Chapter Three
Sweat trickled down Lucien’s back as the midday sun beat down on him. The buzz of cicadas nearly drowned out the steady clip-clop of hooves on the dirt road, and he shifted in the saddle.
“Almost home.” He gave Renard more rein, and the gelding jumped forward.
Home.
The thought should have offered relief, but the word felt hollow now.
The city grated at him, full of people and pleasures he had long since ceased to enjoy.
And when he returned, the house waited with its silent reminders—empty rooms and memories that would not rest. Stuck between crowded streets and lonely halls, Lucien had become a visitor in both worlds, belonging to neither.
With a sigh, he turned the bay horse down the drive.
His eyes narrowed at the flattened grass in the wheel ruts. A wagon had come through while he was gone. A sharp tap of his heels sent Renard into a canter. When he rounded the last bend and his home came into view, he blew out a breath. No visitors.
Still, who had come while he was gone? The few neighbors he had were as reclusive as he, venturing out only for urgent matters.
He drew the gelding to a halt in the yard and swung from the saddle.
Easing up the steps, he pushed the door open, stopping just before the hinges squeaked, and slipped inside.
A quick glance around the foyer showed nothing amiss.
Dishes clinked in the kitchen, and a thread of tension left his shoulders.
If Aunt Eloise was cooking, all was well.
He turned back to the door but jerked to a stop when a soft humming came from the study.
He edged toward the open French doors, and the humming cut off as abruptly as it had begun. With a shake of his head, he pivoted toward the threshold, eager to be back outside. Just his mind playing tricks on him. Again.
“On Richmond Hill there lives a lass…”
His throat went dry as a delicate voice curled through the stillness like smoke.
He hadn’t even had a drink yet and already ghosts haunted him.
Twisting, he peered into the room. A woman sat near the window with her back to him, a shaft of sunlight reflecting from pale-blonde hair.
He blinked, willing the vision to disappear, but she remained, head bent as her fingers moved in a practiced rhythm over a circle of linen in her lap.
His hands went clammy as he held his breath, waiting for her to vanish. Yet she remained. Perhaps the swamp had finally driven him mad.
“Ouch!” She jerked her thumb and held it up to the sun where a bright drop of blood welled.
Ghosts didn’t bleed.
He strode through the doorway, eyes narrowing. “Who the hell are you?”
The embroidery clattered to the floor as she jumped to her feet. It rolled across uneven floorboards until it bumped against his boot and toppled over.
“I… I mean…” She spun toward him, and his breath caught.
The sunlight caught her full on now, setting her hair ablaze in a cascade of pale gold framing a face too delicate, too arresting.
Wide eyes the color of clear summer skies fixed on him, startled and unguarded, and something sharp lodged beneath his ribs.
For the briefest instant, he wondered if she was a ghost—because no living creature ought to look like that.
He swallowed and forced the madness down, gripping the door frame as if it could steady his nerves. “You shouldn’t be here.” The words came out rough.
“Calm down, Lucien.” Aunt Eloise hurried from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “This is Miss Abigail Ross. Henry Warstein brought her by earlier. She’ll be staying with us for a while.”
The young woman dipped into a perfect curtsy.
Lucien took a step back. “No.”
“No?” His aunt frowned.
He turned to Miss Ross. “Get your things, I’m taking you back to the city.”
Her chin lifted a fraction, though her fingers trembled as they twisted in the folds of her skirts. “Pardon?”
“Are you hard of hearing?”
“Lucien!” Aunt Eloise’s tone snapped like a whip. “You can’t just—”
“I can.” His gaze cut to his aunt, hard enough to silence her.
Miss Ross’s lips parted as though to speak, but she closed them again, pressing a hand to the bodice of her traveling gown as if steadying herself. With a graceful dip of her head, she swept from the room.
Lucien exhaled slowly, though the tightness in his chest didn’t ease.
His aunt reached out and took his elbow. “Mr. Warstein said she was in grave danger, that this would be the only spot she would be safe. The poor girl has been through something rough.”
He jerked his arm free. “That’s not my problem, now is it?”
“Lucien Moreau. I can’t believe you’d say such a thing.”
“This isn’t a charity house.” He spun and stalked to the front door, boots clicking against the floorboards.
By the time he’d unloaded the goods from town and hitched the cart, the sun had begun to dip behind the trees, painting shadows across the yard.
