Chapter Thirteen #2
“Liar,” he said softly, his eyes dropping to her lips. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her again, but instead, he urged the horse forward, his arm tightening around her. “No matter. I suppose we’ll have to create new memories to replace the ones I’ve lost.”
The suggestion hung between them, tantalizing and full of promise. Courtney turned forward again, leaning back slightly into his embrace, enjoying the solid strength of him behind her.
“Perhaps we will,” she agreed, her voice carrying on the summer breeze. “After all, we did agree to a thorough evaluation.”
His chuckle rumbled against her back, and for the rest of the ride home, they traveled in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts about what secrets the cottage might have witnessed and what new ones it might yet keep.
Reality broke the daydreaming as soon as they reached the stables. The head groom said there was a problem with one of the mares, so Courtney made her way back inside the house alone. Soon Caitria had roped her into playing a game of hide and seek in the garden with Ava-Marie.
As the day drew to an end and she dressed for dinner, Courtney realized she loved it here. She could see herself building a wonderful life with Lucien, Ava-Marie and any children they might have in the future.
She hoped Lucien was thinking the same thing.
As she descended the stairs to dinner, she admitted that she was falling in love with Lucien again.
She was fooling herself. She’d never fallen out of love with him, even when he couldn’t remember her.
She had enough memories for both of them.
She prayed he had room in his damaged heart to love her back.
*
The following day brought steady rain, confining the house party indoors.
After breakfast, Julian and Serena announced their intention to write letters in the morning room, while Caitria took Ava-Marie to the nursery to measure up for new clothes.
Left to their own devices, Lucien suggested a tour of the house with Courtney.
“But I know the house already,” she pointed out, amused.
“Yes, but I don’t,” he countered. “Not really. It would be nice to hear stories.”
The request touched her deeply. “I’d like that, although I’m not party to all your family secrets,” she said softly.
They began in the portrait gallery, where Courtney pointed out ancestors whose stories she remembered Lucien telling her. Next came the music room, where she recalled evenings spent with Lauren at the pianoforte while Lucien and his father played chess by the fire.
“You were terrible at chess,” she told him, smiling at the memory. “Your father would beat you in ten moves, and you’d declare it was because you were distracted by Lauren’s playing.”
“Was I truly that bad?” he asked, looking skeptical.
“Dreadful,” she confirmed with a laugh. “You much preferred cards—you had an excellent memory for which cards had been played.”
“That’s still true,” he admitted. “I discovered it in Ireland during games at the local pub. It’s one of the few skills that seems to have survived my memory loss.”
They moved to the library next, a grand room with floor-to-ceiling shelves and comfortable seating arranged near the large windows. Despite years of neglect, it remained impressive, though dust covers shrouded most of the furniture and the air held the musty scent of closed rooms and old books.
“This was always my favorite room,” Courtney said, running her fingers along the spines of leather-bound volumes. “We spent hours here, discussing books, arguing about philosophy.” She paused at a shelf of poetry. “You used to read Keats to me on rainy days like this.”
Lucien approached, standing close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Did I?” he asked, his voice low. “Which poems did I favor?”
She pulled a volume from the shelf, the binding familiar beneath her fingers.
Opening it, she found a pressed flower—a forget-me-not—marking a page.
A wave of emotions engulfed her. She remembered putting the flower in the book to mark their favorite poem.
‘Bright Star,’ she said, a tremor in her voice as she handed him the book. “This one was your favorite.”
Lucien took the book, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. He looked down at the marked page, his expression thoughtful as he began to read.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night…” His voice, deeper now with its slight Irish lilt, gave the familiar words new resonance. Courtney closed her eyes, letting the poem wash over her.
When he finished, the silence in the library seemed charged with emotion. She opened her eyes to find him watching her, something indefinable in his gaze.
“You used to say it reminded you of how you felt about me,” she said quietly. “Steadfast, unwavering.”
“It’s a beautiful poem,” he acknowledged. “Though I find it rather melancholy now. The desire to remain forever in one perfect moment, knowing that time must eventually sweep it away.”
She stepped closer, drawn by the honesty in his voice. “Perhaps that’s why it resonated with you then. You were thinking of going to Ireland, and we were trying to hold onto our last moments together before returning to the glare of London society.”
He set the book aside, his eyes never leaving hers. “And now? What resonates with you now, Courtney?”
The directness of his question caught her off guard. “Hope. Hope for a new future,” she said after a moment. “The hope that we might create new moments worth preserving, even if they’re different from what came before.”
Something shifted in his expression—a softening, a vulnerability she hadn’t seen before.
He reached out, his calloused fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“I think I would have liked the man I was with you,” he said quietly.
“He sounds more thoughtful than the reckless young lord everyone else describes.”
“He was both,” she answered honestly. “Thoughtful in private, charming and sometimes reckless in public. But always sincere in his affections.”
His hand lingered at her cheek. “And what of the man I am now? How does he compare?”
“He’s more direct, with a hint of mystery,” she said, leaning slightly into his touch. “More grounded. Less concerned with society’s expectations but more burdened by responsibility. And…” she hesitated, then continued, “he carries wounds that make him cautious, especially with his heart.”
He didn’t deny it. “Those wounds may never fully heal,” he warned, his palm now cupping her cheek. “I can’t promise to be the man you remember.”
“I’m not asking you to be,” Courtney replied, her heart quickening at his proximity. “All I want is to know the real man who is contained within the old Lucien. Just be you.”
For a moment, she thought he might kiss her again, but instead, he dropped his hand and took a step back. “Show me more of the house,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. “I want to understand all the places we made memories together.”
She led him through the main floor, sharing anecdotes and recollections, watching his face for any flicker of recognition. There was none, but his interest was genuine, his questions thoughtful. He seemed determined to understand the shared past he couldn’t remember.
Their tour eventually led them back to the portrait room, where generations of Danvers gazed down from gilt frames. Lucien paused before an image of himself at twenty, dressed formally in his viscount’s finery, his expression serious, save for a hint of mischief in his green eyes.
“I look like a pampered lordling,” he observed with a touch of irony. “Not a callus to be found, I’d wager.”
Courtney studied the portrait, seeing it through his eyes. “You were raised to be a viscount,” she said gently. “Not a farmer. But you always had more substance than most young lords of the ton.”
He moved to a portrait of a beautiful dark-haired woman—his mother, the countess, painted in the prime of her life. “Lauren says I have her eyes,” he remarked.
“You do,” Courtney confirmed. “And her stubbornness, according to your father.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “That I can believe.”
They had nearly completed their circuit of the room when they came upon a portrait Courtney had forgotten—herself at eighteen, painted shortly after her debut. She wore a gown of pale gold silk, her auburn hair styled in fashionable ringlets, her amber eyes bright with youth and promise.
“You were—are—lovely,” Lucien said, studying the portrait with evident appreciation.
“Lord Danvers commissioned it after our engagement was announced,” she explained, feeling oddly self-conscious. “He wanted a portrait of his future daughter-in-law to hang alongside the family.”
Lucien glanced at her. “And now? Will you sit for another?”