Chapter Five
Lucien’s carriage pulled up to Courtney’s townhouse, his fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. The constant, unspoken hope that something, anything, would trigger his memories was almost driving him insane. He took a deep breath, straightened his cravat, and descended from the carriage.
The butler recognized him immediately, of course.
Everyone seemed to treat him as if he were sick and helpless, and many couldn’t understand why he just couldn’t remember.
They all seemed to have expectations of his memories suddenly returning like a lost cat.
“Lady Courtney will be down shortly, my lord,” the man said with a bow that felt unnatural.
Lucien waited in the familiar-yet-strange drawing room, surrounded by paintings and furnishings that should mean something to him but didn’t.
His eyes caught on a portrait of himself with Courtney—younger, happier, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist. The man in the painting was a stranger wearing his face.
That hadn’t been on the wall when he was here yesterday.
It was as if Courtney had put it there to help him remember.
But he wouldn’t.
The churning in his gut started as guilt cloaked him again.
The soft rustle of silk announced her arrival.
Lucien turned, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat.
Courtney stood at the top of the stairs, resplendent in a gown of deep burgundy that made her pale skin glow.
Her dark hair was elegantly arranged, adorned with matching garnets that caught the candlelight.
He’d been wrong. She was, without question, a beautiful woman.
Something stirred in his chest. Not a memory, exactly, but a ghost of feeling, an echo of what the man in that portrait must have felt. His body seemed to recognize her even if his mind didn’t, responding to her presence with an inexplicable pull.
He waited until she descended and stood before him. “You look stunning,” he said, and meant it. But even as the words left his mouth, he felt the weight of her hopeful gaze, saw the way she searched his face for any sign of recognition.
“Thank you,” she replied softly, her smile genuine but tinged with that ever-present sadness. “You look very handsome yourself.”
He offered his arm, and as they walked to the carriage, he found himself thinking of Farah.
The thought brought both relief and guilt.
While Courtney’s every look and gesture seemed laden with five years of shared history he couldn’t remember, Farah’s presence was refreshingly uncomplicated.
She had known him before, yes, but him losing his memory held no consequences for her.
She saw him only as he was now, lost, confused, trying to piece together a life he couldn’t recall.
As he handed Courtney into the carriage, he caught another whiff of her perfume, rose and something else, presumably a scent he had once known well.
It should mean something to him. The man in that portrait would have known exactly what it was, would have bought it for her perhaps. But he wasn’t that man anymore.
They settled into the carriage, and Lucien found himself looking forward to reaching the opera, because Farah would be there.
With her, he didn’t have to pretend or try to remember.
She accepted him as he was, never pushing or hoping for miraculous recollections.
She understood what it was to be adrift, to be trying to find one’s place in a world that had already assigned you a role you weren’t sure you could play.
“It is nice of Lord Rockwell to help welcome you back into society,” Courtney ventured, her tone carefully casual.
“Yes. Lady Farah has been attentive too. Then again, she is also friends with my sisters,” he replied, perhaps too quickly. “She’s been very kind, helping me adjust.”
He saw the flash of pain in Courtney’s eyes and hated himself for causing it. This beautiful woman beside him deserved better than an ex-fiancé who couldn’t remember loving her, who found himself increasingly drawn to another woman simply because she didn’t carry the weight of their shared past.
As they approached the opera, he resolved to try harder with Courtney tonight.
She deserved that much at least. But he couldn’t quite suppress the leap of anticipation in his chest at the thought of seeing Farah.
She was familiar. She’d found him in Ireland and her compassion was one of the reasons he’d decided to come back to England.
Farah knew all his secrets and still accepted him and Ava-Marie.
Just as he knew hers—that she’d been traveling unescorted in Ireland with Lord Rockwell. If that came out, she’d be ruined.
She was the safe option. Daughter of a duke, with a large dowry. If he didn’t think Farah was in love with Rockwell, she’d be the sensible choice. But if she did love Rockwell, why did she not want to marry him?
Lucien had even made Farah a promise on the return to England.
