Seduced by a Lady's Heart

by Christi Caldwell

  Now he returned, a changed man. A man who’d been forced to confront the demons in his life and if not destroy, then conquer them enough to live a life devoid of the agonized pain that would have slowly destroyed him.

  The driver pulled open the door. Lucien made to step down. He held the edge of the doorway and paused a moment. The reservations crept in, their tentacle-like fingers crept around his brain, reminding him the inferiority of a limbless man amidst a world of glittering perfection.

  A flash of sunshine streamed through the thick clouds overhead and spilled light upon the metal lions of the Marquess of Drake’s doorknocker. It was time. Time to resume living—fully. Lucien climbed down and strode with purposeful steps up the stairs. He knocked. He turned and stared out momentarily at the quiet London streets, waiting for the man who now held his post and likely would continue to hold his post after he left.

  The door opened. The young under butler, Gatwick, opened his mouth to greet him and then blinked. “Mr. Jones,” he said slowly. He ran his gaze over Lucien’s immaculate, fawn colored breeches and sapphire blue coat, the stark, white cravat. He opened and closed his mouth several times. “Mr. Jones,” he repeated again and then scrambled over himself in his haste to allow Lucien entry.

  He grinned. “I’m here to speak to the marquess.”

  Gatwick closed the door. “Of course, of course.” He took a step forward and then faltered. “Er…” He scratched his brow as he tried to navigate Lucien’s now uncertain role—butler or visitor.

  He relieved the other man of his difficulty. “The marquess is…?”

  “In his office, Mr. Jones.”

  Lucien inclined his head. “I shall see to it. As you were, Gatwick.”

  The younger servant bowed and backed away.

  Lucien stared after him a moment. The men and women here had never been a family to him. He’d not allowed himself a connection with anyone after he’d lost Sara and Matthew. Instead, he’d constructed walls about his heart to protect himself, until Eloise had taken them apart in her capable hands one bitter memory at a time. And yet, in this next parting, there was a new loss, a passing of a life he’d lived, that second phase of his life, the dark, lonely world he’d embraced all these years.

  But it was time. Lucien started through the foyer, footsteps silent upon the white marble floor. It was time to move forward and begin again. He curled his hand at his side. If she would let him. If it wasn’t too late. How many opportunities had he had with Eloise and how many times had he ignored and rejected the beautiful offering of her?

  He turned right down the corridor and strode along the long, empty hall. What if she rejected him? Which by all intents and purposes, she should do. What was he without her? Lucien paused outside the marquess’ office. He’d been a coward long enough. It was time to go to her and offer her all he was capable, all he was, all he had, which in the scheme of what she was worth and entitled to—was nothing.

  He knocked once.

  “Enter,” the marquess called out.

  Lucien stepped inside.

  Lord Drake glanced up from his ledgers and stilled. “Jonas,” he said, surprise laced the statement.

  And staring at the usually unflappable young lord, it occurred to him—the marquess hadn’t believed he would return. He’d known. “Captain,” he said bowing. Just as the marquess had known how to restore him to the living, so too had he known his time here was at an end.

  The marquess surged to his feet. “Come in. Come in.” He gestured to the seat across from his desk.

  Lucien strolled over, for the first time conscious of his change in status. Even with the remembered proper tones and properly tailored garments, he still was that coarse, battle weary soldier who’d first met the other man upon the fields of Europe…and then again within the bleak walls of London Hospital. He sat.

  Lord Drake reclaimed his seat. Lucien drummed his fingertips along the side of his boots. The marquess’ gaze took in the armband on Lucien’s left sleeve. “I’m sorry for the loss of your father,” he said quietly. “My condolences.”

  Lucien stilled his distracted movement. “Thank you.” He paused. “And thank you for,” forcing “encouraging me to go.” Lord Drake was just another he’d be forever indebted to. It had taken a number of people to put together the empty, shattered pieces of Lucien Jonas—Lady Drake, Lord Drake, the nurses at London Hospital. But he would never have been whole again. Not without Eloise. She was the missing piece in his life and at last he was complete. He drew in a breath. If she’d have him… “I considered your offer, my lord. The role of steward.”

