The earl flinched. “The physicians Lord Rockwell consulted… Do they think your memory might return?”
“I didn’t consult with anyone. I don’t need to.” Lucien moved to stare out the window at the gardens below. This was all so different from his humble vegetable patch in Ireland, where Ava-Marie had toddled after him, helping to plant carrots with her tiny hands. “The man you knew, your son…he is gone forever.”
“You’re here now,” the earl said softly. “That’s what matters.”
Lucien’s laugh held no humor. “Yes, just in time to save the family from ruin, it seems. For you had no concern that your daughters could be thrown on the streets.” The bitterness in his voice surprised even him. He turned back to face his father as Lauren and the men returned. He didn’t know what they told her, but Lauren’s eyes were red-rimmed, even though she managed a tremulous smile.
“Madeline will be home soon. Shall I have Phillips prepare your old rooms?”
The thought of sleeping in a stranger’s chambers—even if that stranger was his former self—made his skin crawl. “Thank you. I’ll need other rooms prepared too.” At Lauren’s confused expression, he added, “My daughter and my wife’s cousin are to join me.”
“Your daughter?” The earl sat up straighter, suddenly more alert than he’d appeared all morning. “You’re married?”
“No. My—wife—died two years ago of the lung disease.” His father’s relief was obvious and at that moment, he hated the man. He was counting on his son marrying well.
Lucien kept his voice carefully neutral. “Lucien’s daughter, Ava-Marie, is four.”And illegitimate, his mind supplied treacherously. But they would never know that. As far as England was concerned, he’d married Ava in a small village church, and their daughter was as legitimate as any peer’s child.The lie sat bitter on his tongue, but he would tell it a thousand times to protect his little girl.
“My son returns, and I have a grandchild,” the earl breathed, wonder replacing some of the worry in his face. “I never thought… That is, when we believed you dead…”
“She’s all I have of her mother,” Lucien said quietly, the half-truth easier to speak than the full lie. In truth, Ava-Marie was all he had of his life in Ireland, the only pure thing to come from Ava’s deception. “I would appreciate it if we could delay any…formal announcements of my return until she’s settled.”
“Of course,” Lauren said quickly. “Whatever you need.” She hesitated, then asked, “Will you at least stay for tea? There’s so much to tell you, about the family, about…” She trailed off, biting her lip.
About his life before, he knew she meant. About the man he’d been, the brother she’d lost. About the fiancée no one had mentioned yet, though he knew from Rockwell that she existed. Lady Courtney Montague, the woman he’d supposedly loved enough to pledge his life to, yet couldn’t summon even a shadow of memory for.
“Tea would be pleasant,” he said finally, because he couldn’t bear to disappoint them further. Not when they looked at him with such desperate hope, searching his face for glimpses of a man who might as well be dead.
As Phillips wheeled in the tea cart, Lucien caught his reflection in a gilt-framed mirror. A stranger stared back at him, wrapped in fine wool and starched linen, playing at being a viscount. Somewhere in Ireland, a humble farmer called John Collins had died, leaving only this hollow shell of a lord in his place.
He accepted a cup of tea from Lauren, noting how her hands trembled slightly as she passed it to him. His sister. The wordstill felt foreign, though something in her grey eyes tugged at him, like a half-remembered dream. Perhaps that was a start.
He leaned forward and spoke about the elephant in the room. “I had a fiancée, I believe. She is still unmarried?” When Lauren looked swiftly between Rockwell and Wolf, he added, “Tell me about her.”
Lauren’s smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. As she began to speak, Lucien settled back in his chair, letting her words wash over him. He couldn’t be the brother she remembered, but perhaps he could become someone new, someone worthy of the hope in her eyes. Someone who could protect his daughter’s future and save his family from ruin, even if he never remembered being part of it.
But that may rely on another woman he could not remember—Lady Courtney. He dreaded meeting her. He’d have to see if Lauren had any etchings of her.
But it was a beginning, of sorts. Easing back into society would have to be enough for now.
Chapter Two
Lucien stood inLord Lorne’s drawing room waiting to meet the Marquess’s daughter, Lady Courtney—a woman he’d once been engaged to. The urge to tug at his cravat was overpowering. The emerald silk had been Lauren’s choice. “You always favored green,” she’d said with that tremulous hope he’d grown to dread. He’d worn it to please her, though the color felt wrong somehow. In Ireland, he’d favored simple linen in earthen tones, clothes that wouldn’t show the dirt from working his land or make him stand out at the local pub.
The opulent room made him acutely aware of the vast gulf between his old life and his new reality. Where his father’s house showed the shabby remnants of former glory, Lord Lorne’s drawing room fairly gleamed with wealth. Gilt-framed mirrors reflected the afternoon light, multiplying the sparkle of the crystal chandelier. The Turkish carpet beneath his boots—he’d had to buy new boots, his old ones were deemed too rough for London society—was thick and unworn, its colors still vibrant. Fresh flowers scented the air from delicate porcelain vases; unlike the wildflowers Ava would gather for their rough wooden table in Ireland.
He wandered to the fireplace, noting the fine marble mantelpiece with its elegant ormolu clock. No copper pots caught drips here, no water stains marred the elaborate ceiling roses. Even the furniture spoke of careful maintenance—the silkdamask upholstery pristine, the mahogany tables gleaming with fresh polish. This was the world he’d apparently been born to, yet he felt more out of place here than he ever had in his humble cottage.
What would the lady of this house make of his rough manners? Despite Rockwell’s careful coaching, he knew he still moved more like a farmer than a viscount. His hands, though clean and newly manicured, still bore the calluses of manual labor. Would Lady Courtney recoil from those hands? Would she see past the fine clothes to the country bumpkin beneath?
The sound of approaching footsteps made him stiffen. He’d insisted on coming alone, despite Rockwell’s protests. This meeting needed to happen without an audience, without the weight of everyone’s expectations pressing down on him. He squared his shoulders, trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel. Time to see if his former fiancée could stomach the rough-hewn man who’d replaced her cultured viscount.
The door opened.
A massive grey blur shot past Lady Courtney’s skirts before she could catch the leather collar, and Lucien found himself nearly knocked backward by an enthusiastic mass of shaggy fur. A towering Irish wolfhound, greying around the muzzle but still strong enough to plant both paws on his chest, whined joyfully in his face. The dog’s tail wagged with such force, its entire body shook, and it tried desperately to nuzzle his chin, its rough coat brushing against his face.
“Freya, down!” Lady Courtney’s voice cracked with emotion. “I’m so sorry, she’s usually better behaved, it’s just—” She broke off, pressing trembling fingers to her lips. “You gave her to me, the day we became engaged. She…she remembers you.”
Lucien steadied himself, gently lowering the dog’s paws to the ground. The creature immediately pressed against his legs, whining softly, tail still wagging. He felt a strange tightness inhis chest as he looked down at the hopeful brown eyes gazing up at him. Another piece of his past he couldn’t recall, another relationship severed by his memory loss.
