Seduced by a Lady's Heart

by Christi Caldwell

  Wordlessly, he stepped aside so she could skirt by him without brushing. He stared after her as she marched with small, precise steps, with the same proud set to her shoulders as evinced by Joan of Arc, herself.

  “You’re a bloody fool, Jones,” MacGregor snorted.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, gaze trained on Eloise. One of the soldiers, missing his lower two extremities, said something that called her to a stop. Most ladies would have been horrified to visit this place. Not Eloise. An unwitting smile turned his lips with the memory of the day she’d pointed her eyes to the sky and baited a squeamish Richard’s hook.

  MacGregor noted his continued scrutiny. “Then you’re an even bigger fool than I imagined.”

  He yanked his attention away from Eloise and frowned. “You don’t know anything about it.”

  “I might not have the use of my arms, but I have perfect use of my eyes and I saw the way that lady studied you.”

  Lady. And with the great class divide between them, now as unattainable as the Queen of England. “She’s a bloody countess,” he added. Not that he had any interest of the romantic sort with Eloise Gage, now the Countess of Sherborne. His heart was dead.

  So why did the hint of warmth stir the damned organ at the smile on her full lips?

  “And you’re a nobleman’s younger son playing at servant.” The man’s rejoinder contained a stunning seriousness that stiffened Lucien’s spine.

  “I know her,” he conceded at last.

  The lieutenant scoffed. “Impossible,” he said, that one word utterance laced heavily with sarcasm.

  A mottled flush heated his neck and he resisted the urge to loosen his cravat. “We were friends as children.” He shifted under the man’s scrutiny, not understanding this compulsion to explain away his relationship with Eloise.

  An appreciative glimmer flicked to life in MacGregor’s eyes as he looked down the rows of beds to where she still stood talking to the same man. “That woman is a child no more.”

  Something tightened in his gut at the primitive interest in the other man’s eyes. And it was wholly foolish to feel this masculine possessiveness for Eloise. But Goddamn it. “Close your damned mouth,” he snapped, knowing he was being a surly bastard. “You’re drooling like a stray pup over the lady.”

  Instead of taking offense, his words restored the man’s usual merriment. He tossed his head back and laughed. “And you are not a man who still sees a child in her,” he said.

  He glanced about to see how far those too-loudly spoken words had traveled. Eloise remained fully engrossed in conversation with the man at her side. Lucien stared unashamedly at the two of them. She needn’t remain by the man’s side for…he yanked the timepiece given him as a youth by his father many years earlier and consulted it…well, however many minutes. It must have been a good ten or so. Entirely too long and…

  She nodded and then continued on her way and walked through those double doors.

  He rocked on his heels. Good. She’d taken her leave.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d suggest you go after the lady and spare the rest of us your miserable company and brilliant skillset at faro and whist.”

  He made a crude gesture that redoubled the man’s laughter. “I…”

  “Go,” MacGregor prodded and kicked him in the leg, nudging him ahead.

  Lucien frowned, hesitating.

  MacGregor gave him another kick. “Go,” he said again, annoyance and amusement underscoring that one word command.

  And then, as if of their own volition, his legs began to move and he walked briskly through the room he’d recently entered. He shoved the doors open and stared down the long corridor. He lengthened his strides. She’d always moved quickly for one so small. Then, a child, who’d found friendship in he and Richard, two slightly older, always taller boys she’d been forced to do so in order to keep up.

  Eloise turned the corner and made for the foyer.

  “Eloise.”

  She stumbled and spun around, a hand to the modest décolletage of her sea foam dress. “You startled me.” Again. The luxuriant fabric drew out the piercing blue-green of her eyes, momentarily holding him spellbound. The beauty of those eyes reached into his soul and robbed him of breath. She tipped her head. “Lucien?”

  He heard the question there and continued forward.

  He expected her to retreat, but she remained rooted to the spot. “What do you—?”

