Chapter 12
LUCIEN
The following morning, Lucien and Henry sat at the breakfast table as Henry smacked his silver spoon onto his egg, cracking it far more forcefully than was proper.
“What did I teach you?” Lucien asked.
“Gentle,” Henry replied.
“That’s right. Here, take mine. Try it again.”
The little boy took the spoon and tapped it against the egg so softly that it did not even make a single crack.
“A little bit more,” Lucian said, this time wrapping his hand around Henry’s own, showing him the right amount of pressure to use.
“When I was a child, my governess used to roll the egg in a piece of cloth and crack the entire shell all at once,” Marianne said as she stood behind them.
Lucien turned, surprised to see her standing there. Usually, she took her breakfast long before he did. A habit from the time at the convent, he assumed.
“Marianne. Pray tell, did the land of nod keep you captive for longer than usual?”
She slipped into the seat on the other side next to Henry. “No. Not at all. In fact, I woke three hours ago. Juliet and I took a walk around the estate. It is beautiful.”
“I apologize once more for not having taken you myself.”
“Pray, do not concern yourself,” she said.
“Have you seen the maze?” Henry asked.
“I saw it, but I have not gone in,” Marianne said.
“Oh, you should,” Henry said with a laugh. “It is so exciting! You get lost, and it is scary.”
She smiled, and Lucien saw a new lightness in her eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was her friend’s arrival or something else, but she looked more at ease.
“Henry and I are going out riding later. Perhaps you would like to join us. I know you said you are not the most avid rider, but we are only going to be riding within the paddock. It looks like it may rain, and I should not wish to be caught out in the weather with him.”
She nodded. “Perhaps I could try a few rounds myself.”
“I should like that very much,” he said with a smile.
Perhaps she was coming out of her shell.
Perhaps she was even beginning to like living with them.
He knew this was only temporary, but he wanted her to be comfortable.
He wanted her to be comfortable with Henry.
It would not be good for Henry if she were stiff and reserved the entire time, essentially marking time and counting down the hours until she could finally leave.
She had tried last night, something he hadn’t expected at all.
When he had gone to kiss Henry goodnight, he’d been shocked to see her there.
Of course, she could have continued to read him the story in a monotonous voice usually reserved for reading sermons, but she had tried. And Henry appreciated that.
What made her even more relatable was that she understood she had not done a very good job of reading the story. It was clear in her reaction afterwards.
But he didn’t mind. He hadn’t been good at reading bedtime stories either when he first started.
“May I roll my egg?” Henry asked, though he had already taken it out of the little cup.
“I do not know that this is a very good...” Lucien started, but Henry had already placed the egg inside his napkin and was rolling it.
It cracked and cracked, and Marianne looked on with a smile.
Lucien tipped his head to one side, suppressing his anticipation because he already knew what was going to happen.
Henry unrolled the cloth and gasped. The egg—soft-boiled—was split, and his hands pushed down so hard that the yolk shot out the front and stained the entire napkin.
“Oh, yellow!” he said and dabbed his fingers directly into the yolk, licking them.
“No, Henry,” Lucien said. “Wipe those off.”
“Why?” he said. “I can paint with this. Yellow!”
“We do not paint with our food,” Lucien said and handed him a napkin. “Now clean yourself.”
Instead, Henry dipped his fingers in the egg yolk again, licked off one, and then pushed it toward Marianne’s face.
“Look, Lady Marianne, this tastes good. Do you want to try?” The way she flinched backwards at the sight of his egg yolk-stained fingers was a sight to behold. Lucien closed his eyes, but a snort escaped his nose anyhow.
“It is just egg yolk, Marianne,” he said. “It is easily removed.” He grabbed a napkin, maneuvered his son around so he was facing him, and wiped off his hands. “See?” He showed her the napkin.
“I just did not want to stain my dress,” Marianne said. “It is a new gown that my aunt bought me, and she would not like it if it were ruined.”
“If every item of clothing I had that was stained by Henry was wholly ruined, I would be walking around in nothing but my breeches and socks. You have my assurance, the household staff are most capable of removing any stain you can think of.”
“Well, I still prefer not to get any on my clothing in the first place, if it pleases your lordship,” Marianne said. “And I do apologize about the eggs. At home, I usually have hard-boiled. They do not explode in such a manner when pressed.”
“Think nothing of it. Henry must learn. And we prefer soft-boiled eggs because they are perfect for dipping.”
“Dipping?” she said.
“Yes, see.” He took a piece of bread, ripped off the crust, and dipped it in the egg yolk, then ate it. “It is delicious.” He lowered his voice while Henry followed suit. “Also, a wonderful way to get him to eat the bread crusts.”
Marianne took an egg and eyed it suspiciously. She then cracked the top, peeled it, and then, after removing the top, dipped a piece of bread in the yolk. Her eyes widened as she savored the mix of flavors. “This is quite wonderful.”
“Isn’t it? There are a great many secrets you are yet to uncover, thanks to little Henry here,” Lucien said.
The two finished breakfast in an easy manner. Lucien and Marianne conversed as they hadn’t before. Not about anything of substance, but things she had discovered in and around the estate.
