Chapter 26

26

“Your Grace, perhaps easing up on the wine would do it?”

The woman ran her hand over Lucien’s shirt, down his chest, his stomach, and to his crotch…

He didn’t care. There was no movement in his breeches whatsoever.

He whirled the ruby-red liquid in the glass and gulped down the rest of it.

The private boudoir of Elysium was lavish with its sensual interior—velvet curtains closed over the windows, the bed with its burgundy canopy, plush cover, and soft fur. Candlelight glimmered against the gilded frames on the burgundy wall panels. From behind the walls, he could hear faint sounds of pleasure, which would normally put him in the right mood but now only weighed on him. The room smelled like wood polish, perfume, and aromatic soap. The wine tasted divine, a rare French vintage, no doubt smuggled by the almighty Thorne Blackmore.

Two weeks ago, the house party at Pryde Manor had finished, and two weeks ago he had been exiled from everyone who was important to him.

He was alone. Truly and fully alone. Finally, the world—even his best friend—saw how worthless he really was. Finally, he had done what his mother had predicted.

Destroyed everything that was worth living for.

For two weeks he’d been drinking alone. He had come three previous times to Elysium, but none of his visits had resulted in anything. The Duke of Luhst was broken.

“Leave me,” he growled.

He felt the absence of his friends, and of Chastity, like a black chasm opening in his gut. He felt lost. Drifting somewhere. Afraid.

Only, what was there to be afraid of when the worst thing he’d feared had already happened to him?

Earlier this week, he saw the six other dukes in Mayfair. They walked out of Rath’s London house, all merry and cheerful, laughing.

Without him.

Lucien watched them from across the street, like a ghost. They were being themselves; they didn’t even miss him. And he was alone, watching them from afar. He could never be part of their brotherhood again.

“As you wish. Perhaps I should send Lilith? Someone else?”

“No. Just let me be.”

He didn’t look up as she walked out of the room. The door opened, shoes rustled against the floor, and he was alone.

Perhaps he fell asleep. Because suddenly, he was eighteen and in his uncle’s London house, climbing up the stairs. Worry for his uncle was heavy in his chest. No one had heard anything from Lord Cecil for days and, to Lucien’s surprise, there were no servants, no butler, no one to open the door for him.

As he climbed the wooden stairs two at a time, he knew he’d been here before. He knew what awaited him upstairs, in Cecil’s bedchamber.

When he opened the door, just as he had so many years ago, the heavy curtains were closed, casting long shadows across the room and a large four-poster bed.

With a wave of icy dread washing over him, he approached. The figure on the bed lay motionless, sunken into the mattress. Angry red sores peppered his pale, papery skin. His once-thick golden hair had thinned to wisps, revealing patches of scalp. The man’s clouded eyes stared into nothingness, eyelids occasionally twitching in pain. Each labored breath rattled in his chest, his rib cage visible with every inhale. His fingers, twisted and gnarled, clutched weakly at the sweat-soaked sheets. The sickly-sweet odor of decay hung in the air, mingling with the sharp scent of the medicinal tinctures on the bedside table.

Lucien went and stood by the bed, his throat tightening. This wasn’t Uncle Cecil.

The dying man’s clouded eyes rested on him, and Lucien had the strange sensation of an icy cold blade pressed against his spine.

You’ll die pox-ridden and alone…

This was not his uncle. He was looking down at an older, diseased, emaciated version of himself.

“You were a fool,” the old Lucien whispered. “A fool to believe Uncle Cecil, to close your heart as he did. He was afraid, afraid to be hurt. He loved you and didn’t want you to be hurt like he had been. But his life was one of loneliness, without love. You deserve better than this. Uncle Cecil did, too.”

Regret clawed at him as he felt tears rolling down his face. How many mistakes he had made. Dear people he had lost. Love he had avoided. His throat constricted as he choked on unspoken words and missed opportunities. The weight of years wasted pressed down on him, an invisible force threatening to crush him.

Lucien jerked awake, his heart pounding, the dream still vivid in his mind. He looked around the opulent room, feeling more alone than ever.

There was a man in an indigo coat standing in the doorframe looking at him. He looked sharp and put together, as always. “Upon my word, look at you,” he said.

Constantine, the Duke of Pryde. Lucien sat up, drenched in sweat, and ran his hands through his hair. His nightmare still clawed at him.

Pryde slowly walked into the room and sat on the bed next to Lucien. “You look like hell,” he said.

Lucien swallowed hard, his throat still thick and aching from the dream. “I am hell.” He stood up to pour more wine into his cup. “Wine?”

“No. I…I did want to see how you’re holding up.”

Lucien gulped the wine, then said, “Magnificent.”

