Chapter Twenty-Four
Lucien pressed his eyes shut.
Stupid.
All Abigail had needed was a simple assurance of his affection. And he’d failed her when it mattered the most.
A hundred excuses poured through his mind as he paced before Warstein’s study door.
But each one fell flat. The truth was, he’d made a real mess of things.
No. He’d done far worse. He had wounded her.
He had taken her trust, her trembling courage on that dock, and crushed it beneath the weight of his own fears.
I love you. Three little syllables that had set his chest alight and frozen him in the same instant. And what had he given her in return? Silence. Cowardice disguised as caution. A fumbling explanation even he hadn’t believed.
He stopped before the door, fists clenching at his sides. He would not lose her. Not like this. Not because he lacked the nerve to speak truth plainly.
He inhaled, steadying himself, rehearsing the words he should have said the night before.
Abigail, I—
No. Too formal.
I care for you. More than I ought, more than I ever meant to.
Closer.
I love you. God help me, I do.
He almost believed he could say it aloud.
Almost.
The latch clicked. Lucien’s heart kicked hard against his ribs as the door opened. Abigail emerged, and he stilled.
Her complexion had gone pale, and her hands flexed open and closed in the folds of her skirt.
She stared past him, eyes unfocused. Whatever had happened inside had shaken her.
Her gaze flicked to him for a heartbeat, then quickly dropped.
Another figure stepped out behind her, drawing Lucien’s attention like an unwelcome draft.
Young, impeccably dressed, hair too carefully arranged, posture too proud.
Not her father.
Lucien dismissed the stranger and closed the space between them, reaching for her hand. “There’s something I must tell you.”
Her fingers twitched in his grasp but didn’t curl back around his. She slipped free with polite precision, as though extracting herself from a stranger.
“First, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” She nodded toward the man behind her. “Mr. Ainsley, may I introduce Mr. Moreau.”
The gentleman stepped forward with a smile that hit Lucien like a fist. Too smooth. Too practiced.
“I am obliged to you. Truly.” Ainsley had the confidence of a man who mistook courtesy for superiority. “Thank you for rescuing my dear love.”
The words twisted like a knife in his chest. Lucien’s jaw clenched, and the room dimmed at its edges. “Your—what?”
Abigail’s gaze flickered to the floor, then up again. Her chin lifted with that quiet bravery he knew far too well. “My fiancé.”
He stared at her, waiting for the jest to unravel, for the lie to be made bare. But her expression remained steady. Unyielding.
“You’ve been…” He lowered his voice. “Engaged? All this time?”
Bile burned up his throat. He’d taken her, claimed her in the dark with a hunger that still thrummed in his blood, and all the while she had belonged to someone else.
His fingers curled as if he could claw back every touch, every kiss, every moment he had pressed her beneath him and drawn those broken, pleading sounds from her lips.
“You should have told me.” He took a jerking step back, and let out a ragged growl. “Before I—”
Her eyes went impossibly wide. “No!” A deep red surged across her cheeks at her startled exclamation, and her hands flew to her mouth as she dropped her voice to a choked whisper. “No. I wasn’t. He’s just now asked.”
Ainsley beamed, wholly oblivious to the devastation he’d just witnessed. “We will be departing shortly for Savannah.” His cheerful tone raked across Lucien like a razor. “I’ve got tickets for us on today’s departure, and it leaves within the hour. Abigail is eager to be home, and so am I.”
Hearing her name on the man’s lips sent a surge of dark, unwelcome jealousy through Lucien. He swallowed hard, throat burning. For a moment, no one moved, a dull hum buzzing in his ears.
A discreet throat clearing broke the tension. Mr. Warstein stepped forward, hands folded behind his back. “Let us all adjourn to my study. I’d like to get some matters in order before Thorne arrives.”
Lucien stood silent, his gaze locked on Abigail. The words he had rehearsed still clung to his throat, tangled and useless. Her fingers fidgeted with the fabric of her skirt, the only trace of turmoil beneath her careful composure.
She blinked up at him. There was something searching in her eyes, something that tugged painfully at whatever was left of his heart. “What was it you wanted to say?”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Not love.
Not an apology.
Not the truth clawing at his chest.