  “Why are you here?”

  Four little lines of consternation appeared as Eloise furrowed her brow. “You stopped me,” she said slowly as though speaking to a lackwit.

  He cursed. “Not here, Eloise. In London Hospital, in the marchioness’ parlor.”

  “I’m not in the marchioness’ parlor, silly. I can’t be two places at—”

  “Eloise,” he said in a harsh, impatient tone that killed the teasing edge to her words. In that moment he hated himself more than he ever had before, which was saying a good deal considering the crimes he was guilty of. But he’d never been a bully…until she’d reappeared, making him hate himself for altogether new and different reasons. “Forgive me.”

  She gave a slight nod.

  “Why are you here?” he asked once more. “In my life. I know you enough to know these are no mere coincidences.”

  Eloise captured the flesh of her lower lip between her teeth and troubled it. “No,” she said slowly. “They are not.” She raised her soulful eyes to his, the color of the purest, unsullied seas a man would gladly lose himself within. He stiffened. Where had the thought come from? “I missed you,” she said in quiet tones.

  I missed you, too, Ellie. He tried to force the words past numb lips, but God help him, he couldn’t. He couldn’t give her the words. To do so would make her believe he was capable of emotions that had died too many years ago.

  Eloise searched his face with her sad, wide-eyed gaze, as if seeking those words he could not give.

  “Is that why you’re here?” He dipped his head. Honey and rosewater, clung to her skin. The two seductive, sweetened scents wafted about, filling his senses, intoxicating. She’d used to smell of fresh grass and country air. “Because you missed me?” He found this new, womanly scent of her a potent aphrodisiac.

  “I did.” Emotion flooded her eyes and he nearly staggered under the weight of it from this woman he’d once loved as a friend. “I missed you every day you were gone,” she whispered.

  “Did you?”

  “Not a single day passed that I did not think of you.” Her admission came out, hoarse with emotion.

  A twinge of regret struck him, lashed painfully at his chest. He wished he had the words to at least say he’d entertained thoughts of her. Ellie had deserved that from him. She’d been more part of him than a third hand…a now irony considering the loss that had severed one of those extremities.

  She touched a bold finger to his chin, forcing his gaze to hers. “I’d not have you lie and say you thought of me,” she said with soft rebuke. “I know the moment you fell in love with Sara that your heart, your every thought, always belonged to her.” Her gaze fell to his chin. “Your love was so great there was not enough of it to be shared.”

  The guilt intensified. Eloise Gage had been the most loyal, devoted friend, and yet the day he’d given his heart to Sara Abbott, he’d not spared her a single thought. Shame filled him, bitter like acid on his tongue. “And what of you, did you love your husband?” He’d not imagined himself capable of prayer any longer, but he mustered a single final one to a God he no longer believed in that she’d at least known love.

  A wistful smile stole over her face. “Colin was good to me. He was a friend and I do miss him every day.” It didn’t escape his notice that she didn’t mention the word love.

  He hoped the now dead earl had appreciated the gift he’d had in loyal, beautiful Ellie, appreciated her when Lucien never properly had. “What happened?” He didn’t know where the question cam
e from.

  “He suffered an apoplexy,” she said. “He was just twenty-nine when he died.”

  He had no right to delve into her past. He’d lost that right when he’d forsaken their friendship and yet, he needed to know the pieces of a life he’d missed. “And do you have children?” He imagined a small girl with her riotous, blonde curls and mischievous smile.

  “No,” she said and the dream of that child flickered out like the flame atop a candle. “We never had children.” The muscles of her throat worked. “I am so very sorry about Sara and Matthew,” she said.

  Grief knifed through him. He sucked in a ragged breath and fought to muster the blasé, obligatory response to her expression of regret. “D-did,” he coughed into his hand. “Did you ever know him?” She would have been a young lady, out for a London Season. Likely she’d not had time for the babe of a former childhood friend.