“I’d like to take you away from here and return you back home.”

Lucien chuckled bitterly. “Might as well. I’m useless. Everything that made me who I was is gone. Chastity broke me with her silly bet. I managed to stay celibate for thirty days, and now my body fails to rise to the occasion.”

Pryde picked up Lucien’s yellow coat and helped him into it as though he was a valet. “Yes. Well. Chastity might have done something to you,” said Pryde as they walked out of the room and proceeded through the dark corridors illuminated by candle sconces. “But breaking your cock wasn’t one of those things. Perhaps it was more like breaking your heart.”

As they walked out into the morning light, Lucien squinted. He looked down Petticoat Street and saw Sterling’s hospital, his heart wrenching. Every time he passed it, he hoped he might get a glimpse of Chastity coming or going. But he never did. That was for the best. She would have a husband soon, one who would open the doors of St. Thomas’s for her.

They climbed into Pryde’s carriage, and the wheels started rattling beneath them.

“You’re wise beyond your years,” said Lucien as he watched the Whitechapel streets pass by, the houses that were falling apart, dirty merchants and people doing hard labor. “Somewhere here,” Lucien said, “is a little girl, supposedly my daughter.”

Pryde sighed. “Yes. She is your daughter, friend. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

Lucien shook his head. Was it futile to deny it?

“Fortyne hired an investigator who followed up with Mrs. Murray. She said she received just one letter with information that you’re the father and money enough to get her and Stella to my estate. She was told to come to my estate the day after she got the letter because that would be the last chance to see you. She did not know who the sender was.”

“No more threats have arrived to your estate? No more letters?” Lucien asked.

“Not yet.”

“I don’t know if it’s a relief or a concern. If they knew I had a child, what could they know of our other secrets? Especially yours. Especially given how the Prince Regent would like nothing more than to take your title away from you.”

Pryde’s face became deadly serious. “That would be disastrous.”

Lucien cleared his throat. “You know you don’t need to worry about me. Secrets shared. Secrets sealed. I remember. Even if I’m no longer a part of the brotherhood.”

Pryde gave him a cold stare. “And whose fault is that? If I remember correctly, it was you who broke one of the credos.”

“Well, I will never betray your secret,” Lucien snapped back. “Nor those of any one of my brothers.”

Pryde took in a deep breath. It was a disheartening sight, to see the proudest man Lucien had ever met in such distress and fear at the thought of losing his title.

“The blackmailer is a concern,” said Pryde calmly. “All we know is they knew more than we thought and they’re serious. They executed their threat, and in the most public fashion. Just look at all the articles, the gossip, the mud your name is being dragged through in papers and in Mayfair sitting rooms. We must protect the rest of the brotherhood from such a fate. Fortyne’s men are looking into it.”

Lucien dragged his fingers through his hair as he remembered the scandal that now galloped through London. Not that he cared about his reputation. It would pass soon enough. Every other lord must have bastards.

Still. For now, anyone associated with him would be forever tainted. “I’m a calamity, Constantine.”

“Well,” said Pryde and his eyes softened. “There’s one good thing that came out of this, Lucien. Your child.”

Lucien felt like his chest had been struck with an arrow. He looked at the passing houses, wondering if that child was behind any one of the windows and the doors.

“You will never forgive yourself if you abandon her.”

Lucien closed his eyes as a headache pounded in his temples. Here he was,leaving Elysium and Whitechapel, right back where he had started. Only, now he was with Pryde instead of Chastity. And he had been set back so far.

“Six weeks ago, I was blissfully numb, thinking I lived my best life. I thought nothing could hurt me because I didn’t get involved with my heart. That while I was a rake, I was invincible.” He sucked in an unsteady breath. “I couldn’t get any more hurt than I am now.”

Pryde sighed deeply. “I’m afraid you could, friend. If you let Stella rot in Whitechapel. Your own child.”

“But—surely she’d be better with her grandmother. I will be the worst parent there ever was. After my childhood…I’m completely unfit to raise a child. She wouldn’t want a father like me—irresponsible, running away.”

“And yet,” Pryde said, “you haven’t been able to whore around for weeks now, have you?”

“No. But one day, I will…”

“Will you?” he asked. “And who do you imagine when you close your eyes?”

Lucien looked at his hands. “Chastity. I love her. I’ve always loved her.”

“She hasn’t married the man yet.”

“But Dorian…”

“Dorian only wants you to change, friend. He loves you like a brother. If you show him and Chastity you are the man you were always meant to be, Dorian will not just forgive you. He’ll think there is no better man to marry his sister than his best friend who will love her, cherish her, take care of her, and make her the happiest woman alive.”