If society learned of her scandalous trip to Ireland with Rockwell to find him, and she really didn’t want to marry Rockwell, he would offer for her to save her reputation.
So, until Farah and Rockwell’s situation was sorted, he himself was trapped.
He couldn’t offer for another until he knew he wouldn’t have to save Farah.
Looking at Courtney’s profile in the flickering light of the passing streetlamps, he wondered if it was possible to fall in love with the same woman twice, and what it meant that his head seemed to be pulling him in two different directions.
*
Courtney sat like a statue in the Wolfarth box at the Royal Opera House, every muscle tense as she watched Lucien as he sat beside her.
The familiar curve of his neck, the way his dark hair curled slightly at the collar…
It was all achingly familiar and yet belonged to a stranger.
The candlelight caught the gilt edges of the box, casting dancing shadows that matched her tumultuous thoughts.
“Can you remember attending the opera?” Wolf’s gentle question broke through her reverie. She winced, knowing what would come next.
“I wish everyone would stop asking me if I remember anything. Because I don’t,” Lucien snapped, his harsh tone making Courtney’s heart constrict.
The silence that followed felt like a physical weight.
When he sighed and offered his apology, she managed to smile at him, though her chest ached with the effort of holding back tears.
Wolf’s kind response about living in hope only seemed to agitate Lucien further. “I suggest everyone forgo the idea of a miraculous remembrance. I can’t and won’t remember.”
The words struck Courtney like physical blows.
She blinked rapidly, fighting back tears as she felt Farah’s sympathetic gaze.
Drawing on every ounce of her strength, she placed her hand on Lucien’s arm, trying to bridge the vast distance between them with that simple touch.
She took the victory when he didn’t shake it off.
The opera began, but Courtney barely registered the music.
Instead, she found herself watching Lucien, noting every shift in his posture, every subtle movement.
Her stomach twisted as she noticed his gaze repeatedly drifting to Farah.
The way he leaned forward slightly when she spoke, the intensity in his eyes when he looked at her—it was painfully familiar.
He used to look at her that way, before…
When Lucien leaned forward to whisper to Farah during Madame Butterfly’s aria, Courtney thought she might shatter.
His warm murmur about beauty, clearly meant for Farah’s ears, drove Courtney to action.
She couldn’t sit there anymore, watching the man she loved shower attention on her dearest friend.
“Farah,” she called out as soon as the intermission began, her voice unnaturally bright even to her own ears. “Would you accompany me to the ladies’ retiring room?”
In the privacy of the retiring room, Courtney’s carefully maintained composure crumbled.
The questions poured out of her about Lucien, about Farah, about what she was supposed to do with this man who wore her fiancé’s face but looked at her like a stranger.
Each word felt like glass in her throat, but she had to know.
Farah’s fierce loyalty and honest answers both comforted and wounded her. Yes, Lucien might be developing feelings for Farah. No, Farah didn’t return them. Yes, there was still hope for Courtney and Lucien to build something new.
As they fixed their hair and returned to the box, Courtney felt simultaneously stronger and more fragile.
Farah’s promise that no man would come between them warmed her heart but couldn’t completely ease the ache of watching Lucien—her Lucien—navigate this new world without the memory of their love.
She settled back into her seat for the second act, the tragic notes of Puccini’s opera washing over her.
How fitting that they should be watching Madame Butterfly, she thought, a story of love and loss and waiting.
But unlike Cio-Cio San, Courtney wouldn’t let her hope destroy her.
She would be patient, would give Lucien the time and space he needed, would trust in Farah’s friendship and her own resilience.
Still, as she watched the opera unfold, she couldn’t help but wonder.
Was it harder to lose someone to death, as she had thought she had for five years, or to have them sitting right beside you, looking through you as if you were a stranger?
How long was she supposed to be hurt by this?
How much of a chance could or should she give him?
Farah’s ball to welcome Lucien back to society was in a few days and if things hadn’t improved by then… If she didn’t feel as if Lucien was trying to get to know her, she would… What? What could she do?