“How good of her, but we shouldn’t ask too much of her,” Lucien told him, making his son’s face fall.
“I hardly think it is a difficult task to make hot cross buns instead of regular rolls,” Marianne said, her tone frigid and cutting, piercing him through.
He sat down like one rebuked and indicated for the maid to pour him a cup of tea. As he drank, he watched Marianne. She did not grant him so much as a single glance. Instead, she ate her roll with her attention either on her food or on Henry.
“I trust you slept well?” he asked.
“Reasonably,” she said.
“Good,” he said, noting that she hadn’t asked him how he slept, which would’ve been common courtesy, but he couldn’t really blame her.
“Have you plans for today?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
Just yes. Nothing further. No explanation.
The piece of bread he’d been chewing lodged in his throat. He took a sip of tea, forgetting that it was still hot, and burned himself. He nearly let the cup fall upon the saucer. This time, she looked at him. However, there was no tenderness or warmth in her gaze, which rather resembled the way a schoolmistress might look upon an errant pupil.
“Papa and I are going riding today,” Henry said. “Are you coming, Marianne?”
He was calling her Marianne again instead of Mama. Had she corrected him? Or was it just a child’s capricious nature?
Lucien did not attempt further discourse with her. Instead, he finished his roll as quickly as he could, forcing large pieces into his mouth at a time and washing them down with hot tea after adding milk.
Then he got up and made his way out of the breakfast room.
Mrs. Greaves was approaching from the opposite direction with a smile on her lips, but when she saw his expression, it faded.
“Goodness gracious, what has happened? You look most upset.”
“I am not upset,” he said. “I am merely vexed. Lady Wexford and I had an unpleasant conversation last night, and she is quite out of charity with me this morning.”
“I know,” Mrs. Greaves said. “Juliet told me. You were unkind to her.”
“I know it,” Lucien agreed, running one hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “But Henry called her Mama, and I am afraid I conducted myself ill. It vexed me.”
“But I saw the two of you together caring for him, and I thought something had changed between the two of you?”
“It has, but it should not have. So I have put things back to rights,” he said.
“Haveyou put things back to rights? It seems to me that you have made things more complicated than they needed to be.”
“They are as they need to be,” Lucien said. “They simply are.”
“I would hate to see you throw away this chance,” said Mrs. Greaves unhappily. “This one chance of happiness.”
“But it is not a chance of happiness,” Lucien replied, vexed. “It is a chance of misery for both of us. I’m saving her from a wretched future with me.”
“Whilst you’re robbing yourself and your little boy of a joyful one,” Mrs. Greaves returned.
Lucien looked at her. “Perhaps it would be better if you tended to your duties and let me tend to mine.” He didn’t usually speak to the housekeeper in such a manner, but he knew he had to. For otherwise she would not abandon the subject.
He made his way into his study and forced himself to apply himself to his work. That afternoon, he would take Henry out riding, and that would distract him from his troubles, he knew it. But for right now, he had to make himself forget the tangle his life had become.
Marianne paced her chamber back and forth, her heart pounding in her chest in fury. Her hands were curled into fists as she stopped in front of the window. She saw Henry and Lucien walking towards the stable. They were going riding as a family, as a twosome. The three of them together had been a family, but he had made it quite clear that they would not be again.
A knock on the door drew her from her reverie. She looked back to see Juliet enter.
