“Well,” he said, “I do not know when I shall return here anyhow. Let the vagabond find it and have it.”
He proffered his arm, and Marianne took it hesitantly. Together, they made their way out of the room again, over the boulder he had helped her cross earlier, and then he assisted her in mounting her horse again.
As they rode, the wind picked up, and Marianne shivered.
Lucien glanced at her. “We should’ve brought cloaks. It was thoughtless of me.”
“It is quite all right,” she said. “It is not very far back home.”
“Yes, but if you take a chill on the way, I am sure your maid may well have some stern words for me once more—not to mention your family.”
She frowned. “My family?”
“We have to dine with them on the morrow,” he reminded her.
“Oh yes,” she said, having entirely forgotten. It was about time that the two of them ventured out of their home. It was one thing to try to convince the servants that they were a real couple so that they would spread the word to their fellow servants, but they also had to attempt to convince high society that they were truly married, truly in love. An intimate dinner might not do very much toward that end. Still, it would give them the opportunity to be seen by the neighbors entering the home along with her sisters and their husbands, painting a picture of familial relations.
And after that, it would be time to engage in public appearances. They were to attend the ball the following week, and then the season would commence.
Initially, she had dreaded having to keep company with him, to be seen with him, because it would bind her to his side—at least for a period. Yet now, as they rode back to the house they now shared, she couldn’t help but realize that spending time with him was no longer an obligation. It was something that she anticipated with pleasure, looked forward to—even though she knew such thoughts were futile. For she knew she was naught but a convenience to him, just as he had been to her.
CHAPTER 17
LUCIEN
The following day, Lucien stood at the bottom of the staircase. Marianne appeared after a few minutes, looking ravishingly beautiful in a simple light blue gown. It swayed around her in such a way as to hint at her curves without outright drawing attention to them. Her hair was piled up with a few strands curling down.
Her gloved hand slid on the banister as she came down, and Lucien swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.
Their afternoon at the monastery had done something to him he had not anticipated. It had made him care for her, no matter how much he denied it.
Being alone with her and having shown her his once private space had cracked open something within him that he couldn’t seal again. He still wasn’t sure what had moved him to show her, for he had never taken anyone there. Not even Henry. He’d shown him the ruin, but no more.
Yet with Marianne, he’d been compelled to do so. With unexpected results. Was it the way her hand moved so quickly when he’d handed her the glass? Perhaps. Or the way she’d looked at him when she thought he didn’t see?
Either way, he had to keep his emotions in check. This would do no good. He couldn’t care for her. If he did, then he risked his history repeating itself. And that wouldn’t serve anyone.
“You look rather dashing,” Marianne said with a smile as she descended the final stair.
“As do you,” he replied. He proffered his arm, and she took it. He didn’t want to admit how much feeling her hand on his arm filled him with longing he hadn’t felt since he had first been married. Back then, when he had still thought that love was possible, he hoped he and Arabella might truly fall for each other. He had longed for it then. Longed for love and affection and unity. It had never come. And it wouldn’t come now.
“Where is Henry?” Marianne asked.
“Mrs. Harvey took him already. Rhys suggested that the governess take the boy out so that he’ll be tired out by this evening, and I thought it a wonderful idea.”
“I see,” she replied. Together, they made their way to the carriage, and Lucien handed her in. He felt the loss of her hand on his arm more intensely than he wanted to, but brushed away the feeling as he climbed inside.
“We shall have to be on our best behavior,” Marianne said. “We must pretend to be madly in love.”
“Really? Your sisters already know that we are pretending.”
“Yes, but my aunt does not,” she replied. “And my aunt must believe that we genuinely tried. She would be most upset if she ever found out that I attempted to betray her by playing this charade. Besides, the servants talk.”
“You are right,” Lucien agreed. “If Mrs. Greaves has taught me one thing, it is that servants always know everything that is going on. Well, we shall have to pretend.”
Although as the carriage made its way down the road, he realized that the more time they spent together, the less he had to pretend.
They arrived at Marianne’s aunt Eugenia’s home in Mayfair three-quarters of an hour later. It was a modest home lodged between two grander ones, but as they exited the carriage and walked up the front stairs, Lucien saw immediately through the glass panes that it was a well-appointed home, despite its humble appearance.
