Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

A re you certain you won't come with us?

Simon's urgings from earlier that morning haunted Lucien as he wandered the echoing emptiness of Everdene Hall.

We can make room in the coach.

That might be true for almost anyone else, Lucien thought. But if he had joined the other Harcourts on their visit to their old nurse, the luxurious space would have filled with suffocating tension. The walls closing in as they had whenever he entered the room where his family gathered.

No. It was better that he remained behind to deal with the one complication only he could resolve: What the devil to do about their father, the Earl of Ravenscroft.

Thus far, the earl seemed ignorant of his daughters' return.

But, at some point, he would hear the news, even exiled as he was to the isolated estate of Bitterne Tower. And when he did…

Lucien stalked to the window and peered into the distance at the empty space where a collection of thatched roofs and a church spire had once been visible from the manor house—the village that had been razed at their father's command. Thanks to Simon and Penelope, a New Everdene had been built elsewhere to house the displaced tenants. But Lucien had often caught his sister Jane staring in horror at the place where the old village once stood, evidence of the earl's willingness to lay waste to lives upon a whim, just as he had shattered his children's world twenty-odd years ago.

Lucien twisted the signet ring on his finger, the Harcourt motto pressed beneath his thumb. While I am vigilant, I am safe . He'd failed to keep his sisters safe years ago. He would not fail them now.

He needed to attend the small party Simon's wife, Penelope, had planned with just a few trusted guests to welcome Cassandra and Jane home and acclimate them to their new surroundings. If he left for Bitterne Tower as soon as it was over, surely that would be soon enough to warn the earl away?

Lucien was startled from his thoughts by the sound of a coach coming up the drive. A sudden jolt shot through him, as if, just by thinking of his father, he could summon the devil. But the coach was unfamiliar. One more annoying interruption. He was turning to instruct the servants that he was not to be disturbed when he saw a flash of heart-shaped face and rosewood colored hair framed by the coach window.

Lady Grace.

He didn't want to feel that kick of recognition in his chest or feel himself drawn to the door as if by an invisible thread. And, yet, that is exactly what happened.

By the time he stepped outside, Lady Grace had handed something to the footman and leapt lightly to the ground.

Today, she wore a blue and white striped day dress with soft, bell-like sleeves and a straw bonnet trimmed with silk buttercups. Wind tugged at curls that peeped out beneath the brim, the tendrils a changeable mix of brown, auburn and a hint of deep gold. A locket dangled from the blue velvet ribbon about her throat, the delicate oval cradled in the hollow between winged collar bones. The glint of sunlight on gold drew his gaze down to where full breasts filled her bodice. Suddenlyhe pictured her as he'd seen her last—soaking wet, her chemise clinging to her body, outlining every curve.

After their encounter at the lake, he knew the shape and feel of those breasts far better than any man save her husband should.

"Viscount Everdene," she said, dipping into a curtsey, not a hint of shyness or uncertainty in her face. One had to admire her courage.

"Lady Grace." Lucien bowed stiffly. "To what do I own this unexpected pleasure? After our encounter by the lakeshore, I hardly expected you to appear on my doorstep."

A dimple flashed in her cheek. "Actually, I am only here as a chaperone." She rapped on the side of the coach and three small boys edged out. Garbed in suits of solemn black, they clumped together.

"Avery, Ethan, and Bennet are the ones who have come to see you," she said, gesturing to each lad in turn. They might have been facing a tribunal, their faces as sober as it was possible to be when one was plagued with a button nose and cowlick.

Avery took a round tin from the Elliot's footman and stepped forward. The cloth covering it rustled slightly. "My lord, we're here to apologize for throwing mud at you, and to bring you this. It's to show how very sorry we are."

The two youngest Elliots looked appropriately repentant. The eldest—Avery—did not. There was a subtle tilt to his head that made Lucien question his sincerity.

Lucien took the peace offering and peeked beneath the cloth as if expecting to find a rat trap. Instead, he found what appeared to be a rather lumpy pastry.

