Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

R ain was dampening the October evening as Lucien strode into the townhouse, feeling a trifle sheepish. He'd had an engagement scheduled at Whites but canceled it. How Grace would laugh if she knew he had turned down meeting men at his club so he could spend the evening with his wife. Not only because he enjoyed her company—which he did to an increasingly alarming degree—but because of that damnable novel she was reading to him. It was a bit like the opium dens he had heard of, luring a man in, weaving a dreamworld so real one did not want to leave it. Last night they had broken off just at the most exciting part, and he needed to find out what happened next to Little Nell, and whether that scheming bastard Quilp would be crushed at last. But as Lucien handed his cloak and hat to a footman, a strange hush blanketed the house, reminding him of the days when he had lived alone.

He frowned. He would never be the kind of man who lived in his wife's pocket, but in the months since their wedding, he had become accustomed to her smile, the swish of her skirts, the soft, feminine touches about surroundings that had once been bachelor quarters.

Perhaps she had gone out. Women had been seeking her friendship of late. Lady Alice Pinchbeck had even sent an invitation to the theater in two weeks' time. Lucien grimaced at the prospect. He would have to be sure not to accidentally look at the girl, lest she leap out of the box like a frightened hare.

Confound it, where was his wife? He searched the library and drawing room before encountering a maid, the startled girl all but dropping a tray of prism-decked candelabrum candlesticks she'd polished, the crystal teardrops jangling.

"Your pardon, sir. Wasn't expecting anyone to be in here. Graves said you were to be dining at your club."

"A change in plans. Has Lady Everdene gone out?"

"Oh, no, my lord. Her ladyship has kept to her room since this afternoon. Had her meal brought up on a tray and everything."

What the devil? Lucien felt a surge of protectiveness that startled him. If one of those society women was plaguing her, they'd deal with him.

"I fear she is not feeling well," the maid continued.

But Lucien was already halfway up the steps. When he was ill, he wanted nothing more than to be left in peace. But this was his wife who'd seemed perfectly fine that very morning. When he opened the door, saw her curled up on her side with a pillow held against her belly, he rushed to her side, alarmed. "I shall summon a physician at once."

"No. You mustn't!" Her cheeks turned pink.

He put his hand on her forehead, grateful when he found it cool to the touch. Still, her face was somewhat pale. "You don't look well."

"At the risk of sounding indelicate, I am…having my monthly courses."

"…Oh."

He couldn't quell a jab of disappointment—not about fact that she hadn't fallen pregnant exactly. He wasn't even sure if he'd been hoping she was with child or relieved she was not. He couldn't quite fathom why he felt this sinking sensation, nor did he want to. It wasn't just that he would not be enjoying her body tonight. Nor that they would not sit cozily by the fire while she read from Dickens, which was even more disappointing. No. It was something far more disconcerting. "You won't want to read this evening," he said, seizing on the least dangerous option.

"I'm afraid I'm not quite up to it right now."

"No. Of course not…" At a loss, both from seeing her in this state, and the jumble of his own thoughts, he felt an irresistible urge to help. "I could…read to you," he said. "If you wish…?"

It was several seconds before she answered, and the smile she gave him did something strange to his heart. "I would like that very much, a welcome distraction, perhaps."

Lucien went to fetch the book and shed his jacket, cravat, waistcoat and boots.

He rolled up his cuffs, then lay down atop the coverlet beside her, his back propped up on pillows. "Would you like to rest your head on my shoulder?" he asked, and she scooted her body closer, nestling against him. He could feel the sweet weight of her cheek through the fabric of his shirt, her breath warm. That languor came over him, a melting sensation as the tightness in his muscles relaxed, the guard he kept up softening just a little.

Opening the book, he cleared his throat and began to read, not one chapter, but two…three…At last, he stopped to pour himself a glass of wine.

"Is your voice growing tired?" Grace murmured as he took a drink.

"Not at all. Unless you wish to sleep?"