Lucien sighed. “I am not worthy of her.”

“You can spend your life trying to become worthy of her. She wants you, too, does she not?”

Lucien nodded. A shiver of energy ran through him. “She told me she did.”

“So what’s standing between you and her?”

“She’d never forgive me. She’s betrothed now. She’s marrying another man.”

“She won’t marry him if you ask her to marry you instead.”

But she needed Lucien to change. She needed to see he was a better man, a man who could commit to her…

And to his own daughter.

He remembered the day that had changed everything. When he’d hidden under the table to protect himself from the poisonous words of his own mother. When his uncle gave him the advice that had felt like a shield at the time.

That had served him like a shield for many years.

But it didn’t feel like a shield anymore.

It felt like a sack of stones tied to his ankles, dragging him down to the bottom of the river. Suffocating. Desperate.

“Let me see what I can do for the girl,” said Lucien. “At the very least, I can give money. I have plenty of that. Let’s go to my London house, and I’ll write a letter to my solicitor.”

When he entered his study, he opened one drawer after another to find the paper. He pulled open the last one when something shifted inside, and he froze, his limbs numb. A paper star.

It was the star that Chastity had made for him when he was ten and she was six. With shaking hands, he lifted it from the drawer. He hadn’t thought of it for years, but he had kept it like a treasure.

The paper had yellowed a little but was otherwise intact. He held it in his hands, his fingers trembling. He remembered the very day Chastity had given it to him, standing by his side, solemn, small, and serious. Dorian was on his other side. The three of them were best friends, the true family they had formed in the absence of love and affection from the parents who had birthed them.

“Chastity gave it to me,” he said. “I never opened it.” His fingers trembled. It was like holding the past in his hands. His own precious gift from Chastity.

“Open it,” said Pryde.

With unsteady hands, he did. The star, perfectly folded with Chastity’s precision, became a page torn from a notebook, covered in words written in Chastity’s six-year-old, and already perfect, penmanship.

He cleared his throat and read out loud:

“The monster is me.

In the dim light of a crescent moon,

Footsteps pound and shadows loom.

An orphan runs in a deadly chase,

He stumbles and falls on his tear-steaked face.

He stills in shock and mortal fright,

The monster will eat him whole tonight.

But there in the water, a reflection forlorn,

No one but him—completely alone.

Through twisted paths and tangled trails,

He sees a light…so he prevails.

A cottage stands with windows bright.

Is this his rescue from the night?

He steps inside, it’s bright and warm,

A family dinner safe from harm.

Love and laughter fill the air,

And he’s embraced in their care.

By the hearth’s glow, faces dear,

Love and peace are truly near.

In their smiles he finds the truth,

He knew them all, since his youth.

The race he’d run, a flight from self,

A battle fought with no one else.

The home he sought, the love he found,

Was in his heart forever sound.”

Tears welled in his eyes and blurred the letters as the meaning sank into his psyche.

His uncle’s words came to his mind. They hid under the table in the library, while his parents fired soul-poisoning venom at each other.

Protect your heart… To feel close to someone you use your body. So that your heart will never be affected…

And yet, he’d spent thirty days doing the opposite. And he’d never felt happier.

While in all his previous years, he’d felt empty.

His uncle had died riddled by syphilis and alone.

And he, in his dream—where he’d seen the future version of himself, if he didn’t change.

But, indeed, Lucien had never been alone. He had always been loved.

He had just believed his venomous parents more than his Star.

That was why he’d been running. Anywhere. Everywhere. To a bottle of wine. To women’s beds. With his cock hard and his mouth or hands pleasuring someone—that was where he’d found the most comfort. Where he could forget.

He used everyone else to forget.

But his love for Chastity was something else entirely. It didn’t let him run. Or hide. It was a mirror that reflected the truth. That showed him the only way to have what he wanted was to stop running.

To look back. At himself.

And there was nowhere he’d find the love and the home he’d been desperately seeking except within himself.

“Had I read Chastity’s poem when I was ten and truly understood it,” he said, looking into Pryde’s compassionate chestnut eyes, “I wonder if I would have believed my uncle’s words. I think I would have known I was already loved. Dorian and Chastity have always been there for me. Even my uncle, in his twisted way, loved me. I would have known that I didn’t need to guard my heart because all the approval I needed was from myself. All the love I sought was already there. I just failed to see it.”

Pryde’s expression warmed, and Lucien was shocked when he teared up and nodded his head. The faultless Duke of Pryde was showing a glimpse of vulnerability?

He squeezed Lucien’s shoulder.“Of course, old friend. I only wish one day I could believe the same about myself as you now do. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get my daughter.”