Chapter Seven #2
“Don’t worry.” He held her gaze. “You may stay as long as needed.”
A small, relieved smile tugged at her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Moreau.”
He leaned against the rail as she crossed to the door.
Pirates.
He couldn’t help thinking of his father and the quiet warnings threaded through his old stories. Even now, they clung to him like shadows—a quiet reminder that some dangers weren’t to be underestimated.
“Miss Ross?” She turned, and he glanced into the open door behind her. “It might be best to keep the specifics from Eloise. I don’t want her to worry needlessly.”
*
Light slanted through the study windows, dust motes dancing in the quiet morning. Lucien leaned back in his chair, hands folded over the journal he hadn’t opened in days.
“A rider came this morning.” His aunt settled into the wingback across from him, smoothing her skirts. “An invitation to the Benoits’—they’re hosting a gathering tonight. I should like to attend with Miss Ross.”
“You will not.” The words came out clipped.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think it would be wise to go out in public.” His jaw tightened. “There is a man after her father, and they’re worried he might use her as collateral.”
She scoffed. “Well, I hardly think an engagement party at a country estate would warrant concern.”
He ground his teeth together. “We are not going.”
“I didn’t expect you to go. I’m more than capable of taking the cart a few miles down the road.”
“Well, you’re not going alone. So there lies the problem.”
She drew herself up. “It’s been years since I have been able to enjoy myself for an evening. You seem to forget that your self-imposed exile doesn’t affect only you.”
The word struck him like a palm to the chest. Exile. He stared at her without speaking, the lamplight drawing deep lines across her familiar face. She had been here since he was a boy, had been there when he met Isabelle, when their house rang with joy and laughter. Before everything turned to ash.
His gaze dropped to his hands, knuckles white against the arm of the chair. He had withdrawn because the invitations, the music, the bright chatter—all of it—scraped his wounds raw. Each gathering reminded him he was still breathing while she was not, and the guilt sat like a stone in his stomach.
“I haven’t forgotten.” He drew a slow breath and skimmed his thumb over the edge of the journal. “Not a day goes by.”
His aunt’s expression softened. “Isabelle would want you to be happy.”
Lucien stared at his desk, ignoring the words she so often told him. Did she think he didn’t know that? Happy. The word felt foreign now, hollow. It didn’t matter what Isabelle would have wanted. Happiness was no longer meant for him.
He lifted his eyes to hers, fire simmering in his gut. “I could say the same of you. I’m sure your husband would have wanted you to go on with your life. And yet here you are. You don’t have to stay, never had to. It’s been over two decades.”
She paled at his blunt reproof, and he pressed a palm to his eyes. The words had slipped out too sharp, too quick. His chest tightened, and he swallowed hard, tasting the iron of his own guilt.
“I’ve made a real muck of things, haven’t I?” His voice came out rough, low, scraped up from a place he rarely acknowledged.
“You lost a great deal, Lucien.” She leaned forward and set her hand over his. “You don’t have to lose yourself as well.”
The truth of it struck deep, and he swallowed. “I never meant to trap you here with me. I’m… sorry.”
Her fingers tightened just enough to anchor him. “I know. But grief is all too happy to make us prisoners if we let it.”
The words landed hard, threading through every wall he had built. He had shut himself away, and in doing so had isolated her. Whatever life she might have carved for herself after her own grief, he had dragged her down into his. He’d never stopped to think what the seclusion might cost her.
He ran his hand down his face, exhaling slowly. “Very well.” His voice came out rough. “I suppose I can endure a night at a neighbor’s.”
“You’ll go?” Aunt Eloise studied him for a moment, concern lingering in her gaze. “Thank you. I know it’s not easy, but a brief evening out might be less painful than you fear.”
He gave a faint nod, more acknowledgment than agreement, already dreading the thought of stifling whispers and the subtle weight of curious eyes. He would go for her, and for her alone.
She stood and left the study, leaving him to lean back in his chair.
In the stillness his resolve curdled into a slow ache.
The quiet that followed pressed in, heavy and oppressive.
Every tick of the clock on the mantel grew louder, a metronome marking the years he’d walled himself away from the world.
Voices drifted from the parlor, and he turned his ear. Eloise had likely told Miss Ross by now.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake off the weight of the conversation he’d just had. If they were to go to a party, he would have to get the night’s chores done early. His steps carried him from the study, and he eased past the parlor, where the women sat.
“I washed my traveling gown, do you suppose I should wear that, or the new day dress?” Miss Ross worried with the edge of her embroidery.
“I don’t think those dirt stains will ever come out.” His aunt pressed her lips together. “I’m sure I’ve got some extra lace somewhere, I could add some trimmings to the day dress before we leave.”
“Oh, that would be lovely.”
He lingered in the doorway for a moment, Miss Ross’s bright excitement pulling at his chest despite the reluctance still wound tight around his heart.
His mouth tightened as he thought of Mr. Benoit and his exceedingly vain wife.
Knowing them, the engagement party promised to be extravagant.
Miss Ross needed more than a strip of lace.
His eyes flicked toward the stairs, the quiet weight of memories nudging him. After a measured breath, he cleared his throat and stepped into the doorway. “You needn’t worry about a dress. You can wear one of Isabelle’s.”
Miss Ross blinked up at him, lips parted. “You don’t need to do that. I’m sure they would accept me in my day dress.”
They wouldn’t. Not the Benoits. And not anyone who ran in their circles.
Though his throat had gone thick, he shook his head. “I insist.”
He caught his aunt’s stunned gaze as he turned on his heel and fled outside.