Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

L ucien knew where he would find his sister. She had disappeared the moment the carriage reached Everdene Hall and hadn't been seen since. But then, they'd all had the sense to scatter, Penelope and Simon to the nursery. Arkwright to the stables. Lucien to his room to bathe and change from his borrowed shirt and bloodstained clothes. Now, clad in his perfectly tailored trousers and coat, his black silk neckcloth pinned with a gold stick pin, and not a hair out of place, he climbed the stairs to the studio.

The cut on his chest burned.

The door was partially open, light from dozens of candles spilling out across the floor.

He'd always heard artists needed natural light to paint, but that hadn't stopped Cassandra. A paint-splashed smock covered her dress, as she filled a section of canvas with vivid red. She didn't notice him, so focused was she, painting as feverishly as she'd wielded the sword.

"Leave the tray on the table, Paola," she said without turning, her body so tense it seemed as if the tendons must snap.

"I'm not Paola," Lucien said softly.

Cassandra wheeled without first lifting her brush, leaving a streak of red upon the canvas like a wound. He saw her hand tremble, but she swiftly stilled it. She dumped her brush into turpentine, and grabbed a rag to dab at her hand.

"I startled you." He gestured to the red smear.

"Fortunately with oils I can paint over my mistakes. Life is not that simple."

"No," Lucien agreed, crossing to the easel. "After what happened at The Willows, there are things you and I need to discuss."

"Are there? I thought I made my feelings clear. Your sudden show of concern makes me sick. You threw Jane and I away, flinging us the occasional bank draft to sooth your guilty conscience. Now you can look us in the eye." Cassandra's mouth curled in bitterness.

"Twenty years…Did you ever think about us?"

"No." Truth was he'd tried not to think at all. The weeks following that hideous night, he'd had all he could do to keep Simon sane. Lucien had been horrified, as if he'd set a stable afire and could still hear the horses screaming…

That dark light shone in Cassandra's eyes. "I thought about you ," she said. "What I'd say to you. What I'd do to make you suffer a small portion of what Jane and I suffered. You swept us out of Everdene Hall like yesterday's rubbish. Last time, I didn't know how to fight back. But I taught myself. Every moment I could steal away, until I mastered the skills…"

A raw, wary admiration rose in Lucien. As a girl, Cassandra had been all ribbons and dancing slippers and delight. The kind of girl adults smiled indulgently at, and eyes followed. Spirited, pretty, with quick intelligence. Loyal and protective toward their mother.

God, how different things might have been if he'd listened to her long ago.

"No man will ever find me helpless again."

She looked so fierce, and yet, society itself set forces against a woman that no sword could match.

"I wish to discuss arrangements to insure that," he said evenly.

Her upper lip curled in a sneer. "It is not your part to arrange anything for me anymore."

"Society's strictures say otherwise."

"I hate you for what you did to mother and me. But mostly, I hate you for what you did to Jane. Do you know she didn't speak for two years? I was afraid they'd lock her away in an asylum. I worked day and night to coax her to speak. You did that to her."

"I know." Lucien stood, impassive, schooling his face into a stoic expression that didn't show the knife to the heart. "What I did was wrong."

"If you're looking for absolution, you'll never get it from me. Why don't you go away and leave all of us alone? You're not one of us. You never were."

For a moment, he could picture how it was years before…Jane, Simon and Cass with their mother…that awkwardness he'd felt mixed in with the sense of pride in being set above them as the firstborn son and heir. He'd remained silent when the earl shared his scorn for the rest of the family.

It was as if Cassandra was remembering the same scene. "Go off and do whatever important business father's great heir has to do," she said, wiping her hands on a rag as if she would scrub him from the family as well. "Leave Jane and Simon, Mother and me in peace."

"That is my intention." Lucien straightened his cuff. "I have written my banker to instruct him that you may withdraw whatever funds you and Jane require?—"

"Don't tell me you hope to send us away from Everdene again! I'll not be discarded like rubbish so you can be comfortable."

He cut her off in cool, firm accents. "Everdene Hall is your home, for as long as you wish to remain here. I will stay away unless pressing business compels me to return. If it does, I will give you fair warning so you and Jane may take a brief holiday or join Mother in Galen's Well if you prefer."

For a moment, she looked taken aback, a hint of softness in her face, then her expression hardened. "Good. You cannot leave soon enough for me. Now, I need to repair my painting." She wheeled back to her work, scooping up palette and brush.

He stared for a moment at the slash of red upon the canvas, then turned to leave. At the door, he paused and looked back at his sister. Her stiff shoulders, the aura of vigilance, as if she were waiting for a blow.

"Cass," he said, low, "for what it's worth…thank you. For looking after Jane."

He could see her catch her breath. "Your thanks are worth nothing since you are the one responsible for Jane's wounds. Just keep your promise and stay away from here."

