Chapter 15
MARIANNE
That afternoon, Marianne was in her riding habit once more.
Juliet had smoothed it down, but frowned as she examined the fabric.
“There is still a stain I was not able to get out,” she said.
“Mrs. Greaves helped me, but these fabrics are such a different material from what I am used to. He had to ask you to go riding again today, did he?”
Marianne placed a hand on her shoulder. “He certainly did not do it to vex you.”
Juliet rose. “But he does vex me. He vexes me so. He should not have told the little boy to run at you with his muddy hands. He should not have, and he understands that. He thought it would be—”
“Merely sport,” Marianne said with a sigh.
“Yes, you said. But I must wonder, do you not find him peculiar?”
“Peculiar?” Marianne said, tipping her head to one side. “I suppose he is different from the other lords I have known. He is certainly different from my father. He is most attentive to his son.”
“I meant in the way that he wished to be married without being married. It is peculiar, especially for a gentleman of standing. Yes, he already has a son and heir, but would a spare not be expected? Don’t most gentlemen have a second son just in case?
To secure the succession? I have heard so many ladies who have come to the convent over the years in unfortunate positions talk about this.
And he seems determined to not only never have another child but to not truly have a wife. ”
Marianne shrugged. “There are ladies who would think me peculiar, for a young lady of my standing ought to want nothing more than to be married and to have a home as grand as this one, and have children. And yet here I am.”
“Yet here you are,” Juliet said. “Ready to go riding unaccompanied with his lordship.”
Marianne stamped her hands on her hips. “What is that meant to say?”
“Just that he is odd, that is all. I do not understand him. And the things I have found out...” She shook her head. “Do you truly know nothing of his wife?”
“No,” Marianne said, but her shoulders instantly felt stiffer.
Did she even want to know about the woman who had held the title before her?
Or should she care? The truth was, however, she had found herself caring.
Far more than she should. These last few days, there had been a change in her connection to Lucien.
She felt less out of place. More pulled into whatever special connection he and his son had.
She had no desire to be Henry’s mother, of course, but she couldn’t deny that the more she watched the two of them together, the more she yearned to be a part of things.
Even if only briefly. Which meant knowing about his wife.
“She died in a terrible accident,” Juliet said, without waiting for Marianne to say whether she wanted to hear the story or not.
“Apparently, she and Lucien fought with some frequency for many years. They were dreadfully unhappy. Evidently, he told Rhys that he wished to see her out of his life entirely.”
Marianne looked up. This was not at all what she expected. She expected that he was heartbroken over his wife’s death. She had envisioned a sort of love story for the ages. The kind that authors would write about. This was quite the opposite of what she had expected.
“On the night she died, there was a dreadful argument between them. And she hurried away in her carriage, never to return. Apparently, he went after her, but returned empty-handed, and by morning, the news came that her carriage had crashed in the storm.” Juliet lowered her voice.
“I hear that there are some on the estate who think that perhaps this is not what happened. That he had a hand in it.”
“A hand in it?” Marianne exclaimed. “You cannot be serious. Please do not pay attention to such idle gossip. Servants are the worst gossipmongers. Do not fall into these traps, Juliet, I beg you.”
“Marianne, just—” Juliet shrugged. “I do not think I believe it. But that is what people are saying. There are whispers. I heard some people say that his wish to marry you was to silence any doubt about his role in her death.”
Marianne scoffed. “That cannot be true. There have been so many horror stories. I have told you all the horrible things the scandal sheets have written about my brothers-in-law. They would have to be the worst men not only in all of England but on the entire continent. Or even perhaps the planet itself.”
“Oh, I know,” Juliet replied. “I’ve heard the stories.
But I do think that you should take the time this afternoon to find out the truth.
After all, the fact that you are going on an adventure with him entirely unaccompanied makes me think that you care for him more than you have thus far admitted.
And if you care for him more than you have thus far admitted, then you ought to know with certainty what sort of man he is. ”
“It means nothing that we are going on an adventure together. He’s only helping me uncover my passion.”
“Uncover your passion?” Juliet said, confused.
“Yes. I have none. I do not truly know what I wish to do with my freedom. I know that I wish to share my freedom with you. But I do not know what I wish for us to do. Travel, yes, but what if I do not enjoy it? What if I find adventuring tedious? He is only helping me to see if I am adventurous at heart.”
“I see,” Juliet replied. “And to test out his theory, he is taking you to an abandoned estate? Why not take you to the maze and see if you can make your way out?”
Marianne swallowed hard. “I do not wish for you to make me feel strange about this.”
Juliet pointed at her. “So you do feel strange. So you do understand that this is not truly part of your arrangement. Your arrangement was to take dinner together and to be seen together by the household staff, and by the ton. And you have yet to venture out into the ton.”
“We will. We are to dine at my aunt’s house on the morrow.”
“I see,” Juliet said. She sat on the edge of her bed, crossing her legs in a manner that was definitely not appropriate for ladies’ maids. Then she narrowed her eyes. “You know, I wonder if this is all part of his habit of charming a lady.”
Marianne turned around. “I beg your pardon.”
