Chapter 16 #2
Lucien handed her the glass, and she took it.
She could only hope that he didn’t realize why she had jumped backwards as she had.
Truly, she didn’t even know herself. This wasn’t the first time they had briefly touched, and yet it seemed as though her reactions to his touch grew more intense each time it happened.
He cleaned out the second glass and poured himself a drink—larger than the one he’d given her—and took a sip. She brought the whiskey to her lips, the strong smell penetrating her nostrils, and took a gulp. Immediately, she shuddered and closed her eyes, her lips puckering.
When she opened them again, he was smirking at her. “Have you never had whiskey before?”
“No,” she admitted. “Wine, yes, and sherry, but never whiskey. It is most disagreeable.”
“Indeed it is,” he said. “I abhor it. But that’s what it is meant to do—warm one.”
“That it does,” she said. “I feel as though a fire burns within.” She placed the glass down on top of the little cabinet, as did he—each afraid that the cabinet would fall apart as the chair had.
“So, you would be here drinking whiskey to stay warm and reading?” she asked.
“Yes. I used to have a candlestick here and a few wax candles, but I assume that some vagabonds have taken them all away by now. I do not see them anyhow. It does not look like much now, but this was quite comfortable. Quite a sanctuary.”
What did he need sanctuary from? To escape his wife? She still could not tell the relationship between him and his wife, for every time she attempted to ask, he changed the subject.
There were so many things she wanted to ask. Did he not wish to have a true marriage again? Was it because he feared the pain if he should lose the person again? Or was it, as Juliet had suggested, that there was something more sinister at play?
She couldn’t imagine it. He was such a kind man—at least when it came to his son. Although he had made attempts to be good to her, too. Their trip this afternoon was a perfect example.
“You look pensive,” he said.
“It is nothing,” she said. “I just thought that when I was younger, I wished I had a refuge too. But my father would never indulge such things. Nothing that could stain our reputation would be allowed, and I am certain that stealing away into a dark ruin to withdraw myself and read would have certainly counted as something that might potentially ruin my reputation.”
“Well, if you are still in need of a refuge, you are welcome here. Although it is nowhere near as comfortable as it used to be.”
“No,” she said. “I do not think I need refuge anymore. I think I have found it—in a way, that is. The things I used to run from are no longer haunting me.”
He looked at her and blinked, his eyes glimmering in the dark. “That gladdens me. It does one no good to be haunted by one’s past—or by one’s own thoughts,” he said.
There was a depth to his words, something that stirred within her.
What did he mean? Was he haunted? By something other than his wife’s death?
She wanted to know him, she realized. She wanted to continue talking to him, to learn who he was, what moved him.
These were dangerous thoughts—she knew it.
For the more she got to know him, the more she liked him, and the less she knew she would want to leave eventually.
In the distance, a rumble sounded, and she glanced up. The sky that she could see from the vantage point was still blue, although the puffy white clouds had taken on a grey hue that hadn’t been there before.
“Do you think it will rain?” she asked.
“I think so,” he said. “We should return.”
He poured out the rest of his drink instead of swallowing it, then took her glass from her, did the same, and then returned them to the little cabinet along with the bottle. He shut the door, but it wouldn’t stay closed and only clicked open again.
“Well,” he said, “I do not know when I shall return here anyhow. Let the vagabond find it and have it.”
He proffered his arm, and Marianne took it hesitantly. Together, they made their way out of the room again, over the boulder he had helped her cross earlier, and then he assisted her in mounting her horse again.
As they rode, the wind picked up, and Marianne shivered.
Lucien glanced at her. “We should’ve brought cloaks. It was thoughtless of me.”
“It is quite all right,” she said. “It is not very far back home.”
“Yes, but if you take a chill on the way, I am sure your maid may well have some stern words for me once more—not to mention your family.”
She frowned. “My family?”
“We have to dine with them on the morrow,” he reminded her.
“Oh yes,” she said, having entirely forgotten.
It was about time that the two of them ventured out of their home.
It was one thing to try to convince the servants that they were a real couple so that they would spread the word to their fellow servants, but they also had to attempt to convince high society that they were truly married, truly in love.
An intimate dinner might not do very much toward that end.
Still, it would give them the opportunity to be seen by the neighbors entering the home along with her sisters and their husbands, painting a picture of familial relations.
And after that, it would be time to engage in public appearances. They were to attend the ball the following week, and then the season would commence.
Initially, she had dreaded having to keep company with him, to be seen with him, because it would bind her to his side—at least for a period.
Yet now, as they rode back to the house they now shared, she couldn’t help but realize that spending time with him was no longer an obligation.
It was something that she anticipated with pleasure, looked forward to—even though she knew such thoughts were futile.
For she knew she was naught but a convenience to him, just as he had been to her.