It was as if Cassandra was remembering the same scene. “Go off and do whatever important business father’s great heir has to do,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag as if she would scrub him from the family as well. “Leave Jane and Simon, Mother and me in peace.”
“That is my intention.” Lucien straightened his cuff. “I have written my banker to instruct him that you may withdraw whatever funds you and Jane require?—”
“Don’t tell me you hope to send us away from Everdene again! I’ll not be discarded like rubbish so you can be comfortable.”
He cut her off in cool, firm accents. “Everdene Hall is your home, for as long as you wish to remain here.Iwill stay away unless pressing business compels me to return. If it does, I will give you fair warning so you and Jane may take a brief holiday or join Mother in Galen’s Well if you prefer.”
For a moment, she looked taken aback, a hint of softness in her face, then her expression hardened. “Good. You cannot leave soon enough for me. Now, I need to repair my painting.” She wheeled back to her work, scooping up palette and brush.
He stared for a moment at the slash of red upon the canvas, then turned to leave. At the door, he paused and looked back at his sister. Her stiff shoulders, the aura of vigilance, as if she were waiting for a blow.
“Cass,” he said, low, “for what it’s worth…thank you. For looking after Jane.”
He could see her catch her breath. “Your thanks are worth nothing since you are the one responsible for Jane’s wounds. Just keep your promise and stay away from here.”
“I give you my word.”
As he made his way downstairs, an unexpected image flashed in his mind. Grace Elliot, her curls a-tumble, her eyes lifted to his. He could still feel the way she’d touched him, completely unintimidated by the stony armor he’d drawn about himself since the night he’d stood by as his sisters were banished.
Permanently leaving Everdene Hall was the only way to ensure his sisters could live in peace. It also ensured that he’d not chance to run into Grace again, picking berries…picnicking at the lakeside…or in the kitchen at midnight when the rest of the world was asleep.
He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her fingertips, gentle, so capable, on his bare skin. Her tenderness. That innate kindness was more genuine than any he’d ever experienced.
Distancing himself from her was for the best. One more regret to pile on a lifetime of regrets.
He found Arkwright and Simon sitting in the billiard room, their cues leaning against the wall, a bottle of fine whiskey on the table between them.
Their gazes snapped up to Lucien, then to his chest. Worry creased Simon’s brow. Both men knew better than to ask after his health.
“Luce, sit down, man,” Arkwright ventured. “Have a drink. We were just about to pull out the playing cards. Care to join us?”
“No. I only wish to inform you that I’ve had a change in plans. I leave for London in the morning.”
“What?” Simon started to rise from his chair. “You can’t be serious.”
Lucien pinned him with the implacable gaze that had kept rival MPs in their seats. “I wasn’t asking for your opinion. I was informing you of my decision. Arkwright, you needn’t chafe. You can stay for as long as we originally planned, of course. Enjoy the horses, the country.”
“That is not my concern!” His friend actually seemed offended. “Surely it’s not wise to be jolting around in a coach.”
“Rhys is right, Luce. You’re not invincible,” Simon cautioned. “The wound will break open or become putrid.”
As he looked at his brother, a vast chasm seemed to open up between them.
How could he explain the wound already had?
The trunks were stackedat the entrance, waiting to be loaded when the coach was brought round. He’d penned instructions for the latest repairs on the grist mill, hoping that he could delay the necessity of the far more expensive, permanent solution Simon favored. Everyone must economize until England—hell, all of Europe—shook off this run of poor harvests, potato blight, and crofters on the edge of rebellion who did not understand the challenges landlords faced.
“My lord,” a footman announced from the door. “Someone is here to see you, the matter most urgent, I’m told.”
Lucien shut his ledger and suppressed a sigh. “Someone about estate business?”
“Lady Grace Elliot.”
Just her name was like a bracing breath of sea air. Whatever this was about, an unreasonably powerful wave of pleasure washed through him. He would be able to see her one more time.
“She awaits in the blue parlor,” the footman said
Lucien stood, straightened his cravat, then went to meet her. She was wandering about the room as if she couldn’t keep still. A riding habit of cerulean-blue velvet clung to her curves, gold braid across the front and rows of brass buttons giving it a military flair. A top hat with a streamer of net veil had been abandoned on a piecrust table, and she’d stripped off her gloves. But it was her face that arrested his attention. There was something almost frenetic in her eyes and flushed cheeks. Those lips that had haunted last night’s dreams were drawn in such a desperate expression he crossed to her, taking her hands in his.