“I mean, he vexes you on purpose. You have told me in your conversations that he often sounds as though he enjoys challenging you. Perhaps that is the way he shows affection. I have heard that is how some gentlemen do it.”
Marianne shook her head. “He is not attempting to charm me. And I do not wish to be charmed. We are simply playing our parts, and he is being chivalrous in his attempts to help me.”
“Chivalrous. I see,” Juliet laughed. “You highborn ladies certainly are different.” She smiled.
“I wonder what Sister Bernadette would say if she could see you now. No. I know what she would say. She would say that despite your protestations, you are not only perfectly willing to be charmed, you also find him charming. I saw the way you looked at him yesterday before master Henry used your skirts as a napkin. You were quite taken.”
“I was not,” Marianne retorted.
“You certainly were,” Juliet said in a singsong tone. “Now it is almost two o’clock. You must go.”
Marianne wanted to continue to counter, to protest, but she knew that Juliet had won this particular battle of wills.
Juliet was convinced that Marianne was fairly charmed by Lucien.
As she made her way down the stairs to the waiting horse, she could not deny that perhaps there was a grain of truth in that assumption.
The way to the abandoned great estate was easier than she had envisioned. It was mostly a straight road through a copse and past a water clearing.
“Duck your head,” Lucien said, and raised his hand to hold back some branches to allow her passage so they wouldn’t whip into her face. “I rode along this path once when I was a young boy with my grandfather, and I returned with my face utterly sliced and diced.”
“Goodness gracious,” Marianne said. “That must’ve been painful.”
“To my ego, yes. But I learned my lesson. Do not dash forth without looking first. My father was upset. Fortunately, my grandfather was able to rein him in.”
“Did he have a terrible temper, your father?” Marianne asked once Lucien had caught up to her.
He wet his lips. “I would not say he had a terrible temper. He was more disinterested, I suppose I could say. But when he did show an interest in me, it was usually to chastise me for something. Because he wanted me to be the ideal earl. And I was not suited to the title in his eyes.”
She tipped her head to one side. “So at that time was your father not earl?”
“No, my grandfather was. But we all lived together. My grandfather, much to my father’s chagrin, lived a very long life, and he died when he was five and eighty years old.
My father was only earl for five years before he followed him in death.
I dare say my father cursed his father for his longevity on his deathbed, though I am grateful for it. ”
This was the first time Lucien had truly opened up to her about his life. “So you were closer to your grandfather.”
“I was. He was the dearest man. He could be firm when he needed to be and kind when the situation called for kindness. He made me who I am today —far more than my father did. My father was more concerned with appearances.”
“So was mine.”
“I heard. He married your sister off to a man old enough to be her grandfather. My father was of a similar ilk.”
Marianne swallowed. Was this the chance she hadn’t known she was waiting for? Should she ask about his wife? Surely this was some sort of sign from the universe, wasn’t it? “Was yours an arranged marriage?”
“I must say my marriage was arranged. Although you should know—you were there when I arranged it.” He chuckled, and she couldn’t help but mimic the sound.
“You know what I meant. Your previous marriage.”
He grew serious, pulling his shoulders back as they rode on.
“It was an arrangement, yes. Made by my father when he was earl. As Earl of Wexford, he tried to secure the succession as best he could. At least, I have Henry, though,” he added quietly. “I suppose Henry came out of it, so...”
“What was she like? Your wife,” Marianne asked cautiously.
She noticed the way Lucien’s face darkened as he turned towards her. “Henry’s mother is not somebody I wish to speak of,” he said shortly. “There is much darkness surrounding her passing. I find it difficult to discuss her. Forgive me.”
Marianne’s mind whirled. Was this a sign that Juliet had been right and there was something sinister in his history with his former wife? Or was this a sign that he still grieved her death? Either could be true.
“I find it sometimes a relief that my father died. I know it is terrible to say,” Lucien said suddenly as they continued on. A clearing was coming into view. “Do you think that makes me a terrible person?” he asked, looking at her.
“No,” Marianne replied. “I at times feel the same. Although I could never say so to my sisters. My father was a difficult man to love, and I doubt that he truly ever loved me. Or my sisters. It would hurt them to admit it, but I think it is true. He wanted to be respected. He wanted to be wealthy. He wanted to be known, to be remembered. That always meant more to him than us. I think if he were still living, he would’ve done to me what he attempted to do to Evelyn. ”
“Married you off to some horrid old man?”
“Yes. I think perhaps it might’ve been difficult for him with Nathaniel and Rhys as my brothers-in-law, but he certainly would’ve tried.
I can imagine he would’ve taken me away to Scotland and married me off to some Scottish laird at Gretna Green before anyone could do anything about it.
” She sighed. “I have been thinking of him more of late. I think it is because I see you with Henry, and I see all the things that he was not as a father.”
“I try my best to be what Henry needs,” Lucien replied. “It is my duty after all as his father.”
“You do it well. I am sure his mother would have been pleased to know her son was left in capable hands.”
Lucien studied her for a long moment as a clearing came into view.
“We are here,” he said.
Marianne looked up, realizing that their conversation – deep as it had become – was now at an end.