"Grace says this is penitent pie," Ethan added. "Full of berries Grace made us pick for hours!"

"You needn't worry, my lord," Bennet assured him. "Grace watched us every minute. Even if we wanted to put pebbles in it, we couldn't have."

The reassurance should have been more comforting than it actually was. "Thank you," he said, then muttered sotto voce, "I think."

"Grace, did we apologize well enough to see the horses?" Bennet asked hopefully, then turned a pleading gaze to Lucien. "She said if we were very sorry, we could visit the horses. I brought this, just in case." Bennet dug into his coat pocket and produced a lump of sugar with bits of lint clinging to it. He held it out to Lucien with a sticky hand.

"I hope you don't mind," Grace said. "We saw a groom working one of your beautiful horses when we drove up. The boys were entranced."

The trainer in question was Simon's friend and partner, Jamie McLeod, no doubt. After years in the army and being a prisoner of war, the Scotsman had no more use for company than Lucien did. He never spoke of what happened between his capture and his stunning return from the dead. It remained a mystery. Those years left him with little patience for anything, save the exotic horses he and Simon were determined to breed in England.

Lucien handed the pie to the footman. "Take this to the kitchen with strict orders that no one is allowed to cut into it but me." This caused Bennet to grin as if given some sort of culinary accolade. The truth: Lucien wasn't risking someone breaking a tooth—despite the assurances he'd received. He turned back to the lads and gave them the stern look that had sent members of the opposition into full retreat. "Do I have your word as gentlemen that there will be no more flinging of mud, or waylaying travelers?"

"Yes, my lord," the boys chorused.

"Then you may go to the paddock if your sister allows it. Do not make noise or startle the horse," he warned sternly.

With a chorus of whoops, the three bolted off.

"So much for not making noise," he observed with a grimace.

Grace sighed and toyed with the ribbon streamer on her bonnet. "You'd think they'd be exhausted. I made the wee rogues pick the berries themselves, and they groaned the entire time because I would not allow them to eat their harvest."

A tender, wistful expression softened her face. Lucien took it in, the peach color on her high cheekbones, the freckles dusting her nose. She'd eschewed gloves, he noticed, and there was a purple stain on one knuckle. Berry juice from the pie, he deduced. He had an absurd impulse to raise that hand to his mouth and suck the juice off.

He shook himself inwardly. He wasn't the kind of man who went about licking young ladies' hands willy-nilly. Not even those of his former mistress. What the blazes was wrong with him? Taking stern hold of such impulses, he withdrew his handkerchief and offered it to her. "Lady Grace, something seems to have spilled on your hand."

She looked down. "Oh, bother! The piecrust was leaking on the way here. The jolting of the carriage, you see. I was holding the pan and didn't want to spoil my gloves, so I stripped them off."

She dabbed at the mark ineffectually with the linen square, then turned her face away, to hide what she was doing. But Lucien still glimpsed her raising that stain to her lips, her small, pink tongue dampening it before she wiped the juice away.

His throat went dry. He searched for a way to change the subject before the front of his breeches became an embarrassment. To his great relief, Grace turned toward the stables.

"I'd best keep an eye on my brothers so they don't get into any more mischief," she said. "I'd hate to see one of them climb up on those remarkable horses you and your brother raise. Perhaps you could keep me company until I can tear them away? Unless, of course, you're too busy."

He was. Busy. Always. He made sure of it. He certainly didn't have time to be chasing after a pack of rambunctious boys who threw mud pies at those unfortunate enough to cross their paths. One shuddered to imagine what they might find to launch at him in the mews.

"I could say I will accompany you to put a damper on any wild schemes," he said, and they fell into step together. "But…"

"My lord?" she said, looking over at him.

"The truth is, you pique my curiosity. After our disastrous encounter at the lake, most ladies of my acquaintance would either hide any time they saw me or cry ruin."

