“You need to remember why you married him,” Juliet said, brushing her hair. “You each had a plan. You each wanted something out of this match. Do not mistake his occasional kindness for something more.”
“But I cannot help feeling that it is more, but that somehow he cannot allow himself to let go beyond the boundaries we established. Maybe it is his past that holds him back.”
“From what I hear, he has let go of the past entirely. He did not truly mourn his wife, do you know?” Juliet asked.
“I do not. We have not spoken of her in detail. He told me how she died. In a terrible carriage accident.”
“I have heard all manner of rumors,” Juliet said. “About that so-called accident.”
Marianne spun around and pursed her lips.
“I do not wish to hear gossip from below stairs, Juliet.”
“Gossip from below stairs? Is that all I am now? One who delivers gossip from below stairs? I thought we were friends. He is changing you, Marianne.”
“He’s not changing me,” Marianne replied, stung by the accusation. “Not in the least. I have never enjoyed gossip. You know this from the convent. Do not accuse me of treating you as though you are less than. You know it isn’t true.”
“It is what you were afraid of when you brought me here. And I told you not to fret. Perhaps I was wrong,” Juliet said. “If you need a maid who agrees with you at every turn, I am afraid you selected the wrong one.”
Marianne sighed and shook her head. “I do not wish to quarrel with you, Juliet. You are my friend.”
“I am,” Juliet said, placing the brush down. Marianne motioned with her chin to the chairs by the fire, and the two sat down. “I suppose I simply wish to protect you as much as I can. People talk, and I want to share with you what I hear because I want to know that you walk into whatever it is with open eyes. That is all. If you think that there is something more between the two of you, then you ought to speak to him. You ought to tell him that you wish to resolve any uncertainty between the two of you.”
“Perhaps I ought to do that,” Marianne replied. “Speak to him, and if he reacts ill, then I shall know.”
“Indeed,” Juliet said, nodding. “And then you can continue making your plans for when the season’s over.”
“Ourplans, Juliet.”
Juliet chuckled. “Yes, our plans indeed. And I know you told me not to share gossip from below stairs with you. However?—”
“Juliet!”
Juliet raised her hand. “There is no need to get upset. But I wanted to tell you that, apparently, Mrs. Greaves has a connection to our convent. She told me that she once worked for a lady who went there. One of the nuns used to be a highborn lady. Can you believe it?”
“Who do you think it was?” Marianne mused. “Oh, I know! It must be the Mother Superior. She was always so regal.”
“Perhaps. But I heard that she was brought to a convent when she was a very young girl, nine or ten years old. Mrs. Greaves’s lady was already grown.”
“Sister Bernadette,” Marianne suggested. Juliet burst out laughing. “I think not. I cannot see her as a high society lady. Perhaps Mary Agnes?”
“I can see it. She has such a gentle quality. A quality a lady must possess if she wants to reign over a drawing room,” Marianne said.
As their conversation continued, Marianne began to feel much more at ease. It was almost as though they were back at the convent, just the two of them talking and sharing sweets. But still, after her friend had gone to bed and she had likewise retired, she lay awake for some time, staring up at the canopy above her bed as she thought back to the events of the evening.
She had wanted him to kiss her. She had wanted there to be more, but she simply didn’t know if she was fooling herself or ifthere was something that was holding him back. Something he hadn’t yet been willing to share.
The following morning, Lucien woke with his head pounding. He closed his eyes. The morning light streaming through the curtains he had forgotten to close the night before was too much. It was as though knives were poking directly into his eyes, penetrating his very brain. He groaned and turned, hands pressed in front of his face.
He had had too much to drink. He knew it. Ideally, he would’ve liked to have just stayed abed, like back when he was a young bachelor, when he, Rhys, and Gideon had visited every public house in London, but he knew that was impossible. Henry was waiting for him.
With a groan, he shoved the blanket off and placed his feet down on the floor. The floor felt warm because the sun had been out for some time and warmed the wooden boards. He got up, his head spinning. He paused at the windowsill, placing his hands down flat to keep himself upright. His stomach rolled, and bitter bile pushed up his throat.
This had been a mistake. A mistake, a terrible?—
“Goodness gracious,” he said, remembering the carriage ride home in an instant. He had curled up on Marianne’s lap like a child. He’d known he was doing it at the time, but hadn’t beenable to stop himself. Alcohol had that effect on him sometimes. Curse the spirits…
And then back in the house, he had wanted to kiss her. The urge had been almost overpowering. Fortunately, his better senses had prevailed, and he had walked away. Still, this was getting too dangerous. He had to find a way to put distance between them.