She shook her head. "I love the sound of your voice." Her eyes sparked with amusement. "I can see why you win so many arguments in parliament."

"Perhaps I can argue that we should finish this book tonight?"

"Because…?"

He smiled. "We are nearly to the end. I have to find out what happens."

She laughed. "It is a good thing you didn't read this when it was released as a serial.We had to wait a full week to find out. Then Avery got measles, and Papa made us wait even longer, until he was well to finish it."

A scene flashed in his mind. Something Lucien hadn't thought of since he was a boy. A sick room, the light bothering his eyes, his skin itching…and Cassandra…

Grace's brow puckered. "Is something amiss? You look rather done in all of a sudden."

"No…I'm fine. I was just remembering something. Cassandra and I had the measles at the same time when we were small." His mother had never left their sides.

She pushed herself up on an elbow, her nightgown dipping just a little to expose the topmost swell of one breast. "How old were you?"

Why had he even opened that door to her question? He could still brush it off, but somehow felt compelled to answer. "Six." As long ago as it had been, he still remembered clearly…"They put us in the same bed away from Simon and Jane. I was burning with fever, but Cass insisted on covering me with that infernal blanket she dragged about." And yet, he hadn't complained. Even at six, he'd known sharing that blanket was a gift his sister had given him. "My mother had embroidered the corner of it…Pansies, Cass's favorite…"

He wasn't even aware he'd spoken this last bit out loud, until Grace said, "That sounds like a lovely memory."

Only because he'd had decades to dull all that happened. Even to this day, it burned like the sore throat that had tormented him. When he and his sister had finally recovered and were allowed out of the sick room, his father had taken Cassandra's blanket to burn. Might have destroyed all of it except…he shoved the memory away.

"Shall we continue the book?" he asked briskly, returning to the bed. He lit a fresh candle to give himself more light.

The rustle of pages and the bedchamber with its warm fire and rich accoutrements faded as he lost himself in the story once more. Relief filled him as Nell and her grandfather found safe haven. Lucien's chest felt tight, and something prickly seemed lodged in his throat as the little girl was tucked in a warm bed at last. He swallowed hard, his voice sounding strange as he read Nell's words. " ‘When I die, put near me something that has loved the light—' What the devil?!" He slammed the book shut. Startled, Grace jerked her head from his shoulder. "Nell dies ?" He glared at Grace in indignation. "What was this Dickens fellow thinking?" It took a moment for his head to clear enough to see Grace's face. A tear welled on her lashes, trickled free. His outrage faded away, leaving him appalled at his behavior.

He smoothed his thumb across her cheek, gathering up her tears. "Forgive me for being churlish, sweetheart."

"It's not you." Her voice broke. "It's Nell…"

Lucien gathered her into his arms, experiencing a surge of relief that he wasn't responsible for her tears. Cursing Dickens for drawing them from her. He kissed the crown of her head, rubbing her back, wanting above all things to soothe her pain away. Her hand curled in his shirt, her hair spilling across the pillow, smelling of flowers and compassion…

"Nell isn't real, sweetheart," he murmured. "You are weeping over the death of a child who never existed."

"And, yet, you were upset as well."

"That's different. You knew how the book would end. I did not."

She lay her hand upon his chest, her touch penetrating far deeper than the surface of his skin, sinking through to muscle, bone…to the place where he should have had a heart. "The real reason I'm upset is that there are a thousand Little Nells all over London. They just have names like Sibby Rose."

He felt a throb of something that made his throat go dry. How was it that he had thought he could simply get her with child, then walk back to his own life unchanged?

"I will leave you to rest," he said, needing to put distance between them so he could think straight. Think at all. He gently untangled her fingers, slowly slipped from her bed and doused the candle flame. Shadows surrounded him, but he was used to darkness. He made his way to his bedchamber door, his shirt still damp with her tears; his imagination filled with images he could have gone his whole life without noticing…and feelings too new to understand.

Grace leaned close to Lucien as the Harcourt coach waited its turn to draw up to the Theater Royal, the line of equipages and lanterns stringing out before and after them like a glittering necklace.