And he filled in the gaps, explaining that the sculpture garden was something his father had built, intending to rival his own father’s outside garden maze. By the end of it, Henry had managed to keep the lemon curd on his slice of bread, and no further egg accidents were added to the record.
As Henry got up and ran out, Lucien turned to follow, but looked over his shoulder. “Your presence was most welcome at breakfast, Marianne. I do hope you will join us again.”
“I should like that,” she said. “There may be more delicious foods to uncover.”
“Wait until Sunday. You did not have breakfast with us this Sunday, but next Sunday you really ought to. Mrs. Greaves and Cook come up with the most delicious menus for Sundays.”
He looked at her, her gaze lingering upon him for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, and then she looked away.
He handed Henry off to his governess and then attended to estate matters for a few hours, though he couldn’t deny his thoughts drifted back to Marianne time and again. She was quite different from her sisters.
Due to his friendship with Rhys, he knew Charlotte better than Evelyn. Charlotte was a boisterous, opinionated young woman, and though Marianne seemed to have strong opinions of her own, she was not quite as quick to voice them.
She truly was the opposite of Arabella, who had always had a quick wit and a sharp tongue.
It had been one of the things that attracted him to her initially, but it also became something that he had grown to truly resent over the time they were together because so often her sharp tongue was aimed at him. Especially at the end.
He sat up straight, placing his quill down. Why was he thinking of Arabella? He had just been thinking of how unlike Marianne was to her sisters, and now he was thinking about his former wife? What possessed him? There was no comparing the two.
They were nothing alike.
For starters, he had actually wanted to marry Arabella.
It was true he’d also wanted to wed Marianne, but that was different. Sometimes, he wondered if Arabella would have grown into her own as a mother. She’d shown no signs of it, but that might have changed, had she lived.
What sort of mother would she have been?
Would she have perhaps one day grown to love Henry once he had grown out of the stage where all he did was cry all night and spit up his bottle?
Or would she have continued to be cold and uninterested, leaving his education and everything else to Lucien, the nurses, and the governess?
A knock on the door drew him from his thoughts.
“My lord,” Mrs. Greaves said. “Have you forgotten the time? Her ladyship and Henry are ready for the riding lesson, and you ought to make haste, for it is going to rain soon.”
He looked out of the window, and indeed, Henry was already outside in his little riding habit.
Next to him stood Marianne. She too looked regal in her attire—a green riding habit with evening primrose colored underdress, and a green hunting hat that made him chuckle.
“Well, she certainly looks the part, doesn’t she? ”
“She’s trying to act the part too,” Mrs. Greaves said as she stepped beside him at the window. “I dare say she will do quite well as countess.”
“For a time,” he said. “Pray do not forget that this is not a union that is meant to last a lifetime. She’s not to replace my wife, nor Henry’s mother.”
“But you have encouraged her to seek the boy’s company, have you not? I heard you did.”
“Because that is what is expected. What would the other servants say if they knew that this was a mere arrangement?”
“They would think what I think. That you are afraid to let love into your heart once more.”
“Love already is in my heart,” he said.
Her lips puckered, and then she shook her head.
“Love for someone other than your son. It is easy to love that precious child. There is no danger in it. He will love you no matter what—you are his entire world. Loving somebody else, a young lady, for example, is much more difficult to do. For therein lies the possibility of disappointment once more, of heartbreak.”
“I was not heartbroken when Arabella died,” he said, and the woman closed her eyes before looking outside again.
“Perhaps not when she died, but you were heartbroken over everything that came before, were you not? And I know it is not my place to say it, but I did hear you weep more than once after she passed.”
“You are right,” he said, pulling his shoulders back. “It is not your place to say it. But if you did hear me weep, it was not over her. It was over our son, who would have to grow up without a mother.”
“But that is it, isn’t it? He doesn’t have to grow up without a mother. There is someone right here in this house who could fill that role.”
He turned to her. “It is not the role she wishes to fill, and not the role I asked her to fill. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a riding lesson to attend, and today I shall have two pupils.”
With that, he marched out of his study, down the stairs, and to the front door.
Mrs. Greaves clearly thought Marianne might make a good mother and wife – and she wasn’t going to give up.
He knew that on the surface, she was right.
It would be better for the child to have a mother again.
Perhaps it might even be good for him to have a wife again.
But anyone who knew the true story of him and Arabella knew that love was not meant for him.
He did not know what to do with it, how to maintain it. He only knew how to lose it.
Indeed, the only love he had ever truly been able to hold onto was that for his grandfather and for Henry.
He stepped outside, and Marianne looked at him, smiling. The sky was gray, but a ray of sunshine had crept through and enveloped her in a bright light. It was almost like a painting.
He glanced up at the heavens for a moment. Was the very universe itself trying to push him as well into seeing her as something other than his companion in this little charade?
If it was, he was determined to ignore it.
He had entered this marriage for one purpose only—to free himself of obligation. He had done so, and he was not going to let anybody, no matter how well-meaning, interfere with his plans.