Chapter Eight
Lucien adjusted his cravat for the third time, studying his reflection in the glass of Lord Rockwell Ware’s ballroom windows.
The evening’s celebrations were in full swing—a grand affair to mark Rockwell and Farah’s wedding.
The gentle strains of a Mozart piece floated through the air as couples swirled across the polished floor, their movements elegant and practiced.
Candlelight glimmered off crystal chandeliers, casting a warm glow over the assembled cream of society.
He should have been elated. After all, his plan had worked to perfection.
Rockwell had finally come to his senses when faced with the possibility of losing Farah to another man—even if that man had been Lucien himself.
The scene played out in his mind like a theatrical production: Rockwell storming into Danvers House the morning after the ball, practically frothing at the mouth, demanding to know what Lucien thought he was doing by proposing to Farah.
“You don’t even love her,” Rockwell had snarled, pacing the library like a caged beast.
“Perhaps not,” Lucien had replied coolly, leaning against the mantelpiece. “But I care for her deeply, and I’ll give her the security and position she deserves. Which is more than you’re offering at present.”
Rockwell had looked as if Lucien had struck him. “You know why I can’t—”
“Can’t what? Love her? Because that’s patently false. Can’t marry her? Why not? Because you’re afraid she’ll be lonely while you sail the world? Have you asked what she wants, or are you making that decision for her too? Or is it that you are too scared to face what it is you really want?”
It had been a calculated strike, designed to pierce Rockwell’s armor of noble self-sacrifice.
And it had worked spectacularly. Within days, Rockwell had proposed properly to Farah, offering her not just his heart but a partnership.
Farah had accepted with tears and laughter, and Lucien had been graciously released from his “engagement” with minimal damage to anyone’s reputation.
After all, society always swooned over a love story.
So yes, he should have been elated. His friend was married to the woman he loved. The scandal had been contained. And most importantly, Lucien was now free to pursue Courtney without complications or divided loyalties.
Yet as he scanned the ballroom, searching for her auburn hair among the crowd, he couldn’t quell the restlessness churning in his gut.
Or was it fear? The fear that his motives were not honorable, driven by his need to save his family.
Or the fear he wasn’t good enough for her?
Or the fear that she would demand more than his heart could give?
“Admiring yourself, brother?” Lauren appeared at his side, resplendent in a new gown of pale blue silk—a gift from Lucien after he’d finally gained control of the family finances and paid off the most pressing debts. “Or plotting your next social catastrophe?”
Lucien smiled despite himself. “I believe I’ve met my quota of scandals for the season.”
“Pity. I was just getting used to them.” She followed his gaze across the ballroom. “She hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Who?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Cinderella? Who do you think? Courtney, of course.”
“Ah.” He tugged at his cuffs, aiming for nonchalance. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Of course not. That’s why you’ve been watching the door like a hawk for the past half-hour.” She patted his arm. “She’ll come. Tarquin promised he’d escort her.”
His head jerked up. “Did she not want to attend?”
Lauren sighed. “Lucien, the woman has waited five years for you, endured believing you dead, watched you announce an engagement to her friend, and still showed remarkable grace through it all. I think she’s entitled to a little hesitation.”
He winced. When laid out so starkly, his behavior seemed abominable.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m lucky she’s still speaking to me at all.”
“Yes, you are.” Lauren’s voice softened. “But for what it’s worth, I think she loves you still, including this new version of you. Though heaven knows why.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming.”
“My confidence is perfectly calibrated to the situation.” She nodded toward the entrance. “And now, brother dear, I suggest you put your most charming foot forward, because your lady love has just arrived.”
Lucien turned, and the sight of Courtney nearly stole his breath.
She stood in the doorway, a vision in deep emerald silk that complemented her auburn hair, which was arranged in an elegant knot with loose curls framing her face.
Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears, and her graceful neck held her head high.
Tarquin stood beside her, tall and imposing in his formal wear, his expression making it clear he was still reserving judgment on Lucien’s worthiness. But it wasn’t Tarquin’s disapproval that made Lucien’s blood run cold.