She peered out the window at the spectacle. Tonight, Drury Lane was filled with contrasts. Jewels sparkled, fashionable gowns and bonnets a rainbow of color. Vendors were scattered about, hawking their wares, meat pies and slices of orange, trinkets and ribbons and fans. Here and there, scrawny, sharp-featured waifs wound through the crowd, ready to pick pockets, and hard-eyed men milled about ready to do worse, were they not held at a distance by towering footmen in livery.

It was a strange patchwork that changed whenever she looked, not unlike the man sitting beside her. In the weeks since they had finished the Dickens novel, her husband had seemed uncomfortable. Sometimes silent as a sphinx, watching her with a sharpness that made her feel bare to the skin, others so distant, his eyes guarded as if he expected her to slip a penknife between his ribs. He had been so tender that night, but now…even their lovemaking had changed, with a fierceness, but a wariness as well.

She put that troubling picture from her mind, looking over at her husband. "Wasn't it kind of Lady Alice to send tickets to the theater?" she asked. "I am so excited."

"So excited you nearly forgot?" Lucien observed and she winced inwardly. "I return home expecting to find my wife garbed in her theater finery, only to discover her elbow deep in a plethora of crates instead."

Was he angry with her? Or teasing? She wasn't sure. She had learned of a school set up for factory children to learn ciphering and reading on their Sundays off, and she had determined to do all she could to help. A calling made sweeter when she had found Sibby Rose Nolan outside the building where school was held, waiting to walk her older brother, Robert, home. The child's earnestness as Grace had shown her how to write the first two letters of her name was fresh in her mind, the little girl repeating with adorable seriousness. ‘ S' is a snake…‘i' is a candle with a dot of flame.

"I do apologize," she said. "But the slates and pencils I'd ordered arrived just as I was going upstairs to change. If you knew how delighted the children will be, you might have got distracted, too."

"I doubt it," he said.

She sucked in the corner of her lip. But before she could think what to say, gloved fingertips brushed her cheek, Lucien's deep voice starting a tremor along her skin.

"If playing Lady Bountiful makes your eyes shine like they did over those crates, I would consider purchasing every slate in London."

Her heart skipped, grateful as he smiled warmly. "Securing supplies for the school is my favorite thing about living in London. Almost ." She dared a wicked smile and squeezed his thigh. "As to my garb, I do hope it is up to your very fastidious standards."

"I will like the dress better when I have stripped it off of you later tonight." Lucien regarded her with eyes so intense they made her nipples burn. His lids fell to half-mast as he leaned in close, lowering his voice. "Perhaps we can leave at intermission."

The coach rumbled to a halt, the door suddenly opening, the footman letting down the coach steps. It seemed every eye in the surrounding crowd was turned their way. As Lucien descended and handed her down, she couldn't suppress a laugh.

"What do you find amusing, Lady Everdene?" Lucien asked.

"I was just recalling how it was during my first season. How my friends and I clustered together, imagining what it would be like to enter a room on the arm of a handsome escort everyone else had been swooning over."

"I never imagined you were the giggling, swooning type," Lucien said.

"You're partly correct. I told myself I was my mother's daughter—far above such fol-de-rol. It turns out, I am not nearly as dignified as I wished to be. I am quite enjoying all of the envious glances thrown my way."

The severe lines of Lucien's face softened in a way she had seen so rarely. He covered her hand with his. "My dear, I am the one to be envied. You look lovely tonight."

She was turning her face up to his when a piping little voice rang out, the Irish brogue like a song. "Posy…posy for milady, sir?"

Grace wheeled toward the sound, glimpsing a small girl in the crowd, a faded red cloak swathing her body. A box hung from a strap around her narrow shoulders.

"Sibby Rose!" Grace released Lucien's arm to wave at the little girl who took up the end of her plait, displaying a somewhat droopy, yet still-bright red ribbon. But before Grace could make her way to the child, Neville's voice jarred her.

