Chapter Fourteen #2
“You might be right. But his wife has been dead for two years.” Serena slapped her hand to her forehead.
“Sorry, that’s me speaking without thinking.
You have mourned him for five years.” They sat in silence before her sister-in-law added, “Maybe you’re right.
Maybe he thinks it would be easier to marry someone who doesn’t love him because he may not be able to love them back. ”
She knew Serena was right. She had to be. “Do you think if he loved me before, he could love me again? Do people get second chances?”
“I have no idea. He’s not the same man, but you have to ask yourself if he’s worth the risk of trying?”
The answer flew into her head before Serena had even finished the sentence.
“Yes. He is. I lost him once before and I’m not going to lose him again.
” She’d never voiced that thought before.
But it was how she felt. They had friendship.
They had desire and passion. Surely, in time, love would come.
Or maybe she’d love him enough for both of them.
Serena stood and placed a kiss on her cheek.
“I believe deep down you know what you want to do.” As she walked to the door, she added, “He’s a good man.
He has a lovely daughter. And with your dowry, you could turn his family’s fortune around.
You could have the life you always dreamed of. I’d say that’s worth fighting for.”
And that was the truth.
After Serena had departed, Courtney remained at the pianoforte, idly playing snippets of various pieces as she contemplated the day’s events.
Lucien’s willingness to explore their shared past, his openness about his struggle to trust again—these were promising signs.
Yet she sensed he was still holding something back.
His love for his wife was the fortress between them.
“That was lovely,” Lucien’s voice startled her from her reverie. He had returned to the music room and now stood in the doorway, watching her.
“Thank you,” she said, her fingers stilling on the keys. “Is Ava-Marie settled?”
“Almost instantly asleep,” he confirmed, moving into the room.
He came to stand beside the pianoforte, his tall figure outlined by the firelight.
In his riding clothes earlier, he had looked like the farmer he’d been in Ireland—capable, practical, strong.
Now, dressed for dinner in evening attire, he seemed more the aristocrat again, though the two identities no longer seemed at odds within him.
“Julian seems impressed with the estate’s potential,” Courtney observed, filling the silence that had settled between them.
“He’s been incredibly helpful,” Lucien agreed. “He has a head for agricultural improvements that I admire. We’re discussing the possibility of introducing new breeding stock for the sheep, though the investment required is significant.”
“The Merino crosses Rockwell mentioned?” she asked, recalling their earlier conversation on the beach.
He nodded, his expression curious. “I listened to your advice and discussed it with Julian.”
She smiled, offering no explanation for her knowledge. “One picks things up in ballrooms. Plus, Julian is always discussing his latest farming venture at family gatherings.”
Lucien studied her for a moment, as if trying to reconcile this practical knowledge with the accomplished lady who played Bach so expressively. “You continue to surprise me, Lady Courtney.”
“I hope that’s not unwelcome,” she replied, her fingers idly playing a soft chord.
“On the contrary.” He took a seat beside her on the bench, the proximity sending a shiver of awareness through her. “I find I enjoy being surprised by you.”
They were close enough that their shoulders brushed, her silk sleeve against the fine wool of his evening coat. Courtney was acutely conscious of his thigh pressed against hers through the layers of her gown, of his clean masculine scent mingled with the faint aroma of brandy from after dinner.
“Play something else,” he requested softly. “Something you enjoy.”
She began a gentle Mozart impromptu, the notes rippling like water under her fingers. Lucien watched her hands, his expression thoughtful.
“You mentioned we spent time in Mrs. Baxter’s cottage,” he said suddenly. “What were we doing there, exactly?”
Courtney nearly missed a note at his direct question. “We…spent time together,” she said evasively, concentrating on the music.
“Alone?” he pressed, his voice holding a hint of amusement.
“Yes,” she admitted, her cheeks warming.
“Unchaperoned?”
She sighed, giving up any pretense of propriety. “Yes, Lucien. Unchaperoned. We would ride out, ostensibly to hunt or sketch or collect botanical specimens, and sometimes we would stop at the cottage.”
“To do what, exactly?” His tone was teasing now, his eyes alight with mischief.
Courtney stopped playing, turning to face him fully. “If you must know, we would talk, read, sometimes just sit together by the fire. And yes, occasionally we would…kiss.”
“Just kiss?” he asked, his voice dropping lower.
“Mainly,” she replied, maintaining eye contact despite her blush. “Though there may have been some…exploration. Nothing that would compromise my virtue,” she added hastily. “Not until that last night before we left to go back to London and you to Ireland.”
Lucien’s expression softened; the teasing replaced by something more profound.
“I wish I could remember it,” he said again, his voice tinged with regret.
“Not just the physical aspect, but the intimacy of it—knowing you so well, being so comfortable together that we could share those private moments.”
His honesty touched her deeply. “We can build that again,” she said softly. “It doesn’t have to be the same, but it can be equally meaningful.”
He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek. “You’re extraordinarily patient with me,” he observed. “Most women would have given up by now.”
“Perhaps I’m not most women,” she replied, leaning slightly into his touch.
“No,” he agreed, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “You’re certainly not.”
The tension between them was palpable, a living thing that seemed to pulse with each beat of her heart. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she knew he was thinking of kissing her again.
Instead, he pulled back slightly, though his hand remained at her cheek. “We should retire,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “It’s getting late.”
Disappointment flickered through her, but she nodded. “Of course.”
He stood, offering her his hand to help her rise from the bench. When she placed her fingers in his, he didn’t immediately release her, instead bringing her hand to his lips for a kiss that was both gentlemanly and somehow deeply intimate.
“Goodnight, Courtney,” he said, his eyes holding promises his words didn’t express. “Sleep well.”
“Goodnight, Lucien,” she replied, reluctantly withdrawing her hand from his.
As she made her way upstairs to her bedchamber, she could still feel the imprint of his lips on her skin, a phantom sensation that followed her into her dreams. Was she ready to push for more?
Not when his heart was still full of his love for Ava.
How did she compete for his affections with a ghost?
She hoped she wouldn’t have to. Could a man love twice in his lifetime or in Lucien’s case, three times?
He had loved Courtney once; of that she was certain.
They said time heals and she had to admit that after five years, she had finally begun to look at the idea of marrying again, but she hadn’t expected to love again.
Lucien’s ghost still filled her heart, so she could understand his situation.
Could Lucien love again? Or would he only offer affection?
She rolled over in her cold bed and knew it would not be enough.
Not when he once again was beginning to fill her heart.
*
Lucien watched Courtney walk up the stairs, her cute bottom swaying provocatively, and the desire to follow and pull her into his room, into his bed almost overwhelmed him. But how could he, when he was still too scared to tell her the truth? What would she think of him? Of Ava-Marie?
After this time with Courtney, he knew in his heart she would never use the knowledge of Ava-Marie’s birth to hurt him or his daughter. But now he didn’t know how to tell her without revealing his initial distrust.
Or was it simply that he feared what she would think of him? A man duped by a woman. A man who fell in love with that woman and still loved her after all she’d done. Was there ever a bigger fool?
He’d tell her when they got back to London. He didn’t want to ruin the memory of their time here.
As he lay in bed—alone—thoughts of kissing every inch of Courtney’s delectable creamy skin filled his mind. It wasn’t lost on him that, for once, it wasn’t thoughts of Ava who kept him awake to near dawn.