Farah replied, “Rockwell is hosting us all in his box.”
She caught the choke in her friend’s voice. “Do you love Rockwell?” Courtney asked Farah. “What happened between you in Ireland? And don’t tell me you’re just friends. You’re unhappy. Did he—did he do something?”
“Other than make me fall in love with him and then make it clear that even if he married me, he’d sail away?” Then Farah burst into tears. Courtney hugged her and let her sob.
“Aren’t we a pair.”
Farah sat up and wiped her eyes. “That’s unfair. He didn’t make me do anything. I let myself fall in love with him. And now I don’t know what to do. I’m lying to everyone about being sick. If my brother found out I’d been in Ireland with Rockwell… He’d have me marching down the aisle next to him before I could blink.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Would you march down the aisle with Lucien?”
“Touche. Not this Lucien. Not yet anyway.”
“And I wouldn’t with Rockwell, either. He’d marry me and then sail the world.” They both laughed, but the laughter died as the groom came to open the door for her.
Farah took both of her hands in hers. “Lucien is a good man. Give him a chance. You could make him happy. And he deserves that. You could help him heal and find contentment—and love.”
She nodded. “I had already decided that, once I’d met Ava-Marie. I had to be sure she would accept me.” The groom helped her alight. She leaned in the window and said to Farah, “but youforget one thing.” At Farah’s raised eyebrow she added, “Lucien has to want me.”
Farah had nothing to say to that. In fact, she looked a tad guilty.
“I’ll see you tonight.” Then Courtney made her way inside, confusion and hope warring in equal measures. She ran up to her bedchamber, calling for her maid. Tonight, she would ensure she looked as good as she possibly could.
She wanted to attract Lucien’s attention. She wanted the chance to see if he could love her again.
As she lay in the bath, one thought raced through her brain. She could simply tell him. She knew that as a gentleman, if he learned he’d taken her innocence he would do the right thing. She chewed on her bottom lip. Should she tell him?
Not until she was sure she wanted him.
Chapter Five
Lucien’s carriage pulledup to Courtney’s townhouse, his fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. The constant, unspoken hope that something, anything, would trigger his memories was almost driving him insane. He took a deep breath, straightened his cravat, and descended from the carriage.
The butler recognized him immediately, of course. Everyone seemed to treat him as if he were sick and helpless, and many couldn’t understand why he just couldn’t remember. They all seemed to have expectations of his memories suddenly returning like a lost cat. “Lady Courtney will be down shortly, my lord,” the man said with a bow that felt unnatural.
Lucien waited in the familiar-yet-strange drawing room, surrounded by paintings and furnishings that should mean something to him but didn’t. His eyes caught on a portrait of himself with Courtney—younger, happier, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist. The man in the painting was a stranger wearing his face. That hadn’t been on the wall when he was here yesterday. It was as if Courtney had put it there to help him remember.
But he wouldn’t.
The churning in his gut started as guilt cloaked him again.
The soft rustle of silk announced her arrival. Lucien turned, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. Courtney stood at the top of the stairs, resplendent in a gown of deepburgundy that made her pale skin glow. Her dark hair was elegantly arranged, adorned with matching garnets that caught the candlelight. He’d been wrong. She was, without question, a beautiful woman.
Something stirred in his chest. Not a memory, exactly, but a ghost of feeling, an echo of what the man in that portrait must have felt. His body seemed to recognize her even if his mind didn’t, responding to her presence with an inexplicable pull.
He waited until she descended and stood before him. “You look stunning,” he said, and meant it. But even as the words left his mouth, he felt the weight of her hopeful gaze, saw the way she searched his face for any sign of recognition.
“Thank you,” she replied softly, her smile genuine but tinged with that ever-present sadness. “You look very handsome yourself.”
He offered his arm, and as they walked to the carriage, he found himself thinking of Farah. The thought brought both relief and guilt. While Courtney’s every look and gesture seemed laden with five years of shared history he couldn’t remember, Farah’s presence was refreshingly uncomplicated. She had known him before, yes, but him losing his memory held no consequences for her. She saw him only as he was now, lost, confused, trying to piece together a life he couldn’t recall.
As he handed Courtney into the carriage, he caught another whiff of her perfume, rose and something else, presumably a scent he had once known well. It should mean something to him. The man in that portrait would have known exactly what it was, would have bought it for her perhaps. But he wasn’t that man anymore.
They settled into the carriage, and Lucien found himself looking forward to reaching the opera, because Farah would be there. With her, he didn’t have to pretend or try to remember. She accepted him as he was, never pushing or hoping formiraculous recollections. She understood what it was to be adrift, to be trying to find one’s place in a world that had already assigned you a role you weren’t sure you could play.
“It is nice of Lord Rockwell to help welcome you back into society,” Courtney ventured, her tone carefully casual.