"I give you my word."

As he made his way downstairs, an unexpected image flashed in his mind. Grace Elliot, her curls a-tumble, her eyes lifted to his. He could still feel the way she'd touched him, completely unintimidated by the stony armor he'd drawn about himself since the night he'd stood by as his sisters were banished.

Permanently leaving Everdene Hall was the only way to ensure his sisters could live in peace. It also ensured that he'd not chance to run into Grace again, picking berries…picnicking at the lakeside…or in the kitchen at midnight when the rest of the world was asleep.

He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her fingertips, gentle, so capable, on his bare skin. Her tenderness. That innate kindness was more genuine than any he'd ever experienced.

Distancing himself from her was for the best. One more regret to pile on a lifetime of regrets.

He found Arkwright and Simon sitting in the billiard room, their cues leaning against the wall, a bottle of fine whiskey on the table between them.

Their gazes snapped up to Lucien, then to his chest. Worry creased Simon's brow. Both men knew better than to ask after his health.

"Luce, sit down, man," Arkwright ventured. "Have a drink. We were just about to pull out the playing cards. Care to join us?"

"No. I only wish to inform you that I've had a change in plans. I leave for London in the morning."

"What?" Simon started to rise from his chair. "You can't be serious."

Lucien pinned him with the implacable gaze that had kept rival MPs in their seats. "I wasn't asking for your opinion. I was informing you of my decision. Arkwright, you needn't chafe. You can stay for as long as we originally planned, of course. Enjoy the horses, the country."

"That is not my concern!" His friend actually seemed offended. "Surely it's not wise to be jolting around in a coach."

"Rhys is right, Luce. You're not invincible," Simon cautioned. "The wound will break open or become putrid."

As he looked at his brother, a vast chasm seemed to open up between them.

How could he explain the wound already had?

The trunks were stacked at the entrance, waiting to be loaded when the coach was brought round. He'd penned instructions for the latest repairs on the grist mill, hoping that he could delay the necessity of the far more expensive, permanent solution Simon favored. Everyone must economize until England—hell, all of Europe—shook off this run of poor harvests, potato blight, and crofters on the edge of rebellion who did not understand the challenges landlords faced.

"My lord," a footman announced from the door. "Someone is here to see you, the matter most urgent, I'm told."

Lucien shut his ledger and suppressed a sigh. "Someone about estate business?"

"Lady Grace Elliot."

Just her name was like a bracing breath of sea air. Whatever this was about, an unreasonably powerful wave of pleasure washed through him. He would be able to see her one more time.

"She awaits in the blue parlor," the footman said

Lucien stood, straightened his cravat, then went to meet her. She was wandering about the room as if she couldn't keep still. A riding habit of cerulean-blue velvet clung to her curves, gold braid across the front and rows of brass buttons giving it a military flair. A top hat with a streamer of net veil had been abandoned on a piecrust table, and she'd stripped off her gloves. But it was her face that arrested his attention. There was something almost frenetic in her eyes and flushed cheeks. Those lips that had haunted last night's dreams were drawn in such a desperate expression he crossed to her, taking her hands in his.

Her eyes went wide at the sight of him, and she stammered. "I'm sorry to—to arrive unannounced."

He smoothed his thumbs over her knuckles, wanting to ease the tension thrumming through her.

"Is something amiss? Please tell me you've not misplaced one of your brothers," he said, hoping to tease a smile from her.

"No. Not yet, anyway. I need to speak to you."

Lucien's brow creased. He had seen her in the most stressful circumstances imaginable. Half-naked in his arms by the lake. Alone in her nightgown with frosting clinging to her skin…In the party when the earl himself had swept in like a hawk and at the archery range when Cassandra had wounded him.

But never had he seen her so rattled. It sent a chill down his spine. Concern puckered his brow. "I am at your service. Come in. Sit down. Would you care for some refreshment?"

"N—no. But perhaps…" She glanced at where a decanter stood on his desk. "Perhaps just a—a taste of…of spirits."

He poured her some wine, then pressed the cut glass tumbler into her hand. She was trembling. He felt an unexpected twinge of concern—an unfamiliar tug in his chest. "Lady Grace, are you quite well? Whatever it is, you had best out with it."

She sipped the drink. He watched her pink tongue lick away a red droplet that clung to those rosy lips. She closed her eyes, her lashes curled on her rose-blushed cheeks. "This is so much harder than it seemed when I first thought of the idea," she said. Swallowing hard, she rummaged in the pocket of her gown and drew out a newspaper clipping, laying it on the table before her.

He frowned as he looked down at the image. It was one of the cartoons, the ‘Elusive Viscount E' with alligators in bridal veils snapping at his heels.

