Chapter 8
LUCIEN
Lucien put Henry to bed that night and walked down the hall towards his own chamber, his thoughts drifting.
Six years ago, at the same hour, he had been on his way to the chamber he was to share with Arabella for the rest of their lives.
He remembered feeling elated. He could almost feel the remnants of the smile he had worn that night, thinking that this would be the start of a wonderful marriage.
It had been. For the first few weeks. Perhaps even the first few months. But as routine had settled in, cracks had begun to show in their marriage, not on his part. He had been content, but it was clear that his bride was not.
Arabella had been unhappy almost from the start.
To this day, he did not know what he had done wrong.
Perhaps Rhys was right. One night, three whiskeys deep into the evening, he had said that Lucien was paying too much attention to his wife, that perhaps it would be best to ignore her every now and again. Make her wonder.
Lucien had never been the sort of man to enjoy games such as that. So he had continued doing what he had always done. He had brought her flowers, joined her when she sat in the drawing room, and ensured that all her favorite foods were available whenever she chose to want them.
But things had not improved. When she was with child, he had thought that perhaps things would change, but they had not. Arabella had not had any interest in her own child. He had never understood it until the end. In the end, it had all become very clear.
He paused and looked at the hall that led to Marianne’s chamber. This marriage would be different, which was why he was not invested in it. He felt nothing for Marianne other than a shared desire for freedom and peace. They might become friends eventually, he thought. He would like that.
She had not seemed very happy earlier, though.
That concerned him. Their banter at the altar had been lighthearted enough and had given him hope.
And she clearly liked the estate. But her interaction with Henry had concerned him.
She had said that she did not want to be a mother, but he had somehow assumed that once she met Henry, her heart would soften the way his always did when he looked at his son.
Perhaps that had been foolish. This was perhaps the downfall of every parent—they thought their child was especially sweet, especially kind, especially endearing, and would win over everybody.
But that had not been the case with Marianne.
Perhaps he should have introduced her to Henry sooner.
He stopped, his body turning toward her chamber door.
He had to talk to her. He had to make sure that they were on the same page, that they wanted the same thing still.
He could not risk things being awkward, not only because he did not want Henry to live in a home that was filled with tension, but also because he did not want to repeat the mistakes he had made in his first marriage.
He should have talked to Arabella, confronted her, and found out what was missing, but he had not.
It had been too late by the time he had become frustrated enough to want to do so, and then it had led to. ..
He shuddered as he thought back to their final explosive argument. She had looked at him with hateful eyes, and he had felt rage flash through him. His fingers curled, and he pressed his palms into fists.
Anger he had felt. Anger he still felt. Arabella... He hated what sort of person he had become around her. Perhaps she had hated the woman she had turned into around him. They had both been miserable. It was why he had not wanted to get married again, why he had not wanted to find a true wife.
He shook his head, raised his hand, and knocked on Marianne’s door. A moment later, he heard the pitter-patter of feet, and then she opened the door. She looked at him, surprised. Her auburn-colored hair was down, and he was taken aback by how long it was. It reached down to her waist. She blinked.
“Lucien,” she said. They had agreed to use Christian names with one another.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not mean to disturb you, but there are things I wish to discuss with you.”
She bit her bottom lip—something he realized she did quite often—and then she stepped aside, letting him in.
He looked around, glad that he had decided to give her his mother’s old chambers, not Arabella’s.
Arabella had insisted upon taking over the east wing of the third floor because of the views.
He had indulged her, of course, only realizing in hindsight that perhaps it was because those chambers were furthest away from his own.
“I hope you like the chambers. My mother had rather particular taste,” he said, pointing towards the fireplace, which was adorned with two swans on either side.
“I think it is lovely,” she said. “But you said you wished to speak?”
He nodded, and she walked to the sideboard. “Sherry?” she asked, and he smiled, thinking how natural she looked in this room. As though she somehow belonged. She poured two glasses when he nodded and then sat beside him on the chaise.
“I thought that we should discuss our arrangements now that you are actually here and have seen your new home. Since we agreed to share a life without actually sharing one, there should be certain rules.”
