“It is unfair when a life is taken early. That kind of wound does not seem to heal, does it? We just learn to get on with that brokenness a part of us.”
His throat worked against the thickness. “How old were you when your parents passed?”
“Near about five years of age. They died of an illness, I am told.” She blinked hard. “And your sister?”
“It has been almost a decade now. She... We were attacked. Highwaymen.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath; then her hand caught his, squeezing gently.
He appreciated the contact but wished to withdraw almost immediately. Thankfully, after only a moment or two, she did just that.
Suddenly, he was wishingnotto withdraw, which was wonderful, since the choice had been taken from him.
“Why were you not at school when you were meant to be?” she asked, quietly and suddenly.
He gritted his teeth then forced the tension to lessen. “My sister had died only a month before. I took a month off then wanted to go back, but when I got back... I did not want to be there.”
“Because you missed her too much?”
He heaved a sigh. His mind attempted to stop his words, but at the same time, it felt as if he had longed to tell someone this for years. “Because I hated everyone there.”
Instead of appearing shocked or disgusted, Miss Faraday nodded. “Because their lives continued as normal, but yours had changed forever?”
He bit his lips together, holding back the flood of emotion, but he managed to jerk his head in agreement. That was exactly it.
“I hated Lord Tarrington for taking me away. I still resent him.” She paused. “I know that sounds ungrateful—after all, he did take me in.”
“No,” Lucas said, his voice thick. He cleared his throat. “I understand entirely.”
She swallowed and brushed a hand under her eye. “Thank you. I have never had anyone to talk with about these things. I have never... never had anyone at all really. Oh gracious, that sounds ungrateful again. I had the tenant families—they were dear to me and were always kind, even if they saw me as being removed from them socially. And my governesses cared in their way. I just never... I suppose I’ve never had a real friend.”
A friend. Exactly what he’d said they could be. Yet it sounded nearly depressing that she would label their relationship as that of friends.
“I am sorry. No one, especially a child, should be without friends,” Lucas said.
“And I am so sorry for the heartbreak you’ve endured,” she said. “To lose a loved one, especially one that must have been so very close to you... I am just terribly sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She brushed a hand under her eye again, sniffled, then pushed her shoulders back. “Thank you for accompanying me up here, Lord Berkeley. It has been an enjoyable outing.” There was a formality in her tone now that had not been there before.
He matched it. “Thank you, Miss Faraday, for joining me.”
A small smile broke through her formal facade as she said, “I do believe at this point I ought to grant you use of my Christian name. Please, call me Lydia.”
He could do no such thing. Dash it all, he couldnottreat her with that much familiarity—it was impossible.
Slowly, when he said nothing, her smile drooped. “Forgive me, that was too forward. I did not mean any—”
“No. I take no offense. Please, call me Lucas.” The words were stiff, and he still could not bring himself to sayhername in return.
Her smile returned. “Luc,” she said, almost to herself. The name caused his brows to rise. “That is what the orange-haired man—Colin—called you that first night. Luc. I cannot believe I did not make the connection earlier.”
Dash it, he’d thought it would be bad enough to hear his name but a nickname? One only a few knew and used? The sound of it on her lips sent a shiver through him.
She shook herself, unaware of the existential crisis he was experiencing. “Now. Should we rejoin the party?”
He nodded. “Yes. Yes, ah, we are likely to leave soon, if the tides allow.” Even as he offered his arm, he felt an amount of regret at leaving this spot where, for the first time, he’d spoken of Marietta with the same pain but somehow with less guilt.
