His head jerked up. “Did she not want to attend?”
Lauren sighed. “Lucien, the woman has waited five years for you, endured believing you dead, watched you announce an engagement to her friend, and still showed remarkable grace through it all. I think she’s entitled to a little hesitation.”
He winced. When laid out so starkly, his behavior seemed abominable.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m lucky she’s still speaking to me at all.”
“Yes, you are.” Lauren’s voice softened. “But for what it’s worth, I think she loves you still, including this new version of you. Though heaven knows why.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming.”
“My confidence is perfectly calibrated to the situation.” She nodded toward the entrance. “And now, brother dear, I suggest you put your most charming foot forward, because your lady love has just arrived.”
Lucien turned, and the sight of Courtney nearly stole his breath. She stood in the doorway, a vision in deep emerald silk that complemented her auburn hair, which was arranged in an elegant knot with loose curls framing her face. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears, and her graceful neck held her head high.
Tarquin stood beside her, tall and imposing in his formal wear, his expression making it clear he was still reservingjudgment on Lucien’s worthiness. But it wasn’t Tarquin’s disapproval that made Lucien’s blood run cold.
It was the man on Courtney’s other side—Mr. Axton Fancot, the notoriously charming younger brother of Viscount Vale. Even from across the room, Lucien could see Fancot’s easy smile, the attentive tilt of his head as he leaned in to whisper something that made Courtney laugh.
A strange heat seared through Lucien’s chest. Not quite anger, not quite fear, but something more primal. Something that made him want to stride across the room and insert himself between Courtney and the handsome rake currently monopolizing her attention.
“Careful, brother,” Lauren murmured, apparently reading his thoughts. “Your farmer is showing.”
The comment jerked him back to awareness of where he was and who he was supposed to be. Lord Lucien Furoe, Viscount, heir to an earldom. Not John Collins, Irish farmer, who might have simply marched over and staked his claim without ceremony.
“I see nothing wrong with directness,” he muttered.
“Neither do I,” Lauren agreed. “But perhaps consider a more subtle approach than glowering from across the room?”
Lucien nodded, took a steadying breath, and made his way through the crowd with measured steps. He was conscious of the eyes following him. Society still hadn’t tired of observing the ‘resurrected viscount’. But he focused solely on reaching Courtney before Fancot could claim her for the first dance.
“Lady Courtney,” he said, executing a perfect bow as he reached her. “You look absolutely stunning this evening.”
Her amber eyes met his, warm but slightly guarded. “Lord Furoe. Thank you for the compliment.”
Though her tone was pleasant enough, he sensed a careful distance in her manner. Their last conversation had beenthoughtful but unresolved, with Courtney making it clear that while she understood the necessity of his ruse with Farah, she needed time to determine if they still suited one another after all that had happened.
“I would have to be blind not to,” he replied honestly. “The color suits you remarkably well.”
“Doesn’t it?” Fancot interjected smoothly. “I was just telling Lady Courtney that emerald brings out the gold in her eyes. Like sunshine through whiskey.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened at the familiar comparison, one he himself had made the day he’d re-met her. “How poetic.”
“Mr. Fancot has a gift for observation,” Courtney said, her smile giving nothing away.
“Among other gifts,” Fancot added with a wink that made Lucien’s fingers itch to form a fist.
“Lord Furoe,” Tarquin cut in, ever the diplomat, “I trust you’re enjoying the celebrations?”
“Immensely.” Lucien never took his eyes off Courtney. “Though I find myself in need of a partner for the first waltz. Lady Courtney, would you do me the honor?”
He saw the hesitation flicker across her face, followed by a glance at Fancot that set Lucien’s teeth on edge. But then she nodded, extending her hand. “I would be delighted.”
Relief washed through him, followed by a surge of something that felt dangerously like triumph as he led her away from the disappointed Fancot. But as they took their positions for the dance, he noted the careful distance Courtney maintained between them, the guarded expression in eyes that had once looked at him with unguarded adoration.
“I wasn’t certain you would come tonight,” he said as the music began, and they moved into the steps of the waltz.
“And miss Lady Farah’s wedding celebration? I would never.” Her tone was light, but her spine remained rigid under his hand. “Besides, Tarquin insisted.”
