Ice returned to his veins at the thought of harm befalling Hazel. But he would not allow that fear to consume him now, for what he needed to do most was focus upon apprehending the men responsible, before they made yet another attempt upon her life.
“It is a credit to her impeccable instincts and experience as a Pinkerton agent that she was not,” he said, his throat going thick. “She noticed someone had been in her chamber and was instantly suspicious enough to perform a thorough search of her room. That is when she discovered the bomb.”
“You admire her.”
Strathmore’s assertion startled him. Not because it was untrue, but because he had not thought himself so damned transparent when it came to his feelings for Hazel.
He met his brother-in-law’s gaze, unflinching. “Yes.”
Strathmore’s eyes narrowed, his stare turning speculative. “You more than admire her, in fact.”
He ground his molars. “What does it signify? Miss Montgomery is my partner. If I do not have faith in her abilities as an agent, I am putting myself at unnecessary risk. Of course I admire her intelligence and her daring. She has uncovered more about the Fenians since her arrival here in London than I have in months. Her instinct is impeccable. We are fortunate indeed to be able to avail ourselves of her expertise.”
“You speak with the vigor of a lover, rather than that of a peer,” Strathmore assessed.
Correctly, damn it all.
“Do not make me blacken your eye in your own home, Strathmore,” he growled. “How dare you suggest I have acted as less than a gentleman in regard to Miss Montgomery?”
“I suggested no such thing, but your guilt is betraying you.” Amusement laced Strathmore’s tone now.
Sodding hell.
He had walked rather neatly into Strathmore’s trap. “If you say one word to besmirch her honor, I will do far worse than blacken your eye.”
“Come now.” Strathmore made a clucking sound. “Why would I wish to besmirch the honor of my future sister-in-law?”
The notion of marrying Hazel returned once more. He waited for the inevitable, accompanying sense of dread, but it failed to arrive. In its place, all he felt was the searing warmth of contentment. The slow, steady rush of peace. The fledgling hope that perhaps all was not lost for him. That perhaps he could find happiness with Hazel, if he but dared.
“I am not marrying Miss Montgomery,” he sputtered at last.
Only because she had refused his suit. But Strathmore need not know that.
“Pity. You ought to,” the duke said, his expression grave.
He was not joking or making light of Lucien this time. His brother-in-law appeared utterly serious. “I have no wish to marry.
Still, even to his own ears, and most importantly to his own heart, the denial rang false.
“Why?” Strathmore asked. “Because of your mother? You need not look surprised. Vi has told me all about her madness and how her loss affected you both. But you must know that the unhappiness of your parents need not be visited upon you. Marriage does not have to be a hell, and neither does your life. Do you truly want to spend the rest of your days alone, when the woman you love is within your reach?”
“Love is a fiction,” he spat, because it was what he had believed for so long.
His mother had claimed to love him, and she had left. His father had claimed to love his mother, and yet he had confined her to a life of misery at Albemarle, until she had killed herself. There, in the scars of his past, lay irrefutable, incontrovertible proof that love was nothing more than a chimera, invented by the weakhearted, and clung to by the masses.
Did it not?
Why then, did it feel as if Hazel had reached inside him, filling a void he had not known was empty? Why did the thought of his life without her in it paralyze him with dread and fear?
“Tell yourself that, if you must,” Strathmore said. “But you have only to look at the world around you to see that love is, indeed, real. Do not blot out the sun to spite yourself. Let it burn brightly. Take the chance that it will burn. Allow yourself, for once, to ease your grip upon the reins of the past, and if you dare, let them go.”
Damnation.
Not long ago, he had been determined to see the Duke of Strathmore thrown into Newgate prison for crimes he had wrongly believed he had committed. And now, here he stood, waxing poetic about love and life. Worse for Lucien’s already battered pride, Strathmore was not wrong in a single, bloody word he had spoken.
Hazel was the sun. She was the source of the warmth in his life, everything he needed to sustain himself.
Nevertheless, he could not afford to wallow in these newfound realizations. The hour was late, but he could not rest until he learned how those bastards had gained entrance to Lark House with the intention of harming Hazel.