Miss Ross waited on the porch, a single carpetbag at her feet.
He strode forward with stiff shoulders and picked up the worn leather bag.
His gaze flicked to her, standing there so small against the broad boards of the porch, and a twinge of something—guilt, maybe—tightened in his chest. He shoved it down. No room for doubts.
“This is it?” He hefted the light bag.
With a curt nod, she stepped forward, but her foot caught on a weathered board sticking up. She pitched forward, and he reacted instantly, catching her arm. A spark of contact shot up to his shoulder, sharp and unwelcome.
“Watch yourself.” The words came out in a growl as he released her.
She pressed her lips together, steadying herself, and moved toward the wagon.
“Do you have a place to stay or should I bring you to Warstein’s?” He kept his tone neutral as he followed her.
“My father is staying at a hotel. I would prefer to join him.” She didn’t wait for him to offer help and pulled herself up to the seat before glancing at him. “The St. Charles?”
He raised a brow as she gave the name of the most luxurious hotel in town.
The way she spoke it—the way her vowels stretched in a way he wasn’t used to—caught him off guard, and he blinked.
With as little as she had packed, he would have expected someplace more humble than the St. Charles.
Never mind. If that’s where she wanted to go, that’s where he would take her.
“I know it.” He gave a curt nod and climbed up.
The worn leather creaked beneath him as he settled onto the seat next to her, and he slapped the reins.
The wagon jolted over the uneven drive, each bump making Miss Ross tighten her grip on the bench.
She sat straight, posture rigid yet elegant, eyes fixed ahead.
Her profile caught the glow of the afternoon sun, the gentle slope of her cheek and curve of her lips silhouetted against the light.
She was beautiful.
And he hated himself for noticing.
He clenched his jaw and forced his eyes forward, counting the dips of the road, the way the wagon swayed—anything to keep from studying her.
Silent minutes stretched into an hour, until the familiar spires and balconies of the French Quarter rose into view.
Soon, voices drifted from alleyways as merchants called their wares, occasional laughter cutting sharp through the hum of business.
The closer they drew to the heart of New Orleans, the more the streets seemed alive, pressing in on all sides.
He fought a rising impatience as the city’s pulse grew louder, each bump in the road jarring him further.
As they approached the St. Charles, he let out a soft curse. At this hour, a crush of carriages had backed up Canal Street. It would take forever to get to the front of the hotel. He eased Renard to a halt against the curb. “This is as close as I can get.”
Miss Ross paused for a heartbeat, scanning the throng of pedestrians before swinging her feet from the cart.
His fingers twitched against his thigh as she swung to the ground. “Do you need help?”
She lifted her chin and took her bag from the back. “I’ll be fine.”
Without so much as a thank you, she turned and pushed through the crowd, clutching her bag tightly to her chest. A man bumped into her, and she stumbled as the oaf barked at her to watch herself.
Damn it.
With a scowl, Lucien vaulted to the ground and thrust the reins toward a boy loitering on the corner.
“Miss Ross!” Her back stiffened as he strode after her with long strides. “Let me at least see you safely to your room.”
For a heartbeat, she seemed poised to refuse. Her fingers whitened on the carpetbag, her chin thrust high. Then, without a word, she gave a subtle nod and turned toward the entrance.
He fell in step beside her.
The grand doors of the St. Charles swung open at their approach, polished brass gleaming in the sunset.
Within, the lobby glowed with gilded mirrors and crystal light, a world apart from the noise and grit of the street.
Miss Ross didn’t glance at any of it. Her skirts brushed against his boots as she crossed the expanse toward the sweeping staircase.
At the base of the stairs, she gathered her skirts and started upward. He caught the way her breath deepened as she climbed. Without thinking, he reached for the bag slung over her arm. Her shoulder tensed but she let him take it.
Step by step, they ascended the broad curve of the staircase, passing portraits in silver frames, the scent of beeswax and roses clinging to the air in an almost suffocating sweetness.
At the landing, a uniformed attendant dipped his head.
“Miss Ross.” His gaze flicked to Lucien but asked no questions.
Lucien followed her, boots muted against the thick carpet, until she stopped before a door of gleaming mahogany. A brass number plate caught the light, polished to a shine. 206. Miss Ross rapped smartly on the panel.
Silence.