“Of disappointing her. Of not being the husband she deserves.” Lucien’s expression softened. “He believes his desire to travel the world would make him a poor husband, leaving her alone for months at a time.”
“Perhaps that’s a decision Farah should make for herself,” Courtney suggested. “Rather than having it made for her.”
Something flickered in Lucien’s eyes—realization, perhaps, or regret. “You’re right. Just as you should have the opportunity to decide for yourself whether you want to continue our…association, rather than having it decided for you by my circumstances.”
Hope flickered again in Courtney’s chest, stronger this time. “What are you saying, Lucien?”
“You are a beautiful woman, and you deserve a man who loves you,” he replied, his voice low and earnest. “I can’t offer you much of anything.”
Tarquin cleared his throat pointedly. “As touching as this is, might I remind you both that Lord Furoe is currently engaged to Lady Farah before all of society? We need a plan to extricate him from this situation without further damage to anyone’s reputation.”
“Which leaves us with one question,” Lucien said, turning to Courtney. “Will you wait for me to resolve this situation? Or have I finally tested your patience beyond endurance? Do you want to get to know me? Not my ghost but me? The man returned from Ireland with nothing?”
The question hung between them, weighted with significance. Courtney searched Lucien’s face, looking for any hint of the man she had once loved so desperately. He was different now—harder, more direct, less constrained by society’s expectations. But there was still that same intensity in his gaze, that same unwavering focus that had drawn her to him from the first.
“I’ve waited five years,” she said finally. “I suppose I can manage a few more days. But Lucien—” She met his gaze steadily. “I won’t wait forever. Not again. Mr. Fancot deserves better from me, too.”
Relief washed over his features. “Thank you. I promise, this will be resolved quickly.”
“See that it is,” Tarquin said, his tone making it clear the words were as much a threat as agreement. “Now, shall we return to the ballroom? Your absence has already been noted, and continued seclusion will only fuel the gossips further.”
Courtney nodded, smoothing her skirts and checking her reflection in a small mirror on the wall. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, but she looked composed—a woman in command of herself and her situation.
“Lead on, brother,” she said, taking Tarquin’s offered arm.
As they moved toward the door, Lucien caught her free hand, pressing a swift kiss to her knuckles. “I will fix this,” he murmured, his eyes intense. “I promise.”
She nodded, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in her throat. As they reentered the ballroom, she held her head high, ignoring the curious stares and hushed whispers that followed their progress.
Let them talk, she thought defiantly. The story was far from over.
The orchestra struck up a waltz, and to her surprise, Lucien appeared at her side, hand extended in invitation.
“May I have this dance, Lady Courtney?” he asked, his voice carrying just far enough for those nearby to hear.
A hush fell over their immediate vicinity, all eyes turning to witness her response. She knew what they expected—for her to rebuff him publicly, to display her wounded pride through a cutting rejection.
“You do like causing scandal,” she replied. She placed her hand in his, her smile serene. “You may, Lord Furoe.”
The shocked murmurs that rippled through the crowd brought a certain satisfaction. Let them wonder. Let them speculate. The truth would reveal itself in time.
As Lucien led her onto the dance floor, his hand warm and steady at her waist, she leaned in and whispered, “You realize what you’ve done? By dancing with me so soon after announcing your engagement to Farah, you’ve set thetonabuzz with new speculation.”
“Thetonis talking about me no matter what I do. I intend to be myself. They will learn I’m not the same man who left to fight in the Irish rebellion. I am a man who follows my own path.”
Despite everything, Courtney found herself laughing. “How very…direct of you.”
“I’ve found directness has its advantages,” he replied, his expression sobering. “If I’d been more direct with you from the beginning about my promise to Farah, perhaps we could have avoided some of this evening’s drama.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “Though I’m beginning to think drama follows you wherever you go, Lord Furoe.”
“An unfortunate side effect of returning from the dead, I’m afraid.” His eyes glinted with humor, but it quickly faded. “In all seriousness, Courtney…thank you for understanding. And for giving me another chance to prove myself worthy of you.”
The simple sincerity in his voice touched her deeply. “You don’t need to prove yourself worthy, Lucien. You need to decide what you want. Who you want. The man I loved was never uncertain about that.”
A shadow crossed his face. “I’m not him anymore.”
“No,” she agreed softly. “You’re not. But perhaps the man you’ve become is someone I could love just as deeply, if given the chance. I need to know that as much as you. I have a choice to make as well.”
