She managed a jerky nod. Happiness swelled in her breast. “Lucien.” Oh, how she’d missed him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled with none of the warmth and gentleness she’d always known from him.
Eloise stared unblinkingly at Lucien. Surely she’d heard him—
“By God, I said what the hell are you doing here?” He yanked her by the arm and jerked her through the front doors.
Oh, dear. She swallowed hard. She’d had years to prepare for this very moment and yet remained as she invariably was—without words. “Oh, Lucien,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. Lucien released her arm with such alacrity she stumbled. “It is so wonderful to see you.” She had missed him more than any person in her life. God help her, even the husband who’d been kind and good to her still had never managed to evoke the emotion inspired by Lucien Jones. Suddenly, the joy of seeing him erased the years of propriety drilled into her in her role as countess. She flung her arms about him.
He grunted and staggered under the unexpectedness of her embrace. His broad, powerful frame was more muscular than she remembered. She mourned the loss of that one arm, and hurt with a need to have him wrap it about her as he’d done so many times when she’d been a small girl, so hopelessly in love with him. Tears flooded Eloise’s eyes and she blinked them away, not wanting him to see them and interpret them as signs of pity.
With his remaining arm and the strength of his chest, he set her away. “What in hell are you doing, Eloise?” he hissed.
She cocked her head. “Lucien,” she began. “It is me,” she said lamely. Obviously, he could see that it was, in fact, Miss Eloise Gage. Granted, she was not the same plump child he likely remembered on the eve of having her first London Season. Her blonde, impossibly tightly curled tresses were the same as was the lone birthmark at the corner of her lip. He used to tease her mercilessly about it. Surely, he even now recalled the blasted mark?
As though following her unspoken thoughts, his gaze shifted lower, ever lower, and fixed upon that slight mark. A smile played about her lips. Then his mouth set in a hard, unmoving line. At the left corner of his eye, a muscle ticked, hinting at his annoyance. She shook her head, uncomprehending this aloof stranger. She tried again. “Lucien—”
“Do not call me by my name, madam.” That sharp command better suited to the battlefield than a formal foyer, came out as an angry whisper. He shot a furious glance about for interlopers.
All her earlier joy was replaced by confusion, then hurt, and ultimately gave way to a seething annoyance. She snapped her eyebrows into a single line. “What should I call you?”
“You, madam, are not to call me anything.”
Eloise recoiled. “What are you on about?” His coolly aloof tone was more painful than had he slapped her.
It was as though her words didn’t penetrate whatever walls he’d constructed about himself these years. With quick, clipped steps, he proceeded to pace the rich, Italian marble floor. “How did you discover my whereabouts?”
A pang struck her heart. “You didn’t want to be found?” Did that ghost-like whisper belong to her? But the pain of that possibility…oh, God, all these years she’d thought of him, and ultimately, he’d not wanted to be found. She pressed her eyes tightly closed as his gleaming, black boots beat a staccato rhythm upon the floor. For years she’d believed he’d removed himself from her life in an effort to avoid his father. Theirs had been a volatile relationship that had been forever damaged when the viscount insisted his son take a commission in the military, instead of the church as Lucien had wished. But this, now knowing… “You avoided me.” All these years she’d ached for him…missed his friendship…their friendship. And she’d mattered not at all.
He ignored her question. “Does my father know I’m here?”
She flattened her lips into a firm line.
Lucien spun back and took her shoulder in his hand. “Does he—?”
“N-no,” she stammered and for the first time terror filled her at the presence of this dark, angry stranger.
Some of the tension left him.
Perhaps this was about nothing more than the feud from long ago between the Viscount Hereford and his third son. Eloise held her palms up. “He doesn’t know you’re here,” she softly assured him. She curled her toes tightly with guilt. If this cold, unyielding man before her learned she’d searched for him all so she might try and bring peace to his fractured family, he would have tossed her quite handily out onto the front steps, rules of propriety and friendship between them be damned.