It was the man on Courtney’s other side—Mr. Axton Fancot, the notoriously charming younger brother of Viscount Vale. Even from across the room, Lucien could see Fancot’s easy smile, the attentive tilt of his head as he leaned in to whisper something that made Courtney laugh.
A strange heat seared through Lucien’s chest. Not quite anger, not quite fear, but something more primal. Something that made him want to stride across the room and insert himself between Courtney and the handsome rake currently monopolizing her attention.
“Careful, brother,” Lauren murmured, apparently reading his thoughts. “Your farmer is showing.”
The comment jerked him back to awareness of where he was and who he was supposed to be. Lord Lucien Furoe, Viscount, heir to an earldom. Not John Collins, Irish farmer, who might have simply marched over and staked his claim without ceremony.
“I see nothing wrong with directness,” he muttered.
“Neither do I,” Lauren agreed. “But perhaps consider a more subtle approach than glowering from across the room?”
Lucien nodded, took a steadying breath, and made his way through the crowd with measured steps.
He was conscious of the eyes following him.
Society still hadn’t tired of observing the ‘resurrected viscount’.
But he focused solely on reaching Courtney before Fancot could claim her for the first dance.
“Lady Courtney,” he said, executing a perfect bow as he reached her. “You look absolutely stunning this evening.”
Her amber eyes met his, warm but slightly guarded. “Lord Furoe. Thank you for the compliment.”
Though her tone was pleasant enough, he sensed a careful distance in her manner.
Their last conversation had been thoughtful but unresolved, with Courtney making it clear that while she understood the necessity of his ruse with Farah, she needed time to determine if they still suited one another after all that had happened.
“I would have to be blind not to,” he replied honestly. “The color suits you remarkably well.”
“Doesn’t it?” Fancot interjected smoothly. “I was just telling Lady Courtney that emerald brings out the gold in her eyes. Like sunshine through whiskey.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened at the familiar comparison, one he himself had made the day he’d re-met her. “How poetic.”
“Mr. Fancot has a gift for observation,” Courtney said, her smile giving nothing away.
“Among other gifts,” Fancot added with a wink that made Lucien’s fingers itch to form a fist.
“Lord Furoe,” Tarquin cut in, ever the diplomat, “I trust you’re enjoying the celebrations?”
“Immensely.” Lucien never took his eyes off Courtney. “Though I find myself in need of a partner for the first waltz. Lady Courtney, would you do me the honor?”
He saw the hesitation flicker across her face, followed by a glance at Fancot that set Lucien’s teeth on edge. But then she nodded, extending her hand. “I would be delighted.”
Relief washed through him, followed by a surge of something that felt dangerously like triumph as he led her away from the disappointed Fancot.
But as they took their positions for the dance, he noted the careful distance Courtney maintained between them, the guarded expression in eyes that had once looked at him with unguarded adoration.
“I wasn’t certain you would come tonight,” he said as the music began, and they moved into the steps of the waltz.
“And miss Lady Farah’s wedding celebration? I would never.” Her tone was light, but her spine remained rigid under his hand. “Besides, Tarquin insisted.”
“I’m glad he did.” Lucien guided her through a turn, aware of the watchful eyes around them. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Have I?” She arched an eyebrow. “I’ve been rather busy this past week helping to organize this event.”
“With Mr. Fancot, it seems.”
The words escaped before he could stop them, and he immediately regretted them when he saw the spark of irritation in her eyes.
“Mr. Fancot has been kind enough to escort me to several events,” she replied coolly. “In the absence of other invitations.”
The pointed remark landed like a physical blow. “I’ve been occupied with family matters,” he said, which was true enough. Between sorting out his father’s debts and helping Rockwell navigate the aftermath of their faux engagement, he’d had precious little time for courtship.
“Of course. Family matters must take precedence.” Her gaze drifted briefly over his shoulder toward where Axton stood. “I understand completely.”
There was no accusation in her tone, but rather a gentle acknowledgment of their complicated situation. She wasn’t bitter about Farah—they’d already worked through that misunderstanding—but he sensed she was keeping her guard up, protecting herself from potential disappointment.
“Axton has been a good friend to me,” she added quietly. “During the years when I thought you were dead, and even now…he worries about me.”
“Worries?” Lucien asked, carefully guiding her through a turn.