Marianne was quiet for a long moment, her gaze returning to the window. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Peace.”
The single word hung between them, weighted with meaning.
“Not marriage?” he asked. “Not children or a home of your own?”
“No.” She met his eyes directly. “I want my freedom. And my peace. Society may not understand it, but that is what I seek. That is all I have ever wanted.”
Lucien studied her face—the determination in her eyes, the firm set of her jaw. She meant every word. There was no coyness here, no games. She was simply… honest.
And in that moment, something shifted in his chest.
He did not want a wife. The thought of remarrying had filled him with dread for years. But if he must take one—for his son, for appearances, for all the reasons society demanded—perhaps peace was what he needed too.
And this woman, strange and calm and stubborn, might be the only person who truly understood what that word meant.
“Peace,” he repeated softly. “Yes. I think I understand.”
She looked at him with something like relief in her eyes, as though she had finally found someone who spoke her language.
They sat together in silence as the evening wore on around them, two kindred spirits who had found, quite unexpectedly, an understanding that neither had been seeking.
CHAPTER 4
MARIANNE
Marianne lay on the floor, looking up at the painted ceiling above her as she unfolded the letter. Juliet’s handwriting was beautiful and neat, as though she had been raised a proper lady rather than an orphan at a convent.
She smiled as she read her friend’s words. She brought news of the various nuns—Sister Mary Agnes had recovered from a frightful cold, Sister Bernadette, no doubt affected by the bitter cold, was grumpier than ever. And Anna was now visibly pregnant and complaining at every turn about having to remain at a convent.
The young girl suffered from the same delusions that young unwed mothers often held: that she would be rescued by the man who had left her with child, that he would marry her even though he was already married, as Juliet had told Marianne in a prior letter, and that all would be well. In all reality, she would have her child, the child would be taken away, and she would be returned to her parents, her future an uncertain one.
Marianne read the three pages greedily, as she did every letter from Juliet. Sometimes those letters contained messages from the nuns, something that made her even happier.
She turned to the last page and sat up.
Sister Bernadette spoke to me. She said that since I am almost twenty now, I must make up my mind. I must either take my vows and remain here or make plans for my future. I always knew this day would come. I just did not expect it so soon. Marianne, what am I to do? I do not wish to leave here, but I do not wish to take my vows. It would feel wrong to do so while I still struggle with what I believe.
What ought I to do? Perhaps I could come and join you. You could dress me in one of the fancy outfits that your aunt bought for you and pass me off as a long-lost cousin, and help me find a husband. It does not even have to be a titled gentleman. I shall settle for a knight or even a merchant. I jest, but I really do miss you.
Marianne felt the desperation in her friend’s words, and an ache formed in her chest. This was not right. Juliet would have to leave? She knew that Sister Bernadette would not put her out into the unknown, but Juliet had always known she could not remain there forever.
She turned as a knock sounded on the door.
“Enter,” she called.
Her aunt appeared in the doorway.
“You have a caller. A gentleman caller,” she said with an entirely inappropriate wink.
Marianne sat up. A gentleman caller? Who in the world would be calling on her? Her aunt bustled into the room, her gown crinkling. “Come, come, you must tidy up properly. Smooth down your skirts, and your hair is all askew. What have these nuns done to you?” She shook her head. “Lying down on the hard ground and not taking care of your hair properly.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head.
Marianne smoothed down her skirts as she had been instructed and allowed her aunt to tuck stray hairs behind her ears before following her downstairs.
“Who is it?” she asked again as they were making their way towards the stairs.
“The Earl of Wexford,” her aunt replied. “You must have made quite the impression on him.”