Lucien lowered his head and she drew back from the ice glinting in his thunderous gray stare. “Then. What. Do. You. Want?” he asked on a lethal whisper.
“I—” She wet her lips.
He followed that movement and for a desperate moment she imagined he might kiss her, which was, of course, silly because Lucien had never desired her. He’d loved her. Cared for…but Sara had held his heart. Eloise had merely held his friendship.
His lips pulled back in a menacing sneer. “I asked, what—?”
Only, now it appeared she’d never even held that.
“Lady Sherborne!” Their gazes flew as one to the Marchioness of Drake. She came down the stairs, the ease of her smiling visage indicated she’d not detected the thick undercurrents of tension between them.
“Please, Eloise,” she insisted, hungering to steal one more glance at the man she’d ached to see these many years.
Lady Drake stopped before them. “Oh, how splendid! I’ve been waiting for your visit, Eloise.”
She had as well. Eloise gulped.
Until this moment.
Chapter 3
Eloise.
Lucien drew back, unsettled, feeling like the unwitting actor upon a stage and he was the only one unknowing of his lines.
Eloise.
Only, this slender, gently curved lady with a trim waist and flared hips, bore no trace of the child he’d played with through the pastures of Kent. As though unnerved by his scrutiny, she lowered her gaze to the marble floor. No, the Eloise he remembered had never done anything as demure as lower her eyes. And she’d been a Miss Eloise Gage, a friend… Had he ever truly had friends?
The stricken expression in her eyes indicated that this older, more mature lady with those very familiar tight blonde curls was very much…. Eloise. She stared boldly at him. Her piercing blue-green gaze ran up and down his frame. Fury and hurt danced in those depths. Then, Eloise had worn her every emotion as plain as if they’d been stamped in ink across the delicate lines of her face.
He fisted his hand, balling it tightly, resenting her insolence in coming here. In reentering this new life he’d carved out for himself, in a world away from the ugly one he’d left behind.
“Jones?”
Lucien jerked. The marchioness’ concerned tone cut across the shocking reappearance of his past into his dark future. He gave his head a hard shake. “My lady,” he said gruffly.
“We’ll be taking tea in the Pink Parlor. Would you see to refreshments?” With that, she looped her arm through Eloise’s and ushered the slender young lady onward, their slippers noiseless upon the marble floors. He stared after them until they disappeared into the parlor.
Lucien scrubbed a hand over his eyes, the empty arm socket, cut off at the elbow itched with the memory of movement as he longed to scrub both hands over his eyes and then dig his fingers into his temples until he drove back the dream, hell, or reality this happened to be. Perhaps it was all three rolled into one.
She was here.
What was she doing here?
He lowered his arm to his side and frowned. And who the hell had she wed? Lady Sherborne. Before his father had purchased his damned commission for the infantry, Lucien hadn’t spent much time in London. He’d been so thoroughly bewitched, mind, body and soul by the mild-mannered, serenely beautiful Sara to have ever dashed off to take part in the ton’s inane amusements. And as the third son, he’
d been afforded certain luxuries, such as remaining in the country, while his elder brother, the heir to the Viscount Hereford had been expected to dance attendance at ton events.
His lip peeled back in an involuntary sneer. Certain luxuries. What a bloody joke. And with Eloise’s reentrance into his life, she’d ushered in all the darkest memories he’d sought to bury. His aspirations for himself. His father’s goals for him. And the damned viscount’s ultimate triumph. May the blighter rot in hell.
Lucien closed his eyes and drew in several slow, steadying breaths; a calming mechanism he’d adopted over the years when the memories became particularly hard to bear. He dug deep and sought purchase within himself to climb from the pit and back to his present.
Eloise. Lady Sherborne.
The Marchioness of Drake.
Refreshments.
Tea, yes, they required tea.