His throat constricted. “It was nothing. Congratulations.”
Mr. Ainsley took her elbow. “We must make haste if we are to catch the ship.”
Lucien remained rooted, a silent sentinel as Abigail’s friends gathered around, voices gentle and affectionate.
“We will be right behind you.” Josephine’s grin sparkled, so at odds with the moment that he flinched. “Don’t you dare get married without us.”
Samantha’s blue eyes lingered on Lucien, steady and thoughtful. Her lips pressed into a thin line, a shadow of concern passing over her features, before she finally turned to Ainsley. “A fair bit of warning, you’ll have stiff competition for her time. We won’t share her easily.”
Laughter bubbled around them, and Lucien stepped back to put space between himself and the sound.
His teeth ground together as a hot ache settled low in his chest. Ainsley shifted under the scrutiny of her friends, a faint flush creeping into his carefully arranged complexion.
He drew Abigail closer to him and steered her across the foyer.
At the door she paused, twisting back. Lucien’s heart gave a little lurch. But her expression remained guarded, betraying no feelings. With one last tremulous glance, she turned and walked out the door.
Out of his reach.
Out of his life.
Lucien didn’t move. Couldn’t. The world tilted softly, like a ship taking on water.
“Moreau? Are you coming?” Warstein’s voice cut through the haze, and he realized everyone had already left the foyer.
He blinked, the room swimming back into focus. “I-I need to go.”
Lucien didn’t wait for a response. Air. He needed air.
He pushed open the door and spilled into the morning, the cool air a sting against his skin.
Carriages rattled past, voices rose and fell, morning sun glimmered along the cobblestones, but none of it registered.
He stumbled along, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, each step as if he were moving through water.
Somehow, his feet took him up the street, the clamor of life barely registering.
The city blurred around him, people brushing past him as if he were nothing but a shadow.
Shop fronts blurred, the chatter of passersby dissolved into a hum, and even the clatter of hooves on stone barely pierced the haze in his skull.
Hours—or minutes—passed. He didn’t know. Didn’t care.
Eventually, he found himself in front of the tavern, its sign creaking in the breeze. Inside, warmth and noise enveloped him. He dropped onto a stool at the bar, fingers drumming against the polished wood as the barkeep approached. “Whiskey.”
He raised the proffered cup to his lips and let the heat burn down his throat.
“You look like hell.”
He didn’t lift his head as Pierre slid into the seat across from him and flagged the barkeep for another drink.
“What’s got you looking like you’ve just walked off the edge of the world?”
Lucien let the words hang, swallowing another mouthful of whiskey. “Nothing.”
“Allons, mon ami.” Pierre leaned closer. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re not telling the truth. And you’re lying right now.”
Lucien ran a hand through his hair, gaze dropping to the bar. “It’s… complicated. Nothing you can do anything about.”
His friend lifted his glass to his lips, taking a slow draw. “Try me.”
Lucien took a slow, shaky breath. “It’s Abigail. Miss Ross.”
Pierre froze. “Did something happen to her?”
Lucien shook his head. “No. She’s safe. We made it back last night.”
Both relief and confusion warred in his friend’s expression. “Then what?”
“She’s gone.”
Pierre ran a thumb along his stubbled jaw. “You do realize you’re not making much sense?”
“She’s gone back to Savannah. With her fiancé, Mr. Ainsley.”
“Ainsley? That pale dandy that just arrived from Savannah? The same one who gambled his way through the French Quarter bragging about the heiress he came for?”
Lucien’s fingers tightened around his glass at the revelation, the warmth of the whiskey doing nothing to quell the ache in his chest. All he could do was nod.
Pierre let out a low whistle. “I feel sorry for her.”
“Why?”
“He spent the last two nights here wasting money and indulging in any woman foolish enough to give him notice. He made enthusiastic use of the upstairs rooms.”
Lucien pressed his jaw together. The thought of such a man putting his hands on Abigail… he forced a steadying breath. He had no claim on her.
She’d made her choice.
Shadows twisted in the corners, stretching and writhing as if they knew his failures and whispered them back to him—shadows that had been blessedly silent the last week.
Lucien pressed his palms against the bar, forcing himself to focus on the grain of the wood.