  The marquess arched an eyebrow. “And?”

  He held his palm up. “And I believe my role is elsewhere.” It was with Eloise. It always had been. It had only taken him a lifetime to realize it. “With my father’s passing, he deeded me property.” And in doing so, had given him a renewed purpose, a sense of independence, and more, placed him in a position where he deserved a lady…or more specifically—a countess. Though there was everything honorable in the work he’d taken on in the marquess’ employ, that role would preclude him from having that which he truly wanted. “I am not so naïve that I imagine it shall be an easy charge, taking over the running of an estate.” He gave a lopsided grin and gestured to the empty place his arm had been. “Then, I imagine with everything I’ve lost and faced in life, this should be the easier role I’ve taken on.”

  They shared a look; two men who’d seen done, and still dreamed and saw horrible things. “I do not disagree with you.” Lord Drake sat back in his seat. “Would you be startled were I to tell you that I agree with you?” He folded his arms across his chest. “You belong elsewhere and more importantly, with a particular someone.”

  He allowed his silence to mark his confirmation.

  The marquess shoved back his seat. He angled his head toward the door. “Now, I imagine you’ve more important things to attend than speaking with me.” He held a hand out.

  Lucien studied it a moment and then stood. He shook the marquess’ hand. “Thank you,” he said quietly. For giving him purpose. For thrusting him back into a world he’d sworn to never again be a part of.

  The other man gave a slight, imperceptible nod, the meaningful look in his eyes indicating he’d followed Lucien’s unspoken thoughts.

  With that, he turned on his heel and started from the room, walking from his past and into—

  Lady Drake stepped around the corner. He collided with the young marchioness. Lucien bit back a curse. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said quickly.

  She waved off his concern, giving him a gentle smile. “Lieutenant Jones.” She took in his fine apparel, the expert lines of his cravat, his gleaming black boots, and then met his eyes. “Why do I imagine your time here is at an end?”

  Because it was. He looked to her, this woman who’d distracted him enough to save his life. “Thank you,” he said simply, the words wholly inadequate to convey the gratitude for all she’d done. “If you’d not persisted,” Her lips quirked at the corners in remembrance of those words he’d once hurled at her angrily from within the confines of his bed at London Hospital. “I’d not be alive now.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t believe that.” Lady Drake continued over him when he opened his mouth to protest. “You wouldn’t have…” Killed yourself. She let those sinful words go unspoken. “You had a reason to live, even if you didn’t realize it at the time.”

  He started as she took his hand between her gloved fingers, recalling his attention. “You realize it now and that is what matters.”

  “It is likely too late,” he said, gut clenching. What if it was? What was he without her?

  She gave his hand a squeeze. “I know better than anyone else that time really means nothing in the matters of the heart. You know now.” A sparkle glimmered in her kind, brown eyes. “I know your Eloise. She knows. Go to her.”

  “Thank you,” he said, firm resolve underscored his words. “I intend to
.” Even if she rejected him and called him a fool for having failed to notice her, truly notice her, he needed to tell her. And if she’d allow him, he’d spend the rest of his life loving her, as she’d always deserved.

  Lady Emmaline gave a pleased nod and then released him. “Go,” she urged.

  He looked at her a lingering moment—this woman, her husband, this townhouse a link to his recent, dark, and lonely past. Lucien turned and nodded at Lord Drake as they shared a look that only two men who’d faced down the Devil and survived, might understand. He shifted his attention to Lady Emmaline; the person who’d not allowed him to turn himself over to darkness. How could he ever repay either her or her husband? They’d restored him to the living, and in that, guided him back to Eloise. “I—” He opened and closed his mouth several times. “I—”

  A gentle smile turned Lady Drake’s lips upwards. “I know.” She tipped her chin toward the door. “Go to her.”

  With a final bow, he shook free the chains of his past and left—ready to embrace his future.