"Ah! If it isn't the happy couple!" he said. Her former betrothed approached with an exquisite woman on his arm. "Lord Pinchbeck mentioned you were to come to the theater with Lady Alice."

"Unfortunately," Lucien said stiffly, starting to steer Grace past the couple, "Lady Alice has a megrim and sent her regrets."

"Yes. Most unfortunate. I was hoping to see her myself. However, the lovely Miss Marchand has volunteered to ease my disappointment."

Neville's companion caught Lucien's arm with a familiarity that set Grace's teeth on edge. Sultry violet eyes regarded Lucien with ill-concealed amusement, the woman's tongue moistening pouting lips. " Ma chère viscount, surely you do not mean to ignore an old friend?"

Grace saw the muscle in Lucien's jaw tighten, then he gave her a curt nod. "Miss Marchand."

Neville pushed on. "The lovely bride and I are friends as well. Allow me to introduce Miss Giselle Marchand, Lady Grace Elliot, er, Harcourt."

She heard Lucien's breath hiss between his teeth, felt his muscles knot beneath her hand. "Lady Everdene." His words were steely as a blade.

But the French beauty only looked up at him with a knowing laugh. "All these years you always swore you would never marry, and yet scandal snared you at last. Something about a house party, a tryst after midnight, and the parson's mousetrap snapped shut?"

Miss Marchand's tone made it a question, but there was a knowing light in those sly eyes. Was this pure conjecture, or had what transpired between Grace and Lucien somehow leaked out? Heat rose in her cheeks. "My lord, perhaps we should find our seats—" she began, trying to draw him away.

Lucien would not be moved. "Let me dispel your delusions at once, Miss Marchand. I wed Lady Grace because she is without peer. She puts every other woman of my acquaintance in the shade with her beauty, intelligence and kindness. If fools think I would wed for any other reason, they do not know me at all."

With a curt bow, he swept Grace toward the rotunda. She peered up at him, daring to hope. Was it possible what he had said was true?

What the devil was going on here? Lucien seethed, not even seeing the actors on the stage. Neville Freyne showing up with Lucien's former mistress? Here at the theater on the very night Lady Alice Pinchbeck invited Grace? And that snide comment of Giselle's—that Lucien had been forced into marriage because he'd compromised Grace…Was that just a swipe of cat's claws? Or something more?

Lord Elliot was still in contact with Freyne. Had Grace's father felt the need to explain why he agreed to the marriage and had Freyne told Giselle? Or had some servant witnessed their indiscretions at Everdene Hall or at the townhouse and started rumors?

These thoughts made Lucien's blood boil.

Yet, his answer to Giselle's jibe had unnerved him even more. Because the words had spilled out with the ring of truth…because of the way Grace had looked at him as he spoke them, the emotion he'd seen flare in her eyes…The hope…Love…

Fierce protectiveness mingled with a fear so raw he had to clench his hand to keep it still. At intermission Lady Downe came to visit Grace, and Lucien excused himself. He hunted down Freyne and drew the bloody bastard away from the crowd.

"What game are you playing, Freyne? Flaunting Giselle in front of my wife. Spewing rumors about the circumstances of my marriage? I swear, if you say another word to anyone?—"

"You think I am the only one who knows what you and Grace were up to? You avoided marriage so long. It's easy enough to reach that conclusion with pure conjecture, let alone when one is privy to?—"

"To what?"

"Anything I say would only be the truth."

"If I ever hear you are maligning my wife again, I will see you in hell."

"And here, I thought your brother was the Harcourt with a penchant for dueling," Freyne said, his gaze narrowing. "Pistols at dawn from the Viscount Everdene, the man with ice in his veins? That would give credence to the rumors about your marriage for sure."

Lucien loathed him for speaking that simple truth.

"As for pistols," Freyne continued, "you had better keep one close. You have developed a talent for making enemies." Freyne looked toward the box where Grace sat. "And it seems the iron-clad viscount has developed a weakness at last."