Chapter 3
LUCIEN
Lucien climbed the steps to Rhys’s London townhome.
The structure loomed in front of him. From the outside, it did not look terribly impressive—it looked just like the other narrow houses, five stories tall with a narrow pathway.
But he knew that once he actually stepped inside, the house would be much larger than one might imagine.
Rhys’s father had purchased the much larger corner building some time ago and joined the two houses together, making Rhys’s home possibly the largest house in all of Mayfair.
He took a deep breath as the door opened. From inside, the murmur of the attendees drifted towards him. He had almost not accepted the invitation. He’d enjoyed the quiet of Christmastide, but he knew at this time of year, one had to attend events.
Rhys was one of his oldest and most particular friends, though, and he knew he could not deny his invitation.
Indeed, Rhys and Charlotte’s boisterous home had been a sanctuary at times, especially since the birth of their son James the previous year.
Henry adored their little boy, even though James was only a year and a half to Henry’s four.
Yet he could see the two of them becoming fast friends in the future.
He’d enjoyed visiting with them and would continue to do so, even though a big family dinner like the one tonight was not what he preferred.
Still, he could not deny that he had been thinking about Rhys’s sister-in-law more than once.
There was something about her that felt so very familiar.
Perhaps it was her desire for peace and quiet, or her aversion to the bustle of society, but he felt that somewhere in there might be a kindred spirit.
The butler showed him through to the drawing room, where the family already waited for him.
“Lucien, we thought you were not going to come,” Rhys said, slapping a hand on his back. “Dinner is growing cold, old chap.”
“I do beg your pardon. Henry had a bad dream, and I could not leave him without reading another story.”
“Well,” Charlotte replied, “I suppose you are excused then. We all understand what it is like to have children who require attention and will not take no for an answer.” She glanced at her sister, Marianne. “I mean, most of us do.”
Marianne caught his eye and smiled, blushing slightly. He dipped his head in her direction as they made their way through to the dining room.
“You do remember Nathaniel and Evelyn, of course,” Rhys said.
Lucien bowed to the Duke of Sinclair and his duchess. “Of course. Your Graces. It is a pleasure to see you both again.”
“And you, Wexford,” Nathaniel said warmly. “It has been too long since you joined us. We were beginning to think you had forgotten the way to London entirely.”
“Not forgotten,” Lucien replied. “Merely… avoiding.”
Evelyn smiled kindly. “We understand completely. Though I must say, your return to society has caused quite the stir. The scandal sheets have been working overtime.”
“When have they ever not?” Nathaniel replied. The group chuckled, and then Rhys motioned to another lady. “This is Lady Eugenia. These young ladies’ aunt.” Rhys gestured to the older woman who wore a purple and turquoise turban over her gray hair. The lady nodded her head once.
“We did not have the good fortune of being introduced at the ball, but I have heard all about you, my lord.”
He wanted to ask exactly what she had heard and from whom, but refrained. Perhaps it was simply a platitude.
They took their seats at the long mahogany table, and the first course was served. The conversation flowed easily enough—talk of the weather, the just passed Christmastide celebrations, the latest gossip from court.
It was midway through the second course, as the rest of the party discussed the events of the past year, that Marianne spoke up.
“I must say, I think 1816 has been the most interesting thus far,” she said, smiling at Lucien, who looked up at her, glad she had finally spoken.
Lady Eugenia turned her attention to her niece.
“Indeed, our Marianne has had quite the unusual year,” she told the table at large, her tone bright but pointed. “Six months in a convent, can you imagine? Most young ladies spend their time preparing for the Season, but not our Marianne.”
“It was hardly unusual, Aunt,” Marianne said, her fork hovering over her plate. “Other young ladies attend also.”
“For much more scandalous reasons, surely,” her aunt said. “Marianne went purely for pleasure,” she informed Lucien. “And now that she has returned, she still insists on waking at the most ungodly hours. Four in the morning! As though the nuns are still ringing their bells for her.”
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. “Aunt Eugenia, I dare say that is not unusual either. I am often awake at that hour because of James. He is an early riser, just like his aunt.” She winked at her sister, who flashed a grateful smile.
Lucien, who had no siblings of his own, always liked observing such familial displays.
“Well, that is natural. You and Evelyn both have good reason to rise early, given you reject the idea of governesses and nurses,” she said, her dislike for those decisions evident in her tone. “I will say, the convent certainly helped instill discipline in Marianne, which is never a bad thing.”
“I can confirm that,” Lucien said with a smile. “Discipline is a virtue we all should strive to possess. If the convent taught Lady Marianne that, we ought to be grateful.”
“They taught me much more than that,” Marianne said, her eyes filled with gratitude.
“Yes, but they also instilled in you an aversion to dancing,” the older woman continued, seemingly oblivious. “Really, I do not understand it. You used to be so lively. And now you prefer silence and solitude. It is quite the curiosity, is it not?”
Marianne’s jaw tightened, and her hands folded in her lap. Lucien noticed the way her knuckles whitened.
