“Of course I do not. I thank you. It was very kind of you. Is he asleep?”
“He is. Off to the land of Nod. I gave him a kiss for you.” Mrs. Greaves was almost like family. She was certainly much more than a housekeeper. She had worked for the family for almost forty years, and he knew that soon enough she would retire. What he would do without her, he did not know.
Of course, he hoped she would remain on the estate. She had no family of her own, after all.
He glanced into the room. “Time got away from me,” he admitted. “I wanted to see him and beg his pardon. I was unkind to him.” He was rather cut up about it.
“He told me you chastised him for asking about his mama,” Mrs. Greaves said, the undertone of accusation evident in her voice. She did not hesitate to pitch into him, even though he was her employer.
“I do not like it when he asks about her. It puts me in the most irregular position.”
“But he is not wrong to ask. And as he grows, he will only ask more. He craves a motherly touch.”
“He has you,” Lucien insisted.
“A grandmotherly touch from me, perhaps. But I am not a mother. It is what the boy needs, my lord. A mama. He was in prime form this morning until you spoke so sharply to him.”
“No,” Lucien replied decisively. “I needed an heir, and I have one. I shall not have more children. And I shall never have another wife.”
“Perhaps you do not wish to have another wife, but Henry certainly wishes for a mother. And her ladyship has been gone for a long time now.”
He swallowed but said nothing as he looked into his son’s dark room. A sliver of moonlight illuminated the foot of his bed, but he could not see more than the boy’s outline.
“Perhaps you ought to consider it—for his sake, if not yours,” Mrs. Greaves said, patting his arm as though he were indeed her child, not her employer. She left him, and he remained behind, staring into the room.
He knew what his son needed. And he would have done anything for him—anything at all but this. He would not marry again,no matter how much society would have him leg-shackled once more.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and he shuddered, taking it as an omen from above that he was on the right track. But he was certain that if he were to marry again, the action would not only harm the woman he chose for a bride, but also his son—and most of all, himself.
For any wife of his would be destined to meet the same unfortunate fate that had awaited Arabella. Of that he was certain.
CHAPTER 2
MARIANNE
December 20th1816
Juliet, how I miss you. How I miss Saint Catherine’s. Tonight I must go to a ball. It is dreadful. I have not even seen my sisters yet. I cannot believe that I left the convent six weeks ago, and I have only now arrived in London. My aunt insisted on taking me to Edinburgh first so I could attend a few dinners amongst the society she knows there—to ease me gently into society, as she said. After that, she took me to Brighton, which was not entirely unreasonable since we used to live there. She had me outfitted with an entirely new wardrobe, which is far too gaudy for my taste. I have come to miss our gray scratchy dresses. I know we complained so much about them, but I miss them now.
I am sitting presently in a gown I know you would make fun of most severely. It is a pastel green gown with puffy sleeves and a ribbon sash—a sweet contraption under my bust designed to attract gentlemen, I know it. The silk slippers are alreadypinching my toes, and the earrings dangle from my ears in such a way that Sister Bernadette would call most indecent.
How do you fare, my friend? Your last letter sounded rather more subdued than usual. I know Christmastide is approaching quickly. I have gifts to send to you—and also one to Anna. She sounds ever so miserable. I am not supposed to say ‘ever so.’ My aunt tells me that it is the speech of commoners. But yet, at Saint Catherine’s, everybody said it.
A knock on the door sounded, and Marianne placed her quill down.
“Marianne, are you not ready yet?” her aunt said, opening the door without waiting for an answer. “You should not be writing letters right before we go to a ball. What if you spoil your gown?”
“I suppose then I would have to change into one of the other ten gowns hanging in my armoire.”
“Ungrateful, are you not? Gratitude is also a Christian virtue. Did they not teach you that at the convent?”
Marianne looked down. It was true. She had been so upset over having to leave the convent that she had not been on her best behavior. Her aunt Eugenia was trying her best for her. Her mother had died a long time ago, and her father, even when he was living, was more occupied with seemingly throwing the family’s entire fortune out of the window than focusing any attention on his daughters. Aunt Eugenia had often rescued them when her father’s ventures had left them with expenses to scrape together. Things had improved much under her care, and that of Marianne’s sisters’ husbands.
Her sister Evelyn had married her husband Nathaniel, a duke in his own right, four years ago now, and he had righted theship. Things had only improved after Rhys, Charlotte’s husband, had joined forces with Nathaniel and his set. Together, they had achieved much—not just for the Langley estate and their own, but also for society. They were good people, kind-hearted, and yet, in their presence, Marianne always felt like a gray mouse—insignificant.
“You are right,” she said. “I beg your pardon. I am simply nervous about attending the ball—I feel quite out of sorts,” she admitted. Her aunt placed a warm hand on her shoulder.
“Do not fret. It shall be wonderful indeed. And Evelyn and Charlotte will be there—and Nathaniel and Rhys.”
