“You ought to lie down,” Marianne told him, but before she could say any more, he toppled over onto his side, and his head ended up in her lap. He pulled his feet upward so that he was curled up on the bench. Marianne sat there, her hands hovering in the air as he nuzzled in her lap. A low groan escaped him. She wasn’t quite sure what to do, but knew that she couldn’t continue to sit there with her hands up in the air like that. She placed one on his back and the other on his head. That was what a wife would’ve done, she realized. His hair was soft and smooth under her hand.
She had taken off her gloves as they had made it into the carriage, always hating how restrictive they felt. This allowed her to run her fingers through his hair. She was doing it quite without thinking. This wasn’t why they had gotten married. This was not it at all.
In fact, she should stop. The conversation on the dance floor had been most bizarre. All evening, until he had gone off to drink, she felt as though a true connection was forming between them. But then on the dance floor, he had once again pulled back. It was impossible to know with him how he truly felt. She had thought that he wanted to reestablish boundaries between them, and that was why he had left to spend the rest of the evening with his friends. But now here he was in her lap. But it was just simply because he had too much to drink. Likely that was it.
Juliet’s words rang in her head still. His relationship with his former wife seemed to have truly been one of mysterious circumstances. Lady Hazelton had also mentioned how tragically the last Lady Wexford had passed. She had to find out how that happened. She had to. She could ask Mrs. Greaves. Perhaps her sisters would know. Certainly, Rhys would. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to it just yet.
The carriage finally moved, and Lucien’s body shifted on her lap. She grabbed his arm to hold him where he was, and he reached up, his left hand wrapping around her right one, which rested on his arm. Marian gasped at the sensation. This felt right. The two of them like this together.
There was no denying it. She was falling in love with her husband.
They stayed this way for a period, their carriage moving through the London streets back to their Brixton country seat. He had fallen asleep, she could tell by the way his chest rose and fell beneath her arm.
She leaned back and closed her own eyes, enjoying the moment. She must’ve fallen asleep, for when she opened her eyes again, she glanced out of the window, and the cityscape of London had disappeared. The only light outside was the carriage lamp that swayed with each movement of the horses.
They would be home soon. She looked down. Lucien was still sleeping. Gently, she ran her hand across his head again. “Lucien, you ought to rise. We shall be home in a few minutes.”
He rolled his shoulders, and then, without any sort of warning, kissed her hand. She didn’t gasp this time. Instead, she savored the feeling of his warm lips on her skin. Then she pulled it carefully away.
He sat up, his hair standing up where he had rested his head on her lap, and his clothes slightly rumpled. He blinked. His eyes were small from sleep or from too much spirits. She wasn’t sure.
“Goodness,” he said. “I slept.”
“For some time,” she replied, looking down at her hand where he had kissed her. Was he aware of this, or had he done it in his sleep state?
“Thank you for letting me rest.”
“Of course,” she replied. “Do you feel better?”
“Somewhat,” he said. “I will regret all the drinking in the morning, I am certain. But I want to thank you for the evening. It was pleasant. You did well.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I think they believed us.”
“I should think so,” he replied. They looked at one another. Neither spoke for what felt like an eternity. The carriage moved, and they were swayed to the left as it made the turn.
She heard herself ask, “What happened to your first wife? I do not need to know the whole story, but Lady Hazelton spoke of her and...”
“And you really ought to know. I would’ve thought you would’ve asked Rhys by now.”
“It is not Rhys’s story to tell, is it?” she said.
“I’m grateful to hear you say that. Many would have already tried to dig up information. I’m surprised you did not ask your maid to.”
She stiffened, not wanting to tell him that her maid had, in fact, dug up information, although it was not at her behest.
“She died in a carriage accident,” he said. “It was six months after Henry was born. She went out very late in the night. There was already much wind and a storm was moving in, although we didn’t know it then.” He looked away as he said this. “The carriage crossed the Westcott Bridge about half an hour from our estate. It slipped, I believe. We do not know for certain. It tumbled backwards, and she was trapped beneath the water and drowned.”
“Goodness,” Marianne gasped. “That’s awful.”
“Yes,” he said. “I found out the following morning.” He shrugged. “Of course, it was too late to do anything by then. By the time I got to the bridge, the carriage had been recovered.The coachman also drowned. It was a dreadful night. The only solace I could draw from it was that Henry was still too small to understand. I did not have to explain to him what happened to his mother. I do not think that he even remembers her at all. Which is a blessing.”
“Is it?” she asked.
“You disagree?”
“I do not disagree. I am simply unsure if it is a blessing or not. My mother died when I was young, but I am blessed to have many memories of her, and I cherish them. Sometimes, when I sit quietly working on embroidery or simply at night in my bed, I think of her and replay memories I have with her. And it is as though I am there again. Picking flowers, singing songs, sneaking into the kitchen early in the morning before the servants made use of it, and baking with her. I cherish those memories. I cherish the ability to conjure them up and re-live them as though they were happening right now.”
Lucien ground his teeth. “I doubt, even if she had lived, that there would’ve been such memories for Henry.”