“I never enjoyed dancing.”
“That is true,” Evelyn confirmed. “She would always hide when the instructor came. Marianne knows the location of every jib door in father’s home.”
“It is essential for a young lady to dance,” Aunt Eugenia said. “Lest one ends up on the shelf due to a lack of such accomplishments. I would never seek to force marriage as your father did, but I do agree that a lady must possess certain skills.”
Lucien set down his wine glass with more force than necessary. “Some women know their minds,” he said coolly, his voice cutting through the uncomfortable silence. “That is not a fault, madam. It is a virtue. An accomplishment in its own right.”
Every eye turned to him. Aunt Eugenia’s mouth opened slightly, then closed.
“In fact,” Lucien continued, his tone still measured but firm, “I should think a woman who understands what brings her peace and contentment is far more sensible than one who simply follows the dictates of society without question. That is not peculiar. That is intelligence.”
Nathaniel cleared his throat, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Hear, hear. Well said, Wexford.”
“Indeed,” Evelyn added, her eyes warm with approval. “I have always admired Marianne’s spirit.”
Aunt Eugenia looked as though she had been slapped with a wet fish. “I merely meant—”
“We know what you meant, Aunt,” Charlotte said. “But Marianne is perfectly capable of making her own choices.”
The conversation moved on, but Lucien noticed that Marianne had not touched her food since. She sat very still, her gaze fixed on her plate.
A few moments later, when the others had turned their attention to Rhys’s account of a recent Parliamentary debate, Marianne leaned in Lucien’s direction. Her voice was low, meant only for him.
“Thank you for that,” she murmured. “But I can defend myself, my lord.”
He turned to look at her, surprised by the edge in her tone. Her eyes met his, and she didn’t flinch even a little when he refused to look away.
“I do not doubt it,” he replied. “But sometimes it is easier to bear when one is not fighting alone.”
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded once before returning her attention to her plate.
The remainder of dinner passed without incident, though Lucien found his attention drifting to Marianne more often than was strictly proper. When the ladies rose to withdraw to the drawing room, he watched her retreat, noting the straight line of her spine and the resolute set of her shoulders.
Later that evening, after the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Lucien was oddly restless.
The conversation had turned to the latest on-dit from the ton, and he had little interest in gossip.
He accepted a cup of tea from a footman and moved toward the windows, seeking a moment of quiet.
That was when he noticed her.
Marianne sat alone on a small sofa near the window, partially hidden by a potted plant. She held a teacup in her hands but did not drink from it. Instead, she gazed out at the darkened street beyond, eyebrows drawn together.
Without quite knowing why, Lucien crossed the room. He did not ask permission before sitting beside her, an offense in and of itself. She glanced up, startled, but did not protest.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“I apologize if my defense earlier was unwelcome,” he said finally, keeping his voice low so as not to attract attention from the others. “I did not mean to overstep.”
“You did not overstep,” she replied. “I was simply… surprised. Most gentlemen do not concern themselves with such matters.”
“Perhaps I am not the most gentlemanly.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “No. I do not believe you are.”
They fell silent again, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. It felt, oddly enough, like the silence he remembered from when he used to talk to his grandfather and their conversation ran out. They’d sit side by side, each occupied by their own thoughts.
“Your son,” Marianne said after a while. “Henry, is that his name?”
“Yes.”
“You speak of him often. It is clear you care for him deeply.”
“He is everything to me,” Lucien admitted. “Since his mother…She is gone. I am told I owe him a new one. A replacement of sorts.” He trailed off, unsure how to continue.
“You do not think that he needs one?”
“No, I do not. I … I do all I can for him. Although I wonder at times if he knows something is missing.”
“Children sense everything,” Marianne said.
He glanced at her sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Only that children are more perceptive than we give them credit for. They feel the absences in their lives, even if they cannot name them.”
Her words struck closer to home than she could know. He thought of Henry’s questions about his mother, the way the boy had asked why he did not have a mama like the other children.
“And what do you believe is missing in your life?” he asked, turning the question back on her.
Marianne was quiet for a long moment, her gaze returning to the window. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Peace.”
The single word hung between them, weighted with meaning.
“Not marriage?” he asked. “Not children or a home of your own?”
“No.” She met his eyes directly. “I want my freedom. And my peace. Society may not understand it, but that is what I seek. That is all I have ever wanted.”
Lucien studied her face—the determination in her eyes, the firm set of her jaw. She meant every word. There was no coyness here, no games. She was simply… honest.
And in that moment, something shifted in his chest.
He did not want a wife. The thought of remarrying had filled him with dread for years. But if he must take one—for his son, for appearances, for all the reasons society demanded—perhaps peace was what he needed too.
And this woman, strange and calm and stubborn, might be the only person who truly understood what that word meant.
“Peace,” he repeated softly. “Yes. I think I understand.”
She looked at him with something like relief in her eyes, as though she had finally found someone who spoke her language.
They sat together in silence as the evening wore on around them, two kindred spirits who had found, quite unexpectedly, an understanding that neither had been seeking.