"Not a particularly flattering likeness of me," Lucien observed.

"Is it true? That you are plagued with women seeking your hand?"

"I've had a narrow escape or two." He pictured Arkwright rolling his eyes. Were it not for pure luck and skill, Lucien might have been leg-shackled half a dozen times. Fortunately, he'd earned the enmity of those he'd outwitted, rather than gaining a wife.

Grace withdrew a handkerchief and seemed in danger of rending it to bits. "My lord, I have come with a—a business proposition I believe will be to both of our benefits."

"Indeed?"

"You need a wife and I…I need a husband."

Lucien stared at her, rendered speechless for, perhaps, the first time in his life. "I confess, of all the matters I thought I'd discuss today, this is the last," he said after a long moment. "You seemed a reasonable creature when we spoke before. What in God's name made you come up with this idea?"

"I know that this is an unusual proposition, but it could suit us both, don't you think? We get on well. You would no longer have marriage-minded mamas plotting to snare you for their daughters.I would be an asset to you in town, if that is what you desire. Otherwise, I would be quite happily situated here near my family."

But I won't be here. Lucien considered the promise he'd just made his sister.

Grace was willing to marry him to remain close to her family, when all he wanted to do was escape his own.

"I learned at my mother's knee the skills that are necessary to be an exemplary political hostess."

"Lady Barbara Elliot was a remarkable lady. Her talents in that realm are still talked about in London."

She glanced away briefly, her eyes glossed with tears. "Thank you for saying so," she said with aching sincerity. "Mama had a gift for getting opposing sides to talk to each other. More importantly, on occasion listen . She insisted that all men are more amiable when they've been fed a good meal in the company of a woman who knows how to guide conversation and mediate disagreements." A shy dimple winked on Grace's cheek. "Mama likened it to juggling knives."

"Pardon me?"

"If you know how to manage it, you can impress the company and aim blows at the correct target. If not, the bloodstains quite ruin the whole endeavor."

Lucien laughed. His own mother had no talent for such machinations. Lenora Harcourt, Countess of Ravenscroft, had ever been a gentle spirit, shy in large gatherings.

There had been a time Lucien had understood the earl's frustration with his wife.

He'd watched his father's friends and fellow lords forge alliances, plan legislation, bring opponents to their knees with the help of the aristocratic wives who brought elegance, grace and a light, feminine touch to men's affairs, sometimes with a clarity that astonished.

There were worse prospects than having Barbara Elliot's daughter at one's side.

"So you would be my political hostess," he said carefully. "What benefit might there be to you, my dear?"

"As a viscount's wife, I would be able to retain my independence, and pursue causes I am passionate about. I would have entry to any drawing room in the land, and be able exert my influence and help to shape conversations."

"And what are these issues you are so eager to champion?"

"The fate of children, women. Injustices like slavery and factory conditions. The Poor Law. The kinds of things my family has fought for since Wilberforce gave his first speech on enslavement."

"Very forward-thinking of you. But not the whole truth, I'll be bound." He gently disentangled the handkerchief from her fingers and set it aside. "What is the real reason?"

She drew in a shuddering breath. "It's just…Scotland is so very far away. My father and Helen are sending me there before the week is out, pressing me to marry someone I've never even met."

Arranged marriages were common enough. But the thought of Grace being forced into such a situation by her ungrateful father made Lucien clench his fist. He forced his hand to relax then curved his palm against her cheek. "Why such sudden haste to whisk you away from The Willows?"

"You."

Lucien raised one brow in surprise.

She began to twist her hands together, and he feared they would fair no better than the handkerchief. He caught the tender fingers between his own.

"Papa is convinced that—that there is something between you and me."

"Ah," he said, stroking her hands. "Score one for Lord Elliot's intuition."

"Last night, after your accident, Bennet, Ethan and Avery couldn't sleep," she rushed on. "Their whole world is upside down, yet Father would send me away and leave them no one to comfort them. If I desert them…" Tears coursed down her cheeks. "Lucien, I can't bear to be sent so far away. Bennet is so little and Avery is so angry. I'm afraid he might do something desperate. And Ethan…I don't know what he's feeling half the time, but I need to find out."

Lucien swallowed hard, astonished at how deeply her plea affected him. He remembered all too well the kiss that had left him so damned restless, and the way she'd touched his bare chest, tended the wound with capable hands, undaunted by family drama, the bloody gash, the fact that he was a man she barely knew.

Was he actually tempted to accept her proposal?

"My dear, I would make the very devil of a husband," he said gently. "Even if we were mad enough to consider this…arrangement…there is an impediment. If Lord Elliot is willing to send you to Scotland to escape my attentions, he would hardly consent to our union."

She raised her chin, and looked straight into Lucien's eyes.

"If Papa knew you'd compromised me, he'd have no choice."