"Ruin?" She laughed, and he felt a strange sensation, as if he'd just taken that first drink of superior brandy. He wanted more. "You could hardly ruin me with my three brothers looking on!" she said. "As for hiding…Mama taught me to always face mistakes instead of pretending they don't exist."

"I attended several dinners with your late mother when I first came to London. Not only did Lady Elliot have one of the finest minds I've yet encountered, she was happy to tell members of parliament they were making mistakes."

She stopped for a moment, toying with a small gold locket at her throat. "Mama never shied away from speaking her mind when it came to important causes. I only wish others would follow her example." Her smile grew wistful. "How I miss her."

Lucien drew back a step, the ache in those words chafing him.

"As for mistakes, her theory was that everyone makes them," Grace said, unaware of his discomfort. "It's what you do afterward that matters."

The words hung between them. Lucien did not know what to say.

"To that end," she continued, "I made certain my brothers understood the error of their ways. After all, you did believe I was drowning and dove in to save me. It was very gallant of you, really. Had the situation been different, I would have owed you my life."

"To be fair, you were thrashing about as if you were in distress."

"That was the sea monster's fault."

Lucien shook his head, thinking he'd misheard. "Sea monster?"

"It's a game we play. Loch Ness has one," she quipped. "Why not our lake?"

"Perhaps Loch Ness has one because Scots are a trifle mad."

Lines appeared between her winged brows at his words and he wondered if she disliked Scots. When they reached the paddock fence, she looked at her brothers, the shadow deepening in her eyes. He felt an unexpected urge to banish it. "You must admit, one hardly expects a lady of noble birth to be creating such a scene," he said.

"I suppose that is true. I've been told that my behavior was beyond reproach until my mother died. After that…" She swallowed hard. "I would do anything to make my brothers smile. The best way to get them to romp about again is to join them. In the beginning, I did so for them. But as time passed, I found taking part in their antics delightful, freeing after so long in a sick room."

Lucien raised one brow. "You find ice cold lake water delightful?"

"No. But I adore my brothers' laughter. So much better than the silence of mourning." She paused, staring out across the field at the horse and trainer. "Perhaps you have heard that my father remarried?"

"I had heard something of it," he replied. Rather precipitately after his first wife's death, from all accounts.

"The elopement was quite…unexpected."

Lucien could hear so much unspoken in her hesitation. "Has the adjustment been challenging, to have a new person in charge of the household?"

"Our stepmother is a widow who never had children of her own. Since her arrival, the boys have gotten a bit out of hand. Our encounter at the lake was only the first of the day's events."

"I shudder at the possibilities. What, pray tell, was their grand finale?"

She spun out the tale, the luncheon with the vicar's wife, the open window, ‘ghosts' moving furniture.

Lucien didn't want to be amused, but her words painted the picture so vividly it reminded him of Simon many years ago. For once, in ways that didn't cause pain.

When she finished, he gave a sympathetic nod. "One can always depend on family to throw things into chaos."

"Oh, undoubtedly. But also, to love you, even when you are putting toads in sugar bowls and flinging mudpies. Perhaps especially when you are flinging mudpies."

His brows drew together as he tried to sift through what she'd implied. "Did you say toads in a sugar bowl?"

"I did."

He couldn't help but smile at the thought.

"There, now!" She clapped her hands, startling him. "I've won my wager with Avery."

"What wager is that?"

"You do smile!It's just a bit like a shooting star."

Lucien shook himself inwardly at the absurd comparison. "Shooting star?"

"It's rare, and you have to be watching to see it or snap , it will be gone. I am quite an expert on the subject as it happens. Shooting stars, not your smiles. It began when mother was ill, and we spent many a long night peering out the window. When we imagined what might come after life, we weren't satisfied with harps and angels, and decided if the heavens were to be her next residence, we should become familiar with it. We began studying astronomy with the boys. We even chose the star that she would wait upon, so they could see it winking and know she was still watching over them."

He was charmed in spite of himself. He looked across at the three boys and added more gently. "Your brothers are fortunate to have you. My mother has always loved stars as well," Lucien said. "She has a room we call the Sky Chamber, painted blue, with gilt stars on the ceiling."

