“Oh no,” she said. “I prefer a bath. The nuns would do headstands against the wall before they allowed a shower.” Mrs. Greaves chuckled at this. “Yes, that is right. His lordship said that you were in a convent for a time. How refreshing. I know a little about life in a convent. Not from personal experience, but—” She paused, snapping her lips shut. “I hear you are bringing your own lady’s maid?”
“I am,” Marianne said, brightening at once. “My friend Juliet. She is coming from the convent in two days’ time. She has never been a lady’s maid before. But I have never been a countess, either.”
Mrs. Greaves frowned. “She has no experience?”
“No, but I shall not need much. On my first two days at the convent, she helped me find my footing. She helped me dress and showed me how to braid a simple plait. She shall do well here. It is not as though I will need much assistance.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Greaves said. Then she clasped her hands together in a way that made Marianne start slightly. “Well, we will set her to rights. Do not fret. Now I shall leave you. Ring the bell if you need anything. I will tend to your needs myself until your friend arrives and is ready to take over.”
She nodded, and then the woman stepped out. Marianne remained behind, looking out of the window at the great parkland below. It was a beautiful estate—it truly was. Lucien was kind, and his son appeared well-mannered. And yet she could not fight the feeling that this was all wrong. Perhaps Charlotte had been right. Lucien certainly acted as though he assumed she would take an interest in his son; otherwise, why tell her all about the frogs and the squirrels?
What if Charlotte was right? What if he truly expected far more from her than she was willing to give? How foolish she had been—had she been tricked? She pursed her lips together and then sat down on the bed, which sank from her weight. She wonderedif all of this had been the worst mistake she had ever made in her life.
CHAPTER 8
LUCIEN
Lucien put Henry to bed that night and walked down the hall towards his own chamber, his thoughts drifting. Six years ago, at the same hour, he had been on his way to the chamber he was to share with Arabella for the rest of their lives. He remembered feeling elated. He could almost feel the remnants of the smile he had worn that night, thinking that this would be the start of a wonderful marriage.
It had been. For the first few weeks. Perhaps even the first few months. But as routine had settled in, cracks had begun to show in their marriage, not on his part. He had been content, but it was clear that his bride was not.
Arabella had been unhappy almost from the start. To this day, he did not know what he had done wrong. Perhaps Rhys was right. One night, three whiskeys deep into the evening, he had said that Lucien was paying too much attention to his wife, that perhaps it would be best to ignore her every now and again. Make her wonder.
Lucien had never been the sort of man to enjoy games such as that. So he had continued doing what he had always done. He had brought her flowers, joined her when she sat in the drawing room, and ensured that all her favorite foods were available whenever she chose to want them.
But things had not improved. When she was with child, he had thought that perhaps things would change, but they had not. Arabella had not had any interest in her own child. He had never understood it until the end. In the end, it had all become very clear.
He paused and looked at the hall that led to Marianne’s chamber. This marriage would be different, which was why he was not invested in it. He felt nothing for Marianne other than a shared desire for freedom and peace. They might become friends eventually, he thought. He would like that.
She had not seemed very happy earlier, though. That concerned him. Their banter at the altar had been lighthearted enough and had given him hope. And she clearly liked the estate. But her interaction with Henry had concerned him. She had said that she did not want to be a mother, but he had somehow assumed that once she met Henry, her heart would soften the way his always did when he looked at his son. Perhaps that had been foolish. This was perhaps the downfall of every parent—they thought their child was especially sweet, especially kind, especially endearing, and would win over everybody. But that had not been the case with Marianne. Perhaps he should have introduced her to Henry sooner.
He stopped, his body turning toward her chamber door. He had to talk to her. He had to make sure that they were on the same page, that they wanted the same thing still. He could not risk things being awkward, not only because he did not want Henry to live in a home that was filled with tension, but also because he did not want to repeat the mistakes he had made in his first marriage. He should have talked to Arabella, confronted her, and found out what was missing, but he had not. It had been too late by the time he had become frustrated enough to want to do so, and then it had led to...
He shuddered as he thought back to their final explosive argument. She had looked at him with hateful eyes, and he had felt rage flash through him. His fingers curled, and he pressed his palms into fists.
Anger he had felt. Anger he still felt. Arabella... He hated what sort of person he had become around her. Perhaps she had hated the woman she had turned into around him. They had both been miserable. It was why he had not wanted to get married again, why he had not wanted to find a true wife.
He shook his head, raised his hand, and knocked on Marianne’s door. A moment later, he heard the pitter-patter of feet, and then she opened the door. She looked at him, surprised. Her auburn-colored hair was down, and he was taken aback by how long it was. It reached down to her waist. She blinked.
“Lucien,” she said. They had agreed to use Christian names with one another.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not mean to disturb you, but there are things I wish to discuss with you.”
She bit her bottom lip—something he realized she did quite often—and then she stepped aside, letting him in.
He looked around, glad that he had decided to give her his mother’s old chambers, not Arabella’s. Arabella had insisted upon taking over the east wing of the third floor because of the views. He had indulged her, of course, only realizing in hindsight that perhaps it was because those chambers were furthest away from his own.
“I hope you like the chambers. My mother had rather particular taste,” he said, pointing towards the fireplace, which was adorned with two swans on either side.
“I think it is lovely,” she said. “But you said you wished to speak?”
He nodded, and she walked to the sideboard. “Sherry?” she asked, and he smiled, thinking how natural she looked in this room. As though she somehow belonged. She poured two glasses when he nodded and then sat beside him on the chaise.
“I thought that we should discuss our arrangements now that you are actually here and have seen your new home. Since we agreed to share a life without actually sharing one, there should be certain rules.”
“We already discussed rules,” she said. “But I suppose you are right. There are certain things I did not think of. For instance, what is expected of me as Countess? Am I to run this house as though I were truly the lady of this house?”
“You are,” he said. “Otherwise, it looks suspicious. If you only lounge about all day, eating grapes and reading Gothic novels, people will talk.”
