Aunt Eugenia looked as though she had been slapped with a wet fish. “I merely meant?—”
“We know what you meant, Aunt,” Charlotte said. “But Marianne is perfectly capable of making her own choices.”
The conversation moved on, but Lucien noticed that Marianne had not touched her food since. She sat very still, her gaze fixed on her plate.
A few moments later, when the others had turned their attention to Rhys’s account of a recent Parliamentary debate, Marianne leaned in Lucien’s direction. Her voice was low, meant only for him.
“Thank you for that,” she murmured. “But I can defend myself, my lord.”
He turned to look at her, surprised by the edge in her tone. Her eyes met his, and she didn’t flinch even a little when he refused to look away.
“I do not doubt it,” he replied. “But sometimes it is easier to bear when one is not fighting alone.”
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded once before returning her attention to her plate.
The remainder of dinner passed without incident, though Lucien found his attention drifting to Marianne more often than was strictly proper. When the ladies rose to withdraw to the drawing room, he watched her retreat, noting the straight line of her spine and the resolute set of her shoulders.
Later that evening, after the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Lucien was oddly restless. The conversation had turned to the latest on-dit from the ton, and he had little interest in gossip. He accepted a cup of tea from a footman and moved toward the windows, seeking a moment of quiet.
That was when he noticed her.
Marianne sat alone on a small sofa near the window, partially hidden by a potted plant. She held a teacup in her hands but did not drink from it. Instead, she gazed out at the darkened street beyond, eyebrows drawn together.
Without quite knowing why, Lucien crossed the room. He did not ask permission before sitting beside her, an offense in and of itself. She glanced up, startled, but did not protest.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“I apologize if my defense earlier was unwelcome,” he said finally, keeping his voice low so as not to attract attention from the others. “I did not mean to overstep.”
“You did not overstep,” she replied. “I was simply… surprised. Most gentlemen do not concern themselves with such matters.”
“Perhaps I am not the most gentlemanly.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “No. I do not believe you are.”
They fell silent again, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. It felt, oddly enough, like the silence he remembered from when he used to talk to his grandfather and their conversation ran out. They’d sit side by side, each occupied by their own thoughts.
“Your son,” Marianne said after a while. “Henry, is that his name?”
“Yes.”
“You speak of him often. It is clear you care for him deeply.”
“He is everything to me,” Lucien admitted. “Since his mother…She is gone. I am told I owe him a new one. A replacement of sorts.” He trailed off, unsure how to continue.
“You do not think that he needs one?”
“No, I do not. I … I do all I can for him. Although I wonder at times if he knows something is missing.”
“Children sense everything,” Marianne said.
He glanced at her sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Only that children are more perceptive than we give them credit for. They feel the absences in their lives, even if they cannot name them.”
Her words struck closer to home than she could know. He thought of Henry’s questions about his mother, the way the boy had asked why he did not have a mama like the other children.
“And what do you believe is missing in your life?” he asked, turning the question back on her.
