“What do you mean?” Marianne asked, but he just shook his head.
“It is of no consequence. She is dead. And that is all.” He looked outside. “We are home.”
The front door was lit by sconces on either side, as was the hallway inside the grand hall.
Marianne understood that this conversation had ended. He had told her more than he ever had before, although it had not cleared up any of her questions. He stood, swayed slightly, and pushed the door open. He stepped down, the carriage rocking back and forth with his movement, and then he turned to hand her out. He held onto her hand for a moment longer than was necessary, though she wasn’t sure if that was because he was being chivalrous or because he needed to steady himself.
They turned and made their way up the steps. She, as graceful as she could manage in her feet that were pinching from having worn her dancing slippers all evening, and he swaying like a sapling in the wind.
In the grand hallway, he turned to her. His nose was not quite as red as it had been earlier. He looked at her. His hands slipped inside his pockets, and he swayed his hips back and forth, almost like a schoolboy. “Thank you again for attending the ball with me,” he said.
“It was part of our agreement,” she said.
“Indeed,” he replied. Then he took a step forward, and she pulled her shoulders back. Was he going to kiss her? No, that couldn’t be. He wouldn’t kiss her. Would he? Her stomach fluttered at the sight of it, and his face did move closer to hers. But then he took a step back, bowed, took her hand, and kissed the back of it. “Good night, Lady Wexford,” he said. He dropped herhand, turned, and made his way up the steps. Marianne stood at the bottom, shaking like a leaf, overcome with the strangest mix of emotions—disappointment at not having received the anticipated kiss, confusion over whether he had actually meant to kiss her or not, and relief over yet another installment of their tale being complete.
CHAPTER 21
MARIANNE
Marianne made her way up to her chamber and was met almost immediately by Juliet.
“Goodness, you are developing the senses of a proper lady’s maid,” she said. “My mother’s lady’s maid seemed to always sense whenever she returned from an engagement.”
Juliet laughed and helped her take off her cloak. “I shall tell you a secret. It has nothing to do with having the sense of a lady’s maid. It has everything to do with having Mrs. Greaves as your mentor, and she has already drilled into me to keep my ear out for the sound of your carriage whenever you are out, so I can appear as if summoned by magic.” She made a poofing sound and waved her hands through the air, fingers wriggling as if performing a magic trick.
“I see. You’re thoroughly disillusioning me of all of my preconceived notions,” Marianne said. She wanted to sound light, as though nothing at all was the matter. As though she hadn’t just spent an exhilarating carriage ride with Lucien, onlyto feel as if cold water had been poured onto her upon arrival home. But her voice betrayed her, and Juliet, being a good friend, noticed at once.
“What has he done now?” she asked.
Marianne didn’t like the phrasing, as though Juliet had already determined that Lucien was someone who was perpetually up to no good and could be trusted to do something to upset Marianne no matter what.
“Nothing,” she said. “He was pleasant. He was… We had a good evening.”
Juliet picked up Marianne’s hairbrush and set about brushing her hair out.
“But?”
“Why must there be a ‘but’?”
“I can hear it in your voice,” Juliet replied. “Do you recall the time Sister Mary Agnes caught you taking a slice of plum cake from the convent kitchen so you could share it with me as a late-night snack?”
“Yes,” Marianne said weakly.
“And what happened?”
“I was caught.”
“And what did I tell you?” Juliet prodded, removing the remaining pins from her hair.
“You told me not to attempt to lie because any dishonesty could always be written upon my visage as though I were an open book.”
“Faith, you do remember. So why are you trying to do it now? Trying to lie and conceal things from me. I spent six months sharing a tiny bedchamber with you, Marianne. I know you.”
“Yes,” Marianne agreed ruefully. “It is true. All was indeed well at the start. I thought we forged a bond, and then at the ball, he was kind and attentive, and then in the carriage—” She paused. “Well, he was in his cups.” She turned to her friend and clasped her hands. “He rested his head in my lap, and it was the most glorious feeling, even though I knew that he was only doing it because he was as drunk as a wheelbarrow and might regret it once he was sober again.”
Juliet tipped her head to one side. “And then what happened?”
“We returned home, and he was formal again. I could see in his eyes that something had changed, that whatever happened between us was once again evaporating. He is so changeable, I do not know from one moment to the next who he is. Sometimes he takes me to places that are precious to him, and I feel as though maybe there is something more between us, but then he changes again. He’s different.”
