers and stilled. “Jonas,” he said, surprise laced the statement.

And staring at the usually unflappable young lord, it occurred to him—the marquess hadn’t believed he would return. He’d known. “Captain,” he said bowing. Just as the marquess had known how to restore him to the living, so too had he known his time here was at an end.