Chapter 26
LUCIEN
The future. Traveling the world with Marianne and Henry. Getting to know her... The words twirled around Lucien’s head.
The sense of disquiet had never quite left his body, even when he had woken up next to her, not even when he had held and kissed her.
It wasn’t because of Marianne herself. She was all that was amiable.
In fact, she was all he could desire in a wife.
Sweet, kind, loving. Evidently attached to Henry.
Every single day, she was the kind of woman he should have wished to wed.
If his father had presented her as a bride, the present would have looked entirely different.
But that, of course, was unrealistic. Six years ago, she was but a child.
And the late Earl of Langley was not the sort of man his father ever would’ve seen as a suitable alliance.
He could’ve waited to marry until he met Marianne. If Henry were her son, it would’ve been different.
But it wasn’t. It never would be. Henry wasn’t her son. Henry was the son of Arabella. Lucien was the widower of Arabella. And there was nothing that would ever change the facts. It was the way of things. Life was life. It was folly to indulge in such fancies.
And yet could there be something more? Could there be a life where he and Marianne were happy together, where they could travel the world with Henry?
Perhaps. And for a moment, he had truly believed it could be so. He had wanted it with every single part of him. But then she had spoken the words that had unsettled something within him.
They had all their lives to get to know one another.
It was not a false statement. It was the truth. And yet it was also one of the things he was most afraid of; for if she wanted to know him, that would mean knowing every part of him, even his most guarded secrets.
He would have to eventually reveal to her the truth about the night Arabella died and his actions— or inactions—to prevent the tragedy.
He would have to admit the absence of genuine mourning that he had experienced.
Yes, he had been sad that Arabella had died, because Henry had been robbed of his mother, but at the same time, he had been relieved.
He couldn’t tell Marianne that, though. What manner of man felt relief when his wife was dead?
He was contemptible. He was corrupted to his very soul, and if she ever found out the truth, she would not love him.
She would regret being with him, just as Arabella had regretted being with him, and he would have to spend the rest of his life once more living with somebody who regarded him with scorn.
Only it would wound him all the deeper because now he loved Marianne. He hadn’t ever truly loved Arabella. It would hurt all the more. And yet there was a part of him that still hoped.
Maybe he could keep it a secret. Maybe Arabella’s memory would never have to be brought up. He could dismiss the entire household except for Mrs. Greaves and hire people who did not know Arabella. Who hadn’t been around when Lucien and Arabella were so wretchedly wed?
They could move. Why not? Why not explore? Why not travel forever? Run away from all of this? His mind raced.
“Papa,” Henry called. “Papa, look, there they are!”
They had reached the area by the pond where a large oak tree rose into the sky, and upon which squirrels always congregated.
Several of them chattered when they saw them coming, and Henry laughed as he pointed up. “Look, Marianne! This one is Henry the Eighth. And this is Alfred the Great.”
Beside him, Marianne giggled. “That’s right, you told me that he named them after royalty.”
“He always has. I cannot say why,” he replied, glad of the distraction.
They stepped underneath the oak tree and looked up. There were six—no, eight—squirrels jumping from branch to branch, some of their tails twitching as they looked down, doubtless awaiting some kind of food.
“We should’ve brought something for them,” Henry said. “How disappointed they must be.”
“I think they will recover,” Marianne said. “It will not be the first time that they have seen humans without being given food. But in any case, we can always return later in the day and bring them something.”
“There are some that will even let you pet them. Would you mind petting a squirrel?” Henry looked at her, wide-eyed.
“I have never petted a squirrel, and I should not mind trying now. I think it would be most thrilling.”
“Some of them bite,” Lucien reminded her. “You ought to be prepared for that. ‘I dare say it is most unpleasant.”
“Yes,” Henry confirmed and stuck his index finger into Marianne’s view. “William the Conqueror bit me right here, and it hurt a lot.”
“Oh,” Marianne said. She took his finger, kissing it gently. “Hopefully, William the Conqueror learned his lesson. That it’s not nice to bite little boys who wish only to feed him.”
“He did not learn his lesson,” Henry informed her. “The week after, he bit Papa.”
“Indeed, he did,” Lucien said and presented his pinky finger where there was still a scar on the inside.
“You should kiss it and make it better, too,” Henry demanded.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Lucien replied with a chuckle, but his eyes remained on Marianne, warm and soft.
“But she kissed mine, so she should kiss yours,” Henry informed him.
Marianne looked at Lucien, head slightly tilted, her eyes wandering from his eyes to his finger and back again. Then she stepped forward and took his hand, kissing the inside of his pinky finger. Her lips were still warm, and he longed to feel them on his again.
She rose to her full height again and smiled. “There you are. The two of you shall be perfectly on the mend now.”
“Good,” Henry said. Then he leaped forward and wrapped his arms around her legs. “I am so glad that we have you now, Mama,” he said.
The word was like a lash against Lucien.
His body shook for a moment as if struck by lightning.
Mama.
Henry had called Marianne Mama.
All of the foolish fancies that had been troubling him for the last few days were shattered and fell at his feet like shards of glass from a broken mirror.
This was the truth of things. This was the harsh awakening he had needed. This was a reminder of the reality that he had needed. This was what he didn’t want.
His foolish ideas of what might have been if he had met Marianne before Arabella, if Henry was really her son, came crashing down about him because the truth was, he hadn’t met Marianne first. Henry wasn’t her son.
He was Arabella’s son. He always would be.
He had a mother, and she had been awful. Their life together had been awful.
If Arabella hadn’t died, Henry’s childhood would have been miserable.
Lucien’s life would’ve been miserable. That was the reality, and these thoughts were awful, and this was not something he could ever hide from.
He couldn’t hide it from her either. And if she was going to be Henry’s mother in any meaningful way, there was no hiding the truth from her.
Lucien hadn’t wanted a mother for Henry, and while for a few hours he had entertained the thought, he was reminded now why he had made the decision not to wed. He didn’t need these complications in his life. His heart was treacherous.
It had betrayed him, but his reason had at last reasserted itself, and it was not going to let him down.
He watched as Henry let go of Marianne and stepped back, beaming at her, and she likewise beamed back at him.
Then she turned to him, her eyes bright, her smile wide, her visage painted with happiness. But then she saw his eyes. And she saw the alteration in his countenance, and he saw how joy drained from her features as she understood.
There was no understanding between them. They couldn’t be. Not now, not ever.
What had happened these last couple of days was naught but an illusion. A pleasant fiction.
And the dream had shattered.