Marianne. He hadn’t seen her in several days now, and the prospect of seeing her made his stomach fill with dread. The days had been trying. He had been obliged to explain to Henry where Marianne had gone. The falsehood came readily to his lips. She had gone to visit her family. It was not strictly a falsehood. However, after reading her letter, he knew that she wouldn’t return. Not considering how matters stood. She had made it abundantly clear what she wanted. An end to the charade. And could he fault her? He could not.
He regretted it now. And yet he did not. He still believed it was the right thing, but it grieved him to see her leave. To know that she had gone. Perhaps there might yet be some means that hecould rectify things? Maybe he could still set matters to rights somehow. But how?
“Lucien?” A voice came, and he turned. Rhys was standing there in the dark, the shadow from the balcony overhead obscuring his figure. He stepped out into the light, dressed, like Lucien, in formal attire.
“Rhys,” he said. “Good to see you. I was not sure if you would be here.”
“I was not going to be,” his friend said. “But Charlotte insisted. She wants me to talk to you, to see if I cannot bring you to reason.”
He wet his lips. “To reason?”
“Do not take me for a fool. You know full well what I speak of. What has happened between you and Marianne? I feel as though things between the two of you have changed with such rapidity that I cannot make heads nor tails of it.”
Lucien sighed. “I have fallen in love with her. That is what has happened.”
“But that is wonderful,” Rhys replied. “I do not understand why you must render it so complex. I suspected as much might occur when you installed her in your household. She is a lovely young woman.”
“Yes, she is a lovely young woman. But I am ill-suited to her. I would ruin her. I cannot be in love with her. I cannot let her be in love with me. I cannot let Henry think of her as a mother. I cannot?—”
“But why not?” Rhys asked.
Lucien seized his friend’s arm and drew him some paces away. He didn’t want anyone to overhear their discourse.
“You know why. You know what happened to Arabella. I killed her.”
“You did not kill Arabella. Venturing into the tempest was her choice. Taking a lover was her own doing.”
Lucien shook his head. In his mind, he knew all of this to be true. He knew that Arabella had chosen the path she was on. Yet his heart condemned him still. He thought back to those dreadful days preceding her demise. How estranged they had become. How he had longed to mend the breach between them, to at least persuade her to take an interest in the boy. She hadn’t wanted it. She had grown yet more remote. She had barred him from her presence. She would not so much as look upon the child at all. A nurse had fed him, and nurses were raising him, while his mother gave him no heed and spent her time buying gowns, visiting Vauxhall Gardens, and enjoying herself.
He had suspected the reason why. She didn’t love him—that he knew—but he suspected there was another, some other gentleman who had captured her fancy.
Lucien looked up at Rhys. “I ought to have confronted her when I found out about the affair.”
“And what would that have done?” Rhys asked. “She would’ve denied it.”
“No, I think she would’ve admitted to it. She would’ve been gleeful about it. Instead, I let her arrange her escape. I knew she was going to leave me that night. I knew it. I also knew that the storm was bad. I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve told her that I knew about the affair with Rochford. I should’ve told her to stay until at least the weather had improved and then separate come morning. But I didn’t. I permitted her departure. I knew there was danger. I knew it. I knew that the conveyance she chose was ill-suited to such conditions. I killed her.”
“You did not kill her,” Rhys said, seizing his friend’s shoulders and shaking him. “You were dealt a poor hand by your father. He married you off to a woman who was an ill-suited match. A woman who chose to pursue her pleasures elsewhere. That is all. The universe, or God, or whoever created that storm. That wasn’t you. You didn’t make the carriage crash. You didn’t make her die. You didn’t make her cheat on you and leave.”
“I might have been a better husband.”
“No, you couldn’t. I was by your side throughout, and I saw what efforts you made. She didn’t love you, and if you would but acknowledge it, you never loved her either. You were infatuated with her in the beginning. You wanted to love her.”
Lucien sighed. “I think I loved what I thought she could be, not who she truly was.”
“That is true,” his friend replied. “That is very true.”
“But I am still responsible. I made her more miserable. Just as I would make Marianne even more miserable if I persuaded her to remain with me. We are ill-suited.”
“You are admirably matched. I have witnessed the alteration in you. She has restored something that I thought was lost forever. The cheer in you, the happiness. Don’t let that slip away out of sheer obstinacy.”
“I am not stubborn,” Lucien said.
“Trust me, I am married to one of the Langley sisters. I am well-acquainted with obstinacy,” Rhys said. “Talk to her.”
“I am afraid,” he confessed at length. “What if I reveal all about Arabella and I? What if she comes to despise me? What if she thinks I was responsible for Arabella’s death, even if you absolve me?”
“She will not. I know her. Speak truth to her. Tell her everything that’s happened. Allow her to decide for herself. At least then you shall know her mind. Do not make decisions for her. It does not suit you. She is here tonight. She has been at my home for the last two days, and she is wretched. Talk to her. Endher suffering. Put yourself out of your misery. For the sake of everything that is still good in the world.”
