But right now, he had to focus on getting down to the breakfast room without walking into a doorway or throwing up.
He dressed himself without calling for his valet, not wanting the man to see the sorry state he was in. Then he tumbled down the stairs.
To his surprise, three place settings remained at the breakfast table. It was already nine in the morning, long past the time when Marianne usually got up. And Henry rarely ever slept this late either.
“Have you seen my wife and son?” he asked the footman, who shook his head.
“They have not yet come down.”
Lucien thanked the man and made his way back up the stairs, his joints aching as though he were a man of seventy rather than a young man of seven and twenty.
He heard voices coming out of Henry’s room. He could hear Henry, quiet and muffled—quieter than usual—and Marianne’s. She was reading him another story. This one wasn’t the Frog Prince. This one was a different story, one he knew all too well. Goody Two-Shoes.
He listened, and to his delight, Marianne sounded as though she was actually enjoying herself. She made the voices of the characters much better than before. They weren’t perfect, but she was trying. He smiled, his stomach feeling warm with this revelation. She was really trying with Henry. It couldn’t be denied. She cared for his son.
But there was something giving him pause. Henry’s replies were quiet. He wasn’t as excited as he usually was when somebody read to him. And then he heard it. A series of coughs.
Instantly, he burst into the room. Marianne looked up, and he noted that she was still in a simple morning dress, her hair pinned up, but some strands had come loose haphazardly.
When their eyes met, he caught a worried expression.
“Lucien. I did not want to wake you because I know you had a very long night,” she said in a way that could only be described as diplomatic. “Henry has not been feeling well, so we did not go down for breakfast. The governess let me know when I was on my way down.”
He was at Henry’s side in a moment. Quickly, Lucien placed his hand on Henry’s forehead. It was warm, and he looked sweaty, but it wasn’t so warm as to cause alarm.
“What troubles you?” he asked his son. “Does your throat hurt?”
Henry nodded. “And my ears. And my nose runs like a river.”
Marianne produced another napkin just then and held it to his nose, and Henry obediently blew.
“I ordered fresh orange juice for him and a plain porridge.”
“It was awful,” Henry whined.
“But it is good for you,” she said.
“But you did not eat it,” Henry said. Marianne pressed her lips together.
“Well, that is true. But I wasn’t hungry yet, so I will have some later.”
“Salty porridge?” he asked with a squeak of amusement in his voice. “You’ll eat it?”
“Will that make you feel better?” Marianne asked.
“I think so.” Henry grinned.
“Very good. In that case, I shall,” she replied.
“You really, truly, truly do care about him, don’t you?” Lucien said, feeling somewhat relieved.
“Enough to eat one of the meals I dislike,” she said. “Indeed. Henry, you should feel very honored.”
“I do,” he said, but then another coughing fit overtook him – and suddenly the little bit of peace Lucien had felt disappeared as quickly as it had come.
CHAPTER 22
MARIANNE