  “I did,” she said shocking him with the admission.

  He stared unblinking at the stark, white walls. And the dream of a child he’d never met and the pain of never having held that child, or known that child before his life was too swiftly ended, became real in ways he’d never experienced before.

  Tears flooded her eyes. “He had your smile.”

  He strained to hear her whispered words and they pierced his heart.

  “He was a precocious, stubborn baby.” A small laugh escaped her and her gaze grew far away with memories he’d have sold his soul three-times over for. “He would cry with annoyance at not being permitted to feed himself when he was still too young to yield a spoon or fork.”

  Ah God. He squeezed his eyes tight. “Thank you,” he said at last when he managed to look at her once again.

  “I’ve not done anything.”

  The lone memory would sustain him for the remainder of his lonely days. The memory of a boy who’d looked like him and had his smile and temperament. In that, she’d given him everything. And because the longer they stood here, bodies bent familiarly close to each other, the greater the ache built inside him for a craving that terrified him, he said, “You should go.”

  Eloise managed a jerky nod. But remained exactly where she stood.

  He lowered his mouth close to hers. “What are you doing to me?”

  Her thick, golden lashes fluttered wildly. “I l—”

  Lucien crushed the remainder of those terrifying words on her lips, claiming her mouth under his once more. This meeting of mouths was gentle, searching, a reunion of two people who’d found each other after great tragedy. She moaned and he slipped his tongue inside to explore the warm, contours of her mouth. With a near physical pain, Lucien drew back. He placed a lingering kiss upon her forehead.

  She closed her eyes and leaned into that gentle caress. “Come home with me.”

  Lucien froze. Her entreaty penetrated the spell she’d woven.

  Eloise angled away from him. “Your father is ill.” With but the mention of the viscount who’d purchased Lucien’s commission and sealed his fate, the light she’d somehow rekindled with her words and kiss went out.

  He took a jerky step away from her.

  “Lucien,” she pleaded.

  “Is that what this is?” And at last it began to make sense. “You’re here because of my brothers and my father.”

  She started. A guilty heat burned her cheeks. “I’m here because of me,” she corrected, the words coming too late. “I am also here because of Palmer and Richard.” She paused. “And your father.”

  Ah, so she’d come at the bequest of his father and brothers. Because they’d likely known he’d rather see any of his kin in hell, but Eloise, sweet Eloise, the woman he’d called friend, he’d likely never turn away. An ugly laugh worked its way up his throat and she took a step away from him. Good, she should be afraid. He met her searching gaze with stony silence.

  “Your father is dying,” she said softly.

  Shock melded with pain and slammed into him with a lifelike force. Impossible. The man he called father was an immovable force; strong, fearless, and untouchable. Regardless—. He forcibly thrust aside pained regrets. “The day he forced that commission upon me, my father was dead to me.”

  Eloise gasped and touched a hand to her heart. “You don’t mean that.”

  A memory flashed to mind. His father, the powerful, indomitable viscount sneaking away from one of his balls and slipping into the nursery. Papa! You’ve come to play soldiers? Grief sliced through Lucien. That devoted and doting man, he’d loved. Hatred and love warred for supremacy within him.

  Then that dark day intruded when he’d been presented with that damned commission.

  My son is no coward…

  His lips curled up. “I do mean that, Eloise.” He peered down his nose at her. “Tell my brothers they wasted their efforts. It would take far more than you, Eloise, to manage a happy reunion with my family.”

  Her entire body jerked. “Who are you?” she whispered, shaking her head as though she’d had a glimpse of a person she didn’t much like.

  He balled his hand to keep from taking her in his arm and pleading forgiveness. As she took her leave, he stood staring after her. Just then, he quite concurred with Eloise. He didn’t much like himself.

  Chapter 8

  Eloise paced her quiet, lonely parlor, ivory velum in her fingers. A fire crackled in the hearth. She hugged her arms to her chest and rubbed back the unseasonable chill of the spring night, hopelessly wrinkling the sheet she’d received earlier that evening.

