“Thank you for looking after me and telling me a story. I dreamed about it all night. The prince and the princess and their treasure,” he said. “We should go hunt for a treasure when next there is a falling star.”
“We shall do that,” Marianne said.
“You promise too, Papa?”
“Of course,” he said. The idea of going on a treasure hunt with Marianne and Henry was quite appealing.
“I am hungry,” Henry said.
“As are we,” Marianne replied, with a smile. Lucien stiffened a little at the word we.
“Good. But no salty porridge,” Henry told them firmly. “I want a hot cross bun.”
“Hot cross buns are for Easter,” Lucien reminded him, and Henry groaned.
“Alright. Just rolls then.”
He took Marianne’s hand with one and Lucien’s with the other. They made their way down to the breakfast room together, Henry swinging his arms back and forth, so Marianne and Lucien’s arms swung as well. Occasionally, he let out a little cough or sneeze—signs that his illness was not entirely in the past. However, he appeared much better.
They arrived at the breakfast table in unison. Mrs. Greaves met them at the door with a bright smile.
“Henry, my dearest,” she said. The little boy turned his face to her. “It is so good to see you recovered. And to see all of you down for breakfast together.”
She drew herself to her full height and winked at Lucien. He forced a smile, but he still felt most peculiar. This wasn’t right, was it? It felt right, but it shouldn’t be.
The three of them sat down to breakfast with Henry between the two of them and conversed as though at any normal family meal. The newspaper was delivered, and they ate together. Marianne helped Henry put butter and lemon curd on his bread, and when he smeared it on the table, she did not flinch. Not even when he accidentally dropped a little lemon curd on her dress. Instead, she laughed and said it needed washing anyhow.
Lucien sat next to them, drinking his tea and reading through the newspaper, but not really paying attention. It was so surreal. This thing that was unfolding before him was how he had imagined his life when he had married Arabella. All of them together and happy. Taking their meals together. Contented. And yet the woman sitting at the table with him was not Arabella.
How could he trust this? How could he trust these feelings? Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to last. If Marianne ever found out the truth about how Arabella really died and the role he played in it, she would leave immediately. He would leave himself if he could. He would leave if the roles were reversed.
The meal soon ended, and Marianne rose to get changed. Though not before being made to promise that she would take a turn about the garden with Lucien and Henry, of course. Now that he felt better, Henry wanted to go outside into the fresh air and feed the squirrels. Lucien could not deny his son anythingwhen he had just recovered from an illness, so he readily agreed to this plan. However, when Marianne slipped out of the room and the maid took Henry for his bath, Lucien remained seated. He folded the edge of the newspaper into a triangle shape, then unfolded it again, repeating the motion time and again.
“My lord,” Mrs. Greaves said from the doorway. “You seem troubled.”
“Do I not always seem so?” he asked.
“Yes, you do. But there is something particular about you today. I cannot quite say what it is. But there is something heavier on your heart, is there not? I thought things between you and Lady Wexford appeared much warmer when you first came down. I saw you...” She smiled. “Officially, I came to see little master Henry this morning and could not help but notice.”
“It does not mean anything,” he said, but he tasted the lie on his lips. It shouldn’t mean anything.
“Why not? Lady Wexford is so very fond of you. I dare say she is mooning over you, and I think you are over her as well.”
“And so what if I am? She doesn’t know the truth. Nobody does. I am not worthy of love. It was made very clear to me by the first Lady Wexford that I was nothing but a convenience.”
“The first Lady Wexford, bless her soul, was a fool not to see you for who you really are. The present Lady Wexford does. Do not throw it away over some perceived guilt from the past.”
“It is not a perceived guilt. It is a real guilt. I can never make her happy.”
“And why not?” Mrs. Greaves demanded. “It seems she’s perfectly content with you right now. Why not try? Why not be with her? Why not be a real couple?”
“I know this is what you have wanted from the beginning, what you have hoped for. But you do not understand. She and I had an agreement. The terms of which?—”
“The terms of which seem to have changed. She adores Henry now, and he adores her.”
“Perhaps he is more comfortable with her than is wise,” Lucien said.
“Lucien,” the housekeeper said, using his name as she rarely ever did. He knew that coming out of her mouth, his name was a reprimand. “Do not be foolish. I shall speak to you as a loving aunt would, even if it does not seem proper. But someone must tell you when you are being a fool, and you are being a terrible fool right now. Do not throw away something precious out of fear or lingering hurt from the past.”
