Chapter 8 #2
The beautiful Madame Bellaire had said in the end that the supporters of Napoleon had been tricked and that she was keeping the money for her own use.
Had that been yet another lie? And if so, would Nicholas consider himself to blame in that he had only won the list of names from the woman and not relieved her of her ill-gotten gains?
Lucien had had letters from Nicholas which painted a pleasant picture of contentment with rural life, matrimony, and a new baby, but he’d be pleased to have it confirmed with his own eyes.
He’d be curious too to see the little Delaney. Arabel must be four months old. The babe had only been a few days old when last he’d seen her, and he couldn’t say she’d shown promise of beauty back then.
That evening, when he was ushered into the elegant house at Lauriston Street the first sight to meet his eyes was Eleanor Delaney—looking finer and happier than she ever had—dressed in silk and jewels, with her baby in her arms. She turned and a wide, vivacious smile lit her face.
“Lucien!” she exclaimed as she came over to greet him. “We were so thrilled to receive your note. And you are due our congratulations.” She reached his side and leaned forward for a kiss. “You must tell us all about your bride-to-be.”
He had to work around a fragrant infant to kiss her cheek, which was a new experience. He looked down to be trapped by enormous gold-brown eyes fringed by outrageous lashes.
The child had incredible skin—he would never be able to call a woman’s skin petal-soft again—and a sweet, soft mouth.
“Lord above, Eleanor. You can’t let that loose on the world. There’ll be no male left sane.”
Eleanor smiled down in pride. “She is quite pretty, isn’t she? But not much hair yet. There’s no guarantee she’ll be anything out of the ordinary later though. Babies are generally appealing.”
“Appealing has nothing to do with it. She’s a man-slayer.”
Eleanor chuckled with pleasure at this praise. “Here,” she said and passed the child over. “Be slain. I just have to have a word with Mrs. Cooke.”
“Eleanor!” protested Lucien as the child settled in his arms. “Come back here!”
“Nicholas is in the drawing room,” she called as she disappeared.
Lucien looked down at the child. It was disconcerting to be so readily accepted.
Arabel was not the slightest bit disturbed by being in strange arms and appeared fascinated by his sapphire cravat pin.
Delicate starfish fingers reached aimlessly for it.
“Typical woman,” grumbled Lucien with a smile.
“Fascinated by something glittery. Come on. Let’s find Papa. ”
But as he crossed the hall the thought of a child of his own became for the first time something other than a burdensome duty.
He entered the drawing room to find his host, Nicholas Delaney, talking to some members of the Company: Sir Stephen Ball M.P.; Lord Darius Debenham—third son of the Duke of Yeovil; and Amleigh. They all turned and grinned at the sight of him with a baby in his arms.
“Good Lord,” said Nicholas, coming forward. “I heard you were engaged to marry, but aren’t you a bit beforehand?”
Lucien couldn’t help a grin, but he said, “This, if you can’t recognize it, is yours.”
Nicholas took the babe easily, and Arabel broke out a bright smile and a chortle. “So it is.”
Lucien found simple pleasure in seeing how healthy Nicholas appeared—his skin tanned, his gold-flecked brown eyes clear and happy. He’d known from Eleanor’s radiant looks that nothing had occurred to tarnish their new-built marriage, but now it was confirmed.
He hadn’t realized what a burden of concern he’d carried until it was removed.
The business Nicholas had involved them all in last year had seemed a jape at first, very like the schoolboy plots they had indulged in at Harrow.
It had stopped being a joke when Lucien had realized how it was hurting Eleanor to know her husband was so often with another woman; he had become a great admirer of Eleanor Delaney.
It had taken longer for him to realize how playing the lover for Thérèse Bellaire was slowly destroying Nicholas.
He hadn’t really understood until the night he’d tried to be noble and distract the predatory Madame’s attention to himself.
She’d managed merely with a look of her eyes to make him feel raped.
When Nicholas finally drew her off, Lucien had been beyond feeling noble and had merely felt grateful.
The one good thing, he supposed, was that since then he’d been more thoughtful in his dealings with women, knowing how it felt to be so casually defiled.
He remembered with a touch of shame the way he’d handled Elizabeth Armitage, doing in a cruder way what Thérèse Bellaire had done to him. It had been necessary, he’d thought. But if she weren’t quite as he thought….
