“That’s still true,” he admitted. “I discovered it in Ireland during games at the local pub. It’s one of the few skills that seems to have survived my memory loss.”
They moved to the library next, a grand room with floor-to-ceiling shelves and comfortable seating arranged near the large windows. Despite years of neglect, it remained impressive, though dust covers shrouded most of the furniture and the air held the musty scent of closed rooms and old books.
“This was always my favorite room,” Courtney said, running her fingers along the spines of leather-bound volumes. “We spent hours here, discussing books, arguing about philosophy.” She paused at a shelf of poetry. “You used to read Keats to me on rainy days like this.”
Lucien approached, standing close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Did I?” he asked, his voice low. “Which poems did I favor?”
She pulled a volume from the shelf, the binding familiar beneath her fingers. Opening it, she found a pressed flower—a forget-me-not—marking a page. A wave of emotions engulfed her. She remembered putting the flower in the book to marktheir favorite poem. ‘Bright Star,’ she said, a tremor in her voice as she handed him the book. “This one was your favorite.”
Lucien took the book, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. He looked down at the marked page, his expression thoughtful as he began to read.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night…” His voice, deeper now with its slight Irish lilt, gave the familiar words new resonance. Courtney closed her eyes, letting the poem wash over her.
When he finished, the silence in the library seemed charged with emotion. She opened her eyes to find him watching her, something indefinable in his gaze.
“You used to say it reminded you of how you felt about me,” she said quietly. “Steadfast, unwavering.”
“It’s a beautiful poem,” he acknowledged. “Though I find it rather melancholy now. The desire to remain forever in one perfect moment, knowing that time must eventually sweep it away.”
She stepped closer, drawn by the honesty in his voice. “Perhaps that’s why it resonated with you then. You were thinking of going to Ireland, and we were trying to hold onto our last moments together before returning to the glare of London society.”
He set the book aside, his eyes never leaving hers. “And now? What resonates with you now, Courtney?”
The directness of his question caught her off guard. “Hope. Hope for a new future,” she said after a moment. “The hope that we might create new moments worth preserving, even if they’re different from what came before.”
Something shifted in his expression—a softening, a vulnerability she hadn’t seen before. He reached out, his calloused fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I think I would have liked the man I was with you,” he saidquietly. “He sounds more thoughtful than the reckless young lord everyone else describes.”
“He was both,” she answered honestly. “Thoughtful in private, charming and sometimes reckless in public. But always sincere in his affections.”
His hand lingered at her cheek. “And what of the man I am now? How does he compare?”
“He’s more direct, with a hint of mystery,” she said, leaning slightly into his touch. “More grounded. Less concerned with society’s expectations but more burdened by responsibility. And…” she hesitated, then continued, “he carries wounds that make him cautious, especially with his heart.”
He didn’t deny it. “Those wounds may never fully heal,” he warned, his palm now cupping her cheek. “I can’t promise to be the man you remember.”
“I’m not asking you to be,” Courtney replied, her heart quickening at his proximity. “All I want is to know the real man who is contained within the old Lucien. Just be you.”
For a moment, she thought he might kiss her again, but instead, he dropped his hand and took a step back. “Show me more of the house,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. “I want to understand all the places we made memories together.”
She led him through the main floor, sharing anecdotes and recollections, watching his face for any flicker of recognition. There was none, but his interest was genuine, his questions thoughtful. He seemed determined to understand the shared past he couldn’t remember.
Their tour eventually led them back to the portrait room, where generations of Danvers gazed down from gilt frames. Lucien paused before an image of himself at twenty, dressed formally in his viscount’s finery, his expression serious, save for a hint of mischief in his green eyes.
“I look like a pampered lordling,” he observed with a touch of irony. “Not a callus to be found, I’d wager.”
Courtney studied the portrait, seeing it through his eyes. “You were raised to be a viscount,” she said gently. “Not a farmer. But you always had more substance than most young lords of theton.”
He moved to a portrait of a beautiful dark-haired woman—his mother, the countess, painted in the prime of her life. “Lauren says I have her eyes,” he remarked.
“You do,” Courtney confirmed. “And her stubbornness, according to your father.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “That I can believe.”
They had nearly completed their circuit of the room when they came upon a portrait Courtney had forgotten—herself at eighteen, painted shortly after her debut. She wore a gown of pale gold silk, her auburn hair styled in fashionable ringlets, her amber eyes bright with youth and promise.
“You were—are—lovely,” Lucien said, studying the portrait with evident appreciation.
“Lord Danvers commissioned it after our engagement was announced,” she explained, feeling oddly self-conscious. “He wanted a portrait of his future daughter-in-law to hang alongside the family.”