  Chapter 23

  A thunderous shout penetrated the walls of Eloise’s parlor. With an aggrieved sigh, she set aside the book in her hands. It had been inevitable. Since she’d returned from the viscount’s, she’d felt with a confidence she’d have wagered everything she had right to as a widow, that word of her scandalous carriage ride with Lucien and their foray through the field of flowers would inevitably make its way to her brother-in-law. She’d just imagined it would have been weeks ago.

  The sharp click of boot steps in the hall, increasing in fervor, paused outside of the parlor.

  She shoved herself to her feet just as the butler, opened the door. “The Earl of Sherborne,” he intoned, his face an expressionless mask.

  Eloise donned her winningest smile. “Why, Lord Sherborne, what a—”

  “This is not about pleasantries, Eloise,” he snapped. It never was with the new earl.

  The butler took his leave, but not before favoring her with a regretful look.

  Eloise gestured to the sofa. “Would you care to sit?”

  Lips set in a tense, angry line, her brother-in-law stalked over. “I do not care to sit, madam. I care about my reputation, as it is affected by your scandalous actions.”

  For his ill opinion, she’d venture there wasn’t a more scandal-less widow than she.

  “I assure you, I’m everything proper,” she said dryly.

  The earl either ignored or failed to hear the wry edge to her words. “I’ve heard whispers amongst my household staff of your carrying on with a Mr. Lucien Jonas.” He planted his hands upon his hips and towered over her. “My brother—”

  “Your brother would take offense at your storming into my home and scolding me like a recalcitrant child,” she shot back. His highhandedness these years had grown tedious.

  At her bold rebuttal, shock stamped the lines of his face. He opened and closed his mouth. “Why, I…I…”

  Emboldened by his shock, Eloise took a step forward. “Why do you, indeed, my lord? Why do you believe it is your right to enter my townhouse and chide me for behaviors reported about by gossiping servants?”

  “Because it matters to my own reputation,” he thundered. His booming voice bounced off the high ceilings. “I am in the market for a countess.” The poor woman. She felt the stirring of pity for that unknown lady. “And,” he waved his finger in a circle in her general direction. “And as long as mention of you tupping servants is fodder for the gossips, the more you sully the Sherborne title.”

  Eloise’s cheeks flamed with a scorching heat at his crude words. His reprehensible charge quelled her tart response.

  “Ah, nothing to say?” He made a tsking sound. “Rumors have circulated about your carrying on with the Marquess of Drake’s one-armed butler.”

  She gasped. A red rage descended over her vision, blinding in its intensity. “Remember yourself,” she bit out. She’d often said that all the goodness in the Sherborne line had been given to that first-born son, Colin, her husband, leaving none left for this cruel, cowardly, current Earl of Sherborne.

  “Remember myself?” His eyes flew wide. “You, my lady, are the one sullying your reputation by spreading your legs for a mere servant.”

  Eloise cracked her hand across his cheek with such ferocity, her palm imprinted upon his skin.

  “By God! My brother will be turning over in the hereafter with—”

  “If I were you, I would allow those words to go unfinished.”

  Eloise wheeled around. Her pulse thundered madly as Lucien’s well-muscled frame filled the entranceway. Her brother-in-law stiffened at the unexpected intrusion.

  The butler cleared his throat. “Mr. Lucien Jonas,” he announced. The ghost of a smile played about the normally unflappable butler’s lips. He dipped a bow and then backed out of the room.

  “Wh-what is the meaning of this?” the earl stammered. He retreated as Lucien advanced with slow, deliberate strides into the parlor.

  The sight of him after all these weeks blotted out the humiliating, horrible things leveled at her by the earl. “L-Lucien,” she whispered. Why is he here? Why, when he’d been so very clear that after his father’s passing he would return to the life he’d lived all these years without her?

  Her brother-in-law found his brash arrogance. “Why are you here, sir?” He puffed his chest like a preening peacock. “There is no room for a mere butler—”

  “You’d be wise to not finish those words, either,” Lucien intoned on a silken, steely whisper.