Servants had accidentally put his father there after the carriage accident that had nearly cost him his life, that location setting in motion events that had turned the world of Everdene, its tenants, and the Harcourt family on end.

Only he knew why those servants had placed his unconscious father in that chamber. And damned if Lucien would enlighten anyone.

"I remember that room from when I was a child," Grace exclaimed. "The stars were arranged in constellations, weren't they? I wanted to paint some on the nursery ceiling for my brothers, but my father would not allow it."

A slight breeze wafted her scent toward him, sunshine and meadow grass. Natural, real, warm.

"I'm afraid I'm quite chattering on," she said. "It's been a very long time since I've spoken to anyone save my family."

Lucien followed her gaze to the paddock where the three Elliot rapscallions clustered.

McLeod sat astride the mare, Titania, the horse's rare golden coat shimmering like liquid metal. Dainty round hooves seemed barely to touch the ground as she changed leads, her neck arched, cream mane flowing. Avery and Ethan stood on the bottom rung of the gate, transfixed, while Bennet balanced on the top, every muscle in his small body seeming to strain toward the horse.

"I know my brothers seem incorrigible, but I believe boys—like horses—need a deft hand to civilize them, without breaking their spirits." She smiled at her brothers, so warmly it made Lucien's chest feel tight. He wanted her to smile at him that way. "Wait until you have a son, my lord."

"I have no intention of doing so." The words slipped out, sharp edged.

"But you're a viscount. You will need to provide an heir."

"My brother is busy filling the Harcourt cradle."

Green eyes regarded him askance. "So, you are expecting your brother to do your sums?"

"Pardon me?"

"Avery used to do that with Ethan until I caught him. He'd bribe Ethan to do his maths so he could run out to play." She levelled Lucien a teasing look that gave him a glimpse into the elder sister she was. "It's called cheating."

Lucien's shoulders stiffened. "Compromises need to be made in certain situations," he said crisply. "My family is nothing like yours."

"Not many families are. At least as we were before." A soft sigh stirred the lace at her breast. "It is painful when families change. But then, you know that as well as I. It was no small thing when your sisters left."

You have no idea , Lucien thought grimly.

"I wrote to Jane, but she never answered," Grace said.

"She and Cassandra were sent to aunts in Italy. They are recently returned to Everdene."

Grace's eyes sparkled. "Jane and Cassandra here! Oh, I would so love to see them again!"

"They have gone to Galen's Well for the day, the place where my mother resides, but my brother's wife is having a house party over this weekend. Dinner on Friday night then hunting Saturday morning if the weather holds.Perhaps you would care to join us?"

He made it sound casual, and yet he wanted Grace to be there. Wanted it with a fierceness that was inexplicable. "Your brother is invited as well," he added to dispel the uncomfortable sense of intimacy between them.

She slanted a merry glance up at him through thick black lashes. "Avery, Ethan or Bennet?"

He arched one brow. "I'd prefer the only Elliot brother who hasn't doused me in mud."

"Why, I think you made a jest, my lord." Her smile lit up her whole face. He experienced a pull of desire deep in his chest. Suddenly he felt as if he were back on the lake shore, the swells of her breasts against his chest.

"I think calling me ‘my lord' is becoming absurd," he said. "Call me Lucien."

Where had that come from? Nobody called him Lucien except his family. But then, she had. The Grace of his childhood, merely copying the informality of his siblings.

"You may use my name as well—" She looked at him a trifle sternly. "As long as you don't use that taunting inflection that always made me want to slap you."

"You should have done it." He grimaced.

She smiled, her lips teasing, tempting. "I would love to join your house party for the weekend," she said. A dimple peeked out and he felt an urge that astonished him.

What would she do if he claimed those berry-sweet lips? It would be madness to do so. Yet, he couldn't help but think what the weekend house party would bring. Friday, she would be just down the hall from his bedchamber.

A mistake waiting to happen.