He tried to ignore their mocking murmurs, but each breath seemed to carry their accusations deeper into his chest.
Pierre cleared his throat. “I hope she has unlimited funds. Ainsley lost all his money at the gambling tables.” Pierre shook his head and tipped back his drink. “So, the daring rescue, the mad dash across half the coast, the fighting… was all for nothing?”
Lucien frowned, staring at the liquid in his cup. “What do you mean?”
His friend shrugged. “I thought we were going after her because she meant something to you. Thought you’d moved on from Isabelle’s death.”
Tightening his fingers around his glass, Lucien clenched his jaw, refusing to meet Pierre’s gaze.
“Ah.” Pierre’s expression turned smug. “So, I was right.”
Lucien pressed his forehead against the cool glass of his tumbler. “I—” Whatever words he might have said died in his throat, strangled by the weight of the truth.
“I’ve only got one question.” His friend’s lips curved in a slow grin. “Are you going to stop her?”
“It’s too late. They already left. Said they were taking the morning packet for Savannah.”
Pierre flipped out his pocket watch. “You might still have time.”
“Yeah? And what exactly would I do? Barge onboard and fight that pompous fool?”
Pierre leaned back. “Well, you could start by telling her how you feel.”
Lucien pressed his eyes shut, immediately greeted by the image of Abigail’s face as she’d uttered those words on the dock. I love you. The wonder that had spread across her face as she spoke them blazed across his memory. And then he’d let the moment slip through his fingers like smoke.
He shook his head. “I’ve made a real mess of things.”
Pierre reached forward and clapped his shoulder. “Of course you have. You’re a man. It’s what we’re good at.”
“You don’t understand.” Lucien’s voice came out tight. “Last night, she told me she loved me. And I didn’t say anything back.”
“Do you love her?” Pierre’s dark eyes drilled into him.
“Yes.”
His friend stared at him for a long moment before pushing his chair back. “Mon Dieu. What are we still doing here?” He tossed a few coins on the bar and strode out into the sun.
Lucien hesitated a moment before following, squinting into the sudden wash of light. Pierre was already several steps ahead, weaving through the crowded streets with ease. Lucien forced his legs to move, boots clattering against uneven cobblestones as he pushed through the throng.
The waterfront appeared, a stretch of worn planks running alongside the dark water.
Ships of all sizes were moored, some with their sails furled, others beginning to billow in the rising breeze.
Lucien’s stomach tightened as his eyes scanned the docks for the passenger ship.
They descended the steps to the river, and Pierre waved over a dockhand.
The man trudged over through a tangle of nets, boots splashing in the shallow runoff that pooled between the pilings.
Lucien’s breaths came unevenly, his shoulders rising and falling with each frantic inhale. “Where is the morning packet? The Southern Star, unless there’s a new one?”
The man shook his head. “She’s already departed.” He pointed downriver toward a smudge of sails on the horizon.
Lucien’s stomach dropped, a leaden weight pressing into his chest. It had been foolish to hope he’d make it on time.
Every heartbeat throbbed with regret, but it didn’t matter.
Not anymore. Regrets or not, Abigail was already out of reach.
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles taut, as if squeezing hard could somehow pull her back to him.
He imagined her standing at the bow, hair catching the wind, Ainsley’s hand on her elbow, and jealousy shot through him like ice water.
A scream built in his throat, the need to curse the world, to tear the air itself apart rising within him—but all he could do was stand, rooted to the planks of the pier as the distance between them grew with every passing second.
“Good God, man, don’t stand there staring like you’ve lost your mind. You have your own ship, you imbécile. The Southern Star will be making stops up the coast before sailing around Florida. We’ll catch her quickly.”
Lucien’s stomach knotted. Could it be so simple? Could he really chase her down and make things right?
He drew a deep, shuddering breath as the despair that had been strangling him loosened its grip by the smallest measure.
Pain and purpose tangled within him, and a spark of direction pierced through the chaos in his chest. The image of Abigail, of the hesitant hope in her eyes, flared in his mind, burning like a brand.
Finally, he nodded, jaw tight, his resolve coiling like a spring. “Let’s go.”
Pierre smirked. “About time.”