  This afternoon, at London Hospital she’d captured glimpses of the man Lucien Jonas had been. He reminded her of a kicked and injured dog, craving a soothing touch and yet snarling and stalking away when one wandered too close.

  She would have to be a simpleton to have failed to realize what he’d intended with his biting words. He wanted to push her away. All because pushing her away was easier than letting her in. That way, he’d not be hurt again. “You bloody, obstinate fool,” she muttered.

  She could well-understand his resentment, the need to place blame in light of all he’d lost; from his arm, to his wife, and child. But for that, his father had loved him and he’d throw away that familial bond, not only with his father, but his brothers merely because Richard and Palmer bore the same blood as their sire?

  Eloise stomped over to the hearth, page in hand. She held it up to the dim light cast by the orange-red fire’s glow and re-read the contents.

  My dearest Eloise,

  The viscount’s condition has worsened. He continues to ask for Lucien, as well as you. Please convey the urgency to my stubborn brother.

  Your loyal servant,

  Richard

  She folded the sheet and laid it upon the mantel. Then catching the pink, Italian marble between her fingers, she rested her head against the cool stone. What a fool she’d been. In all these years, she’d thought the most difficult task would be in finding a man who’d removed himself from the world and shut out all those who’d loved and cared for him—at least the living ones. She’d never imagined convincing him to come back to her, Richard, Palmer, and his father would be a greater task than the whole six-day creation of the universe.

  Eloise released a slow breath, loosening the tension in her chest. She’d once been a lonely girl. There had been no siblings for her to play with. Her mother, who’d died when Eloise had been too young to recall, had left a void in her own household. Lucien and Richard’s friendship had sustained her. Most of the joy she’d known in her life had come from the viscount’s two sons. For the unconventionality of a small girl slipping into the folds of a male-dominated house, devoid of a motherly presence, it was a forged bond that had quite worked—for all of them.

  Eloise’s father hadn’t had to worry of having a forlorn child underfoot. With an absence of female influence, the viscount and his sons had found some comfort in Eloise’s presence.

  A log shifted in the hearth. Embers popped and hissed. She stared into the eerie red and orange dancing flam
es. It was an arrangement that had worked. Or it had, until Sara had entered the village, lovely and all things graceful, and Eloise had ceased to exist. At least for the one man who’d ever mattered to her anyway. Her friendship with Richard had continued through the years. His brother, Palmer, was too busy seeing to whatever heir-like responsibilities one set to inherit had to see to.

  She loved them all. But Lucien was the one who’d held her heart. From the moment they’d lain upon their backs and tumbled sideways, giggling and laughing all the way down the sides of the steep hills of Kent only to lay breathless and dizzy staring up at the shifting clouds overhead, her heart had been his.

  What do you see, Lucien?

  He’d peered up at the vivid, blue skies so long she thought he’d not heard.

  I see perfection, he’d whispered back.

  She’d turned on her side, unnoticed while he fixed his gaze to the skies, marveling at the beauty around them…and fell in love, knowing she would one day marry Lord Lucien Jonas.

  How very naïve. How very foolish she’d been. Hers had been the wishes of a girl who’d believed the bond between them was so great, that one day he would realize he carried the same love in his heart that she did in hers. She marveled that she’d ever been so blessedly innocent. Eloise tightened her mouth. However, just as he was not the same man, she was not the same woman. She knew with the experience of a woman who carried regrets in her heart that if he did not do this, if he continued to forsake his family for decisions of the past, the burden he carried would be even greater.

  Filled with a restive energy, she pushed herself away from the mantel and began to pace the hardwood floors, padding silently back and forth. He would not come. Her naiveté in believing she could sway his opinion, that what they’d once shared as children would be enough to convince him that the hatred he carried in his heart was futile and a waste of good emotion, was staggering.