He turned his attention to the hound’s owner. Lady Courtney Montague was exactly as described, yet nothing like he’d imagined. Tall and willowy, she seemed to float into the room, her auburn-rich hair arranged in elaborate curls that caught the afternoon light streaming through the windows. She moved with the innate grace of the aristocracy he still struggled to emulate, each step measured and precise, though he noticed her fingers trembling slightly at her sides. Her face held a delicate beauty that spoke of good breeding and gentle living—so different from the sun-weathered features he’d grown used to in Ireland.
But it was her eyes that caught and held him: a striking amber brown, like whiskey held up to candlelight, and filled with such naked longing that he had to force himself not to look away. Those eyes went wide at the sight of him, and for a moment, her careful composure cracked. He saw the flash of joy, quickly followed by uncertainty, and beneath it all, a grief so profound it made his chest ache in response.
“Lucien,” she breathed, and the raw emotion in that single word made him want to flee. “Forgive me, I mean Lord Furoe.” Instead, he executed a perfect bow, just as Rockwell had coached him.
“Lady Courtney.” The formal address seemed to pain her. She took an instinctive step forward, then caught herself, smoothing trembling hands over her pale blue muslin skirts.
“They told me you were alive, but I…” She trailed off, studying his face with an intensity that made him want to turn away. “You truly don’t remember me?”
“I remember nothing before waking in Ireland.” The words came out harsh and it piled the guilt on. He softened his tone. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” A flash of something—grief, perhaps, or pity—crossed her face before she mastered it. “Please, sit. Would you care for tea?” Freya curled up on the floor at Courtney’s feet.
The social niceties felt surreal. Here he sat, taking tea with the woman he’d supposedly loved enough to pledge his life to, and he felt nothing but discomfort and a gnawing sense of guilt.
“How are you finding your return to London?” Courtney’s voice was soft as she poured the tea with practiced grace. “It must be…overwhelming.”
Lucien accepted the delicate porcelain cup, acutely aware of his calloused hands against the fine China. “Everything is strange,” he admitted. “Like walking through someone else’s life.”
“Your family must be overjoyed to have you home. As am I.” She paused, then added more gently, “Lauren talks with me often. She’s my very good friend. Her support after you were believed killed…. We consoled each other. She’s been…worried about your father and the family financials.”
“The situation at home is far from ideal.” The bitterness in his voice spilled out like the tea drops over the rim of his cup, no matter how he tried he couldn’t contain it. He took a sip of tea to cover his discomfort.
“I know it cannot be easy,” Courtney said, her amber eyes studying him with unexpected understanding. “To return to a life you don’t remember, to responsibilities you never asked for.” She set her cup down with a faint clink. “If there’s anything I can do to help—with society, with…anything—you need only ask.”
Including marrying me?He wanted to ask but feared her reply. What if she said yes? What if she said no?
The genuine warmth of her offer caught him off guard. He’d expected reproach, or at least the awkward pressure of expectations, not this quiet compassion. “That’s…very kind.”
“We were friends long before we were anything else, Lucien.” A shadow crossed her face. “At least, I believe we were. I hope we might be again.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The woman before him showed the same desperate hope he’d seen in his sister’s eyes, and the barely concealed disappointment in his father’s. But she offered simple acceptance of who he was now. She hadn’t raised the subject of their previous engagement. Perhaps she no longer wanted him. How arrogant he was to think she’d simply welcome him back. A stranger. A shell of his former self.
“Your sister tells me you have a daughter.” Her voice remained carefully controlled, though he caught the flush rising on her neck as she refreshed his tea.
“Yes. Ava-Marie.” His throat tightened at thoughts of his little girl, who was currently exploring her new home with wide-eyed wonder. “She’s four.”
“Named for her mother?” The question held no judgment, but Lucien tensed anyway.
“Yes.” He set the untouched tea aside. “Lady Courtney, I should apologize—”
“For falling in love with another while you had no memory of me? For building a life without me?” She shook her head, a sad smile playing at her lips. “You were dead, Lucien. For five years, I mourned you. I visited your empty grave. I wrote you letters I could never send.”
The mention of letters made him sit straighter. “Letters?”
“Yes, I still have all of yours. Perhaps somewhere in your study are my letters too.” She rose and crossed to a small escritoire, withdrawing a ribbon-bound bundle. “Perhaps…perhaps they might help? They span our entire courtship, from when we first met at Lady Ashworth’s ball to…” She swallowed hard. “To the week you disappeared.”
Lucien stared at the packet she held out. His own words, written in a hand he no longer recognized, chronicling a love he couldn’t remember. The thought made his head spin.
“I can’t accept these.” But even as he spoke, his hand reached for them.
“They’re yours,” she said simply. “As much a part of your past as your house, this life.” She hesitated, then added softly, “As I was.”
He studied her properly then, trying to see what his past self had loved about her. She was beautiful, certainly, in that refined way of theton. So different from Ava’s wild beauty, with her untamed copper curls and fierce green eyes. Where Ava had been all passion and impulse, Lady Courtney radiated quiet strength and careful control.
She said they’d been friends first. Perhaps his previous self had grown to love her, for while she was an attractive lady, verging on beautiful even, he felt no spark, no fire in his belly to have her. Not like his reaction to Lady Farah. When Lady Farah had found him in Ireland and told him the truth about who he was, she’d been like a safety beacon calling him home. And the guilt returned, making his stomach clench.
“I’m not him anymore,” he said finally. “The man who wrote these letters…he died in Ireland.”
