Chapter Five
“Not at home?”
Lucian repeated.
The butler just barely managed not to roll his eyes. Because this was the third time Lucian had asked, and the answer was the same.
It was the day after the ball, and Lucian had woken up early, for him, and had made his way to the Courtenays’ town house just after three o’clock. His father had left the evening before, and Lucian knew it would be several days before he had any word of how John was. He just hoped to God his older brother would be all right.
His visit today wasn’t entirely because he wanted to see her again. Not entirely.
With his father having left him in charge of solving whatever mess he’d gotten into decades earlier, it made sense for Lucian to call on the Courtenays to see if, by removing his father’s rigid ego, a solution was possible.
“The family is not receiving visitors at the moment,”
the butler said, holding the door open just wide enough for his face. Did he think Lucian was going to storm in demanding to see someone?
Not a terrible idea, actually. So perhaps the butler was on to something.
“Well,”
Lucian said, feeling entirely deflated, “thank you.”
The butler nodded, then shut the door firmly.
Lucian stared at the house for one more minute, then shook his head, turning on his heel and making his way down the steps.
His carriage waited for him at the curb, but he gestured to the servants as the footman made to open the door. “I’ll walk, thank you,” he said.
The coachman looked surprised: it was unlike Lucian to risk ruining his appearance with something as uncouth as sweat, and the walk was nearly three miles. But he didn’t say anything, just nodded to the footman, who leaped up onto the back of the carriage.
It drove off, leaving him alone.
He did not like being alone.
Though, he had been the one to send the carriage away, so he had no one to blame but himself.
He strode down the street, feeling the slight wind ruffle his hair.
There were clouds in the sky, but it didn’t look like rain. Instead, the day was grayish and seemed uncertain of what it wanted to do.
Rather like Lucian.
He’d spent most of the night thinking about his encounter with Lady Diantha when he’d been able to stop worrying about John. It was a welcome relief from having to think about his father’s ultimatum. To think about the kiss, though not just that, but also her obvious intelligence and wit.
He was curious about her, which wasn’t how he normally felt about anybody, particularly not a potential love interest. Usually, he thought most about the pleasures they could have together—both illicit and innocuous—and not much about the brain in the person’s head. He was far more focused on feeling than thinking. But with her, he felt both. It was overwhelming.
She was different. Or was he different? Did his envy of Shammie’s happiness, coupled with his father’s directive, make him want to change his ways?
No, he still wanted to live life to the utmost. That had not changed.
And he definitely did not want to become like his father, strict for the sake of being strict. Unable to express joy in any way.
Was that even living?
He’d have to say no.
But living life to the utmost didn’t necessarily have to take the same permutation it had thus far. Perhaps that had changed. Was it possible, he wondered, to have both what he wanted and what his father wanted?
And why weren’t they receiving? The Season had just barely begun. All the best families would be in town for at least a few more months.
“Or are they only not receiving me?”
he said, stopping as the thought struck him.
They must have gotten word about the factory at the same time the duke did; perhaps the Courtenays were as anti-Waxford as most of the Waxfords were anti-Courtenay.
“But they have to want to solve this, even if she—”
Even if she didn’t want to see him herself. Though, how that could be, he couldn’t imagine.
“I am charming, and that kiss was certainly spectacular.”
A passing nursemaid gave him a horrified stare before pushing her pram at top speed so she was safely out of his vicinity.
He couldn’t help but speak aloud, since he wasn’t accustomed to being by himself. It was odd, in fact, to be left alone with his thoughts.
Odd, and not entirely pleasant.
Because when he was left alone with his thoughts, he began to think about things he’d done. Things he hadn’t done. The look in his father’s eye when he regarded him.
The way people spoke about him, as though his entire personality was that of a heedless hedonist.
“I am not,”
he declared. “I like pleasure, of course, like anyone else. But I am neither callous nor cruel.”
He did not like introspection. He actively avoided it, most times, by surrounding himself with friends and activities. He was alone when engaging in physical activities, for example, but he was so focused on what he was doing that there was no time for self-reflection.
“You should just forget about her, you idiot,”
he scolded himself. “You have to solve this much bigger problem, and you just barely met the woman. Why would you chase after her?”
Because, the rebellious voice in his head said, you want to know more about her. You want to experience all the things you thought about last night in your bed when you should have been sleeping.
“Stop that,”
he chided himself. “There are other things to do. It is not as though there aren’t all sorts of enticements right here in London.”
If he couldn’t deal with the problem the duke had set him at this very moment, he should choose to do something else. Go to his club. Find a few friends and have some whiskey. Or return home and charm the cook into giving him some sweets. Perhaps stop by his favorite bootery and see if there was any footwear that might tempt him.
Instead, however, he found himself at the British Museum. Staring at naked statues.