“Trouble?” asked Nicholas softly, a smile still on his lips but his eyes serious. Trust Nick to see beyond the surface.
“Some,” admitted Lucien.
“We’re here for a week,” Nicholas said and left it at that. “Come and help yourself to sherry. You’ll have gathered we’re not standing on ceremony.”
The conversation was all of Napoleon. Stephen, a slender blond man with shrewd, heavy-lidded eyes, was concerned with alliances and the balance of power; Dare couldn’t quite suppress his excitement; Amleigh was angry with the resolute anger of the professional soldier.
They all turned as Eleanor entered the room with Hal Beaumont at her side.
He looked the same, Lucien thought. Almost. They hadn’t met for four years, and heaven knew what Hal had experienced in that time.
There were new lines in his face, but his smile still quirked to the right, his dark hair still waved handsomely, and he was even taller and stronger than he had been at twenty-one.
Lucien was filled with tremendous joy that his friend was still alive.
“Hal!” Lucien went forward and took his friend’s right hand in his own.
His eyes went irresistibly to the empty sleeve tucked in between the buttons of his friend’s jacket, and he felt a surge of rage at fate.
And an awareness of frustrating impotence.
This was something neither wealth nor rank could alter.
Hal read his face and shrugged. “There are worse things. The devil of it is, I won’t be able to take my turn at bashing Boney.” He in turn gave Lucien the once-over. “You look suitably rich and powerful, Luce.”
Lucien took refuge in the familiar teasing about his high estate. “Noblesse oblige, old boy. Can’t have the higher aristocracy groveling in the gutter.”
“Assuredly not. Personally, I think you should wear strawberry leaves around your hat.”
“I’m saving that for when I’m duke.”
By then everyone else had gathered around, conversation became general, and Lucien had opportunity to try to come to terms with it all.
He’d had friends who’d died in the war but none until now who’d been maimed.
It was easy to forget the dead, or at least remember them as they had been, but Hal was a living reminder of suffering.
He looked at Amleigh and Debenham and wondered if this evidence of the consequences of war gave them pause.
Or whether, as with him, it created a renewed desire to fight—to get revenge but also to assuage his guilt.
Guilt he felt because he’d been here in England—getting drunk, dancing at Almack’s, making love to Blanche—when that cannon had exploded, when the army surgeons had hacked off what remained of his friend’s arm.
Even as he thought all this, he was smiling and adding the odd quip to the light-hearted conversation. They all knew there was no point in miserying over the matter, and Hal would hate it.
And, of course, the Marquess of Arden couldn’t take the easy way out and go off to suffer and die. He had to marry and produce the next generation of great and noble de Vaux.
Which brought everything, as always, back to Elizabeth Armitage—whom he didn’t trust but sometimes liked, and who, despite being so damned ordinary, was far too often in his mind.
Eleanor once more had the baby and was playing a silly game which seemed to involve talking nonsense and rubbing noses.
It made sense to Arabel, at least, for she was smiling and making happy gurgles which sounded like a language of its own.
A nursemaid was hovering ready to take the child away, but Eleanor was clearly in no hurry to part with her child.
Nicholas was being a good host and even taking part in the discussion, but half his mind was clearly on his wife and child, and probably always was.
Lucien suspected Nicholas would rather be part of that strange gurgling conversation than discussing the amazing pig-faced woman with Dare.
Lucien caught at least two shared glances between Nicholas and Eleanor which spoke of the joy they found in each other’s presence, even hinted at more private, familiar, and anticipated delights.
He remembered he had once thought that Eleanor Delaney was the kind of wife he’d like as opposed to Phoebe Swinnamer who seemed to be the kind of wife he was expected to choose.
All the candidates for Marchioness of Arden had seemed to be beautiful, well-bred fashion dolls with just brain enough to master polite conversation.
Eleanor Delaney had a shrewd brain and a pleasantly natural manner.
Nicholas topped up Lucien’s glass and followed his gaze to his wife. “She’s still taken,” he said lightly but added more seriously, “A newly betrothed man shouldn’t be looking at another man’s wife quite like that, you know.”
It was an opening, deliberately given. Lucien wasn’t ready to bare his heart, but he would appreciate any scraps of wisdom. “I was just wondering,” he said lightly, “if you ever felt the urge to throttle her.”
Nicholas quirked a brow. “Just because she left you holding the baby?”
“Not Eleanor. Elizabeth.”