His eyes flickered, and she saw something creep in that filled her stomach with dread. Doubt. He was doubting her words. Did he worry that if he really got to know her, he would not like her anymore? That she would be someone he would regret being with? It wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t what she had intended with her words.
She had thought her words romantic. That she had painted a picture of the future that he would enthusiastically want to take part in, but it seemed that he was worried, more than she was. Had she been foolish? Had she allowed love to carry her away on its imaginary wings while he remained with his feet upon solid ground?
Whatever it was, she did not have a chance to resolve the matter because Henry’s clear laughter came down from one of the passageways, and then he burst around the corner.
“There you are,” he said. “I already made it to the center and back. You are both very slow,” he informed them.
Lucien had dropped his hands already, so they were standing side by side so as not to alert Henry to their changing circumstance.
“Well, Henry,” Marianne said, “you are quite the explorer, aren’t you? What shall we do now? Shall we go to the center of the maze together?”
“No,” Henry replied. “I have already been and returned. It should be boring to go back again. I should like to see the squirrels. Papa, can we go see the squirrels? Can we show Marianne?”
“Of course,” Lucien said, and he nodded forward. He placed his hand on the small of Marianne’s back, gently guiding her forth. Henry ran out of the maze, and the two of them followed. She felt his fingers on her back, and it was a comforting sensation, and yet at the same time, she couldn’t help but feel that something was still very wrong.
CHAPTER 26
LUCIEN
The future. Traveling the world with Marianne and Henry. Getting to know her... The words twirled around Lucien’s head.
The sense of disquiet had never quite left his body, even when he had woken up next to her, not even when he had held and kissed her. It wasn’t because of Marianne herself. She was all that was amiable. In fact, she was all he could desire in a wife. Sweet, kind, loving. Evidently attached to Henry. Every single day, she was the kind of woman he should have wished to wed. If his father had presented her as a bride, the present would have looked entirely different. But that, of course, was unrealistic. Six years ago, she was but a child. And the late Earl of Langley was not the sort of man his father ever would’ve seen as a suitable alliance.
He could’ve waited to marry until he met Marianne. If Henry were her son, it would’ve been different.
But it wasn’t. It never would be. Henry wasn’t her son. Henry was the son of Arabella. Lucien was the widower of Arabella. And there was nothing that would ever change the facts. It was the way of things. Life was life. It was folly to indulge in such fancies.
And yet could there be something more? Could there be a life where he and Marianne were happy together, where they could travel the world with Henry?
Perhaps. And for a moment, he had truly believed it could be so. He had wanted it with every single part of him. But then she had spoken the words that had unsettled something within him.
They had all their lives to get to know one another.
It was not a false statement. It was the truth. And yet it was also one of the things he was most afraid of; for if she wanted to know him, that would mean knowing every part of him, even his most guarded secrets.
He would have to eventually reveal to her the truth about the night Arabella died and his actions— or inactions—to prevent the tragedy. He would have to admit the absence of genuine mourning that he had experienced. Yes, he had been sad that Arabella had died, because Henry had been robbed of his mother, but at the same time, he had been relieved. He couldn’t tell Marianne that, though. What manner of man felt relief when his wife was dead?
He was contemptible. He was corrupted to his very soul, and if she ever found out the truth, she would not love him. She would regret being with him, just as Arabella had regretted being with him, and he would have to spend the rest of his life once more living with somebody who regarded him with scorn.
Only it would wound him all the deeper because now he loved Marianne. He hadn’t ever truly loved Arabella. It would hurt all the more. And yet there was a part of him that still hoped.
Maybe he could keep it a secret. Maybe Arabella’s memory would never have to be brought up. He could dismiss the entire household except for Mrs. Greaves and hire people who did not know Arabella. Who hadn’t been around when Lucien and Arabella were so wretchedly wed?
They could move. Why not? Why not explore? Why not travel forever? Run away from all of this? His mind raced.
“Papa,” Henry called. “Papa, look, there they are!”
They had reached the area by the pond where a large oak tree rose into the sky, and upon which squirrels always congregated.
Several of them chattered when they saw them coming, and Henry laughed as he pointed up. “Look, Marianne! This one is Henry the Eighth. And this is Alfred the Great.”
Beside him, Marianne giggled. “That’s right, you told me that he named them after royalty.”
“He always has. I cannot say why,” he replied, glad of the distraction.
They stepped underneath the oak tree and looked up. There were six—no, eight—squirrels jumping from branch to branch, some of their tails twitching as they looked down, doubtless awaiting some kind of food.
“We should’ve brought something for them,” Henry said. “How disappointed they must be.”