With wooden steps he strode through the house, focused on the task set out. Refreshments were easy. An ugly, mirthless chuckle worked its way up his throat. Mayhap not easy, per se, with one and a half arms, but something he now accomplished with enough ease to not rely on others for the simple chore.
He marched down the corridor to the kitchens. The kitchen staff looked to him. “Refreshments,” he barked, his voice still gruff from ill-use.
A handful of servants hurried to ready a tray for the marchioness and her guest. Guest. Aye, it was far easier to think of the lady with wounded eyes as a mere guest and not the girl who’d fished and swam alongside him and his brother, Richard, in the Kent countryside. To remember her as she’d been, forced him to think of the day he’d accepted that damned commission, capitulating to his father’s urgings, leaving his wife, and stepping into the European theatre masterminded by the power-hungry Boney.
A servant rushed toward the door with the tray.
“I’ll see to it myself,” he snapped.
The dozen or so of the kitchen staff stared at him, wide-eyed.
She hesitated and then handed it over.
They’d learned early on not to question his abilities or capabilities. He easily handled the silver tray in his steady, stable, strong, right arm and the partial left. With sure footsteps, he made his way to the door. A servant discreetly held it open and he exited the kitchens. With each step that carried him closer to Eloise, he steeled his heart, not allowing himself to think about what brought her here.
He remembered the troublesome minx she’d been as a child enough to know this was no serendipitous meeting with the marchioness. Instead, he chose to focus on this unfamiliar stranger who’d replaced the oft blushing, usually tongue-tied Eloise Gage.
She’d wed a nobleman. A Lord Sherborne. He hoped the blighter was possessed of a tolerant, patient spirit. The Eloise Lucien had long known had the frequent tendency to find herself in all manner of difficulties. He strode down the corridor. And by God he did not intend to allow himself to be her latest manner of difficulty.
He paused outside the open parlor door. A quiet, husky laugh, familiar and all the more aching for that familiarity, washed over him. He clenched his eyes tightly not wanting it to matter that Eloise laughed the way she had as girl and… His mind raced. She must be twenty-seven, nay. She had a birthday two months past, the twenty-fourth of January. She would be twenty-eight now.
And he hated that he remembered that piece of her because it meant he was not as indifferent to Eloise as he cared to believe.
“…I’m so sorry,” Lady Drake said softly.
His ears pricked up.
“It is…” The remainder of Eloise’s words escaped him.
God help him. If any of the staff spied the butler, the most distinguished member of the household staff, hovering at the door, eavesdropping like a chit just from the schoolroom, the marquess would likely sack him with good reason. But for that, he remained rooted to the spot.
“…I cannot imagine the loss…”
His gut clenched. What loss? And for the first time since he’d abandoned the more respectable, honored position as third son to a viscount, he damned the class division that obscured the truth and the remainder of that thought. What had happened to Eloise? After he’d returned and discovered the death of his wife, and a child he’d only learned of on the pages of letters handed him on the battlefield, he’d retreated to London, half-dead, emaciated like a stray dog in the streets, content to die. He’d not thought of Eloise. Or…
The tray rattled in his arm. He silently cursed as the silver clattered noisily. The ladies fell silent. A dull flush climbing up his neck, Lucien stepped inside the room. “My lady,” he said, his tone harsh.
Except, his employer, the benevolent Lady Emmaline Drake, had known him when he’d first found a place in London Hospital. She’d sat by his side reading to him, ignoring his surliness and had remained devoted. As a result, she gave no outward appearance of being bothered by his coarse tone and rough, soldier’s speech.
The marchioness smiled. “Thank you, Jones. If you’ll set it over here.”
“Jones?”
Lucien cursed and nearly upended the tray under Eloise’s perplexed question.
Lady Drake motioned in his general direction. “Jones, my…”
Eloise opened her mouth, likely to correct the marchioness’ error. He glowered her into silence and the words withered and died on her lips. She frowned, though the slight narrowing of her eyes indicated she had little intention of allowing the matter to rest.