“We already discussed rules,” she said. “But I suppose you are right. There are certain things I did not think of. For instance, what is expected of me as Countess? Am I to run this house as though I were truly the lady of this house?”
“You are,” he said. “Otherwise, it looks suspicious. If you only lounge about all day, eating grapes and reading Gothic novels, people will talk.”
She smirked at him. “I will have you know that I am not the sort to lounge about. Any hint of laziness on my part was driven out of me by Sister Bernadette at the convent. Indolence is not tolerated. You will see me rising at half past four in the morning.”
“I dare say I shall not see you rise at half past four in the morning,” he replied, leaning forward, his mood suddenly lifting. “I do not rise until seven at the earliest, or whenever Henry decides to wake me—but even that is rarely before six.”
“Well then,” she said, “we shall take care of breakfast on our own.”
“Indeed. That is easily explained away with your recent past at the convent. But we should dine together. At least several times a week. It is important that we are seen together, otherwise the servants will—”
“The servants will talk anyhow. Which is why it is grand that you are here now. They will have seen you entering my chambers.”
“I would imagine so,” he said. “So separate breakfasts, joined dinners, and we should walk the grounds together. You can join Henry and me.”
He noticed the slight flinch.
“He will not call you Mama. I have spoken to him. I have made it clear to him, but Mrs. Greaves has certain romantic notions.”
“Your housekeeper who was seated at our wedding in the second row?”
“You saw her?”
“Indeed, I did. And now I understand why you were so quick to agree to my wish that Juliet come here and serve as my lady’s maid, even though she has no experience. You have a rather particular relationship with one of your servants.”
He laughed and finished his sherry. “I would not call it particular. She has been with my family since I was a boy. She has always been like a grandmother to me, of sorts—or a mother, or an aunt, or whatever you wish to call it. She is, outside of Rhys, one of my closest confidants. And while she can be a little different than what you might expect of a housekeeper, she is exceedingly professional. She runs this house like a captain runs a Royal Navy ship. Nothing gets past her.”
“As for Henry—”
“I was unprepared for how boisterous he was. I shall do better.”
“He is a lovely child. I know that every parent will say that, but it is true in his case.” He paused, tilting his head to one side. “I am curious—you have never wished for children?”
She ran her index finger along the rim of her sherry glass, from which she had not taken a sip.
“I never thought of it. I adore my niece and nephews, but I am uncertain about having children of my own. Although that is, of course, moot now.” Alarm rose in her face.
“Unless you had an heir in mind. We talked of it, I know, but I want to ensure that you have not changed your mind—that you do not wish to have children with me.”
He raised his hands and laughed. “No, I have not changed my mind, and I shall not change my mind. I shall not make a broodmare out of you. I have a child. That is all I ever wanted. I do not want more. Another reason why this marriage works perfectly.”
“For the time being,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“Pray,” she asked, “what made you think I might have changed my mind?”
She shrugged. “My sisters. Their marriages started out as marriages of convenience, and as you know, they are both now madly in love with their husbands, and their husbands with them. They thought that perhaps we might change our minds. That we might fall in love.”
“I see. Do you think that might be a true danger?”
“No,” she said, sounding rather defensive. “Do you?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Since my wife passed away, I have given up on romantic pursuits entirely.”
“Then we need not fear,” she said. “Although I must ask—do I have to fear mistresses sneaking into the house at all hours?”
“Mistresses shall not sneak into this house at any hour. I have no interest in such entanglements.”
“Good,” she said. “That is settled, then.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, and Lucien found himself oddly at ease. This arrangement might work after all.
“I should let you rest,” he said, rising. “It has been a long day.”
“Indeed it has,” she said, standing as well.
He walked to the door, then paused and turned back. “Marianne?”
“Yes?”
“I am glad you are here. I think we shall deal well together.”
She smiled—a genuine smile this time. “I think so, too, Lucien.”
He nodded and left, closing the door softly behind him. As he walked back to his own chambers, he felt lighter than he had in years. Perhaps this marriage of convenience would bring them both the peace they sought.