  The color drained from the earl’s cheeks. He found the courage, however to tug at his jacket and say, “I am the Earl of Sherborne and I’ll not be spoken to in…”

  Lucien continued striding forward and the lean bully of a man stumbled over himself in his haste to place the sofa between him and the threatening gentleman. Lucien stopped beside Eloise. He passed that inscrutable, powerful stare over her face, the grays of his eyes dark like the summer sky after a tempestuous storm.

  Then, with seeming reluctance, he shifted his focus back upon the earl. “You are to leave this home, Sherborne. And you are no longer to sully Eloise with your presence here. If you speak to her,” he said, as he stepped around the mahogany piece between them and then closed the distance between him and her bastard of a brother-in-law. “If you so much as speak to her, I will demonstrate just how capable I am with one arm,” He lowered his tone to the gravelly, harsh one that had initially terrified her upon their reunion at the marquess’ home. “And I will make you regret whatever vile word you uttered.” He leaned close. “Are we clear, Sherborne?”

  The earl’s cheeks turned ashen and in spite of the obvious quake to his slender frame, he managed a jerky nod.

  Eloise’s heart tripped several beats at his bold defense of her. She pressed her eyes closed a moment. She’d been on her own for so very long, she’d grown accustomed to relying on no one but herself. She opened her eyes once more and caressed Lucien with her gaze. For the first time in a long time, she was not alone. Joy swelled inside and a wave of emotion so strong slammed into her that she could not speak. Her throat worked painfully.

  Lucien looked at Sherborne through eyes of impenetrable slits and then gave a belated nod. “You’re done here.” He stepped aside and her brother-in-law all but sprinted from the room. With his awkward gait, the earl knocked into a side table and then upended an ivory, open-backed armchair before scurrying from the room like a rat chased from Cook’s kitchens.

  Her shoulders sagged with relief at the man’s exit. However, with his parting and the vitriol of Lucien’s exchange, she registered his presence. She fiddled with her skirts. “Lucien.”

  “Is that all you’ll say?” His deep baritone washed over her.

  Eloise stilled her distracted movements. “Hullo?”

  He closed the slight space between them. “I suppose that is a good deal better than get out,” he said dryly. He raised his hand, his knuckles hovered awkwardly at
her cheek, and then he dropped his hand back to his side.

  Eloise mourned the loss of that slight, desperately desired touch. “Wh-why would I order you to leave?” She loved him and always would. She would take him in any way she could—even if he was merely a visiting friend.

  A humorless grin hovered at his lips. “Perhaps because you should order me gone.”

  She shook her head. “I’d not do that.”

  “Not even if I deserve it?”

  “Why would you deserve it? Because you never loved me the way I loved you?” She bit the inside of her cheek, the startling honesty of that admission twisted her insides. Suddenly, his body’s nearness was too much. She wandered over to the ivory sofa and trailed her fingertips over the mahogany back.

  “I—”

  She held a hand up. “You loved and married. I’d never begrudge you the happiness you knew.” Even as the lost dream of him had shredded her heart.

  “I—”

  “I long ago accepted that anything more between us, it was a mere dream, Lucien.” The truth of her words twisted like a blade in her belly. She hugged her arms to herself. “I knew that, even as my heart did not.” Except, even now she lied to herself. Her love of Lucien defied all logic and knowing. It was based on friendship and emotion and those undefinable sentiments only carried deep within a person’s heart.

  “Eloise, I—”

  She curled her hands over the back of the sofa and studied her white-knuckled grip upon the furniture. “You don’t need to apologize,” she assured him, picking up her gaze, she met his stare directly.

  “I’m not here to apologize.” Heavy regret shaded his words.

  Oh. Warmth crept up her neck and heated her cheeks. “Uh. Well, then.” She shifted awkwardly on her feet. “Why are you here?” she blurted and then at the frown on his lips she added, “Not that I’m not incredibly happy to see you.” Regardless of his feelings or lack of feelings for her, she would, always be filled with joy at seeing him. Even when he was snarly and angry and foul. “I am,” she added as afterthought.