He continued to glare at her. He had little intention of allowing the stubborn young lady an opportunity to ask her questions, in front of his employer no less. “Is there anything else I may get you, my lady?”
His mistress inclined her head. “No, that will be all.”
With a grateful silent exhalation of air, he started for the door, when Eloise’s words to Lady Drake froze him mid-step.
“I do not suppose Jones,” Lucien growled, his unblinking gaze on the bloody wall in the hall. Do not say it, “mentioned we were acquainted as children.” Of course, he should have known Eloise enough to know she’d never be reticent merely because he willed it. He shot a glance over his shoulder. Eloise angled her chin up. Her words were directed to the marchioness, her stare trained on him. “We were quite the best of friends.”
They had been. In this, the lady spoke the truth. As a young boy he’d not really seen the usefulness in girls. Father had demanded he and Richard entertain his friend’s lonely daughter, Eloise. Belligerent as any lad of seven would have been with those directives, it had taken little time for Lucien to find she was unlike any girl he’d ever known. She’d loved to spit, fish, and bait her own hooks. She’d been bloody perfect to a lad of seven.
Lady Drake looked wide-eyed between them. “Indeed?” A pleased smile lit her brown eyes. She motioned him forward. “Jones, you mustn’t rush off! However did you not mention such a thing?”
“Oh, I’m sure because he is so very dedicated to his services that he’d never do something as improper as to rekindle an old friendship if it were to in anyway compromise his obligations to your household, my lady.” He’d have to be as deaf as a dowager to fail to hear the stinging rebuke in her words.
He hesitated, eyeing the door with the same longing a man with an addiction to drink surely felt for a tumbler of whiskey.
“Don’t you dare leave,” Lady Drake admonished, a smile in her gentle command.
Lucien turned fully around. He fixed a black scowl on Eloise with a look that would have withered much taller, stronger men. She angled her chin up another notch.
“It has been so long, Emmaline.” She lowered her voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “Do you know, I believe for a moment Mr. Jonas…Jones didn’t remember me?” A forced laugh bubbled past her lips.
He frowned. When had Eloise learned the art of false laughter and brittle smiles? As much as he detested her reappearance in his life, he hated even more that innocent, grinning Eloise with that intriguing birthmark at the corner of he
r lip had been hardened by life. “I should return to my obligations, my lady,” he said. He’d never been one to plead. But from the time the surgeon had made the decision to chop off the lower portion of his left arm, he’d not begged anyone for anything. Mayhap if he’d begged his father, begged for that position with the church instead of a damned commission, Sara would now live. In this moment he wanted to beg off, leave the two ladies here.
“Oh, you simply mustn’t, Jones!” The faintest command underlined the marchioness’ words and he silently cursed, knowing all hope of escape had been effectively ended by the bits of his past Eloise had dangled before his employer.
Eloise averted her eyes, unwilling to meet his gaze. Good, the lady should be bloody terrified. She didn’t play with the same lad who’d raced across the hills of Kent. No, Eloise didn’t know the man he’d become. She only remembered the man she thought she knew. The one who’d laughed and smiled and loved.
He shifted on his feet, too aware of the station difference between him and these ladies. And he hated that Eloise had reminded him he’d not always been a servant. For there was nothing disrespectful in honest, hard work. Of course, the viscount would never see it that way. He smiled. Oh, that would be the ultimate revenge upon his vile sire. “I have household business to attend to, my lady,” he tried again. It was the closest he’d come to begging.
Something reflected in Lady Drake’s eyes. Possessed of a kinder heart than most of the empty-headed, vain members of the ton, she saw more. She must have seen something in his expression for she inclined her head and the laughter dimmed in her eyes. “Of course, Jones.”
He sketched a bow and, without a backward glance for Eloise, all but sprinted from the room, feeling the same freeing sense of relief he’d felt when he’d fled Kent after learning of Sara’s death.
Chapter 4
Lords of Honor-The Collection Page 3