“I know.” Her voice caught. “But you’re still Lord Lucien Furoe. Still the man who taught my brother to fish, who argued philosophy with my father, who danced with me at Almack’s and made me laugh even when I was trying to be proper. Still the man I gave my heart to.” She smoothed her skirts again, a nervous gesture. “I don’t expect you to love me. I don’t even expect you to like me. But I would very much like the chance to know who you are now.”
The simple honesty of her words struck him. No demands, no expectations of recovered memories or rekindled love. Just an offer of…friendship? Understanding? He wasn’t sure.
“I should warn you,” he said, fingering the ribbon-bound letters, “I’m not very good company these days.”
“Neither am I.” That sad smile again. “Five years of mourning dulls one’s social graces.”
Despite himself, Lucien felt his lips twitch in response. “Then perhaps we can be poor company together.”
Her eyes lit with something that might have been hope. “I’d like that.” She smiled. “Please tell me about Ireland,” Courtney said softly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Were you…were you happy there?”
Lucien studied her face, searching for any hint of the connection they’d supposedly shared. She was beautiful, with an elegant grace that spoke of her aristocratic upbringing.
“I was content,” he said carefully. “We had a small cottage near the sea in Malahide. I worked the land, grew vegetables, raised some sheep. It was a simple life but satisfying.”
“And your wife?” The word seemed to catch in her throat.
“Ava.” He looked away, memories of her deception churning in his gut, though he kept his voice steady. “She nursed me back to health after my injury. We married in the local church.” The lie came easier now, practiced. “She was kind, made me feel safe when I had nothing—no memories, no past, not even my own name.”
“It must have been very different from the life you’d known here,” Courtney observed, her voice free of judgment.
“So I’m told. I cannot remember what my life here was like, so I could hardly miss it,” he replied with a slight smile. “Though apparently, I took well to farming. The local grain merchant said I had a natural gift for it.”
“Your mother was Irish,” Courtney offered. “You used to spend summers at your grandmother’s estate in County Cork. You loved it there.”
The information hit him like a physical blow. Another piece of himself he couldn’t remember. “That explains why the language came so naturally to me, even with no memories.”
“What about your daughter? Will you tell me about her?”
His face softened genuinely. “Ava-Marie. She’s four now, full of life and mischief. She has my coloring but her mother’s spirit.” He smiled fondly. “She loved to play hide and seek in the village graveyard of all places.”
“It must have been difficult, losing her mother so young.”
“Thankfully we have Caitria, Ava’s cousin. She’s been like a second mother to Ava-Marie since Ava fell ill.” He studied Courtney’s face. “I know this must be…difficult for you to hear.”
“No more difficult than it is for you to have to tell me, I imagine,” she replied with surprising gentleness. “To come back to a life you don’t remember.”
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he admitted. “Lord Furoe feels like a costume I’m wearing.”
“Perhaps,” Courtney suggested softly, “you don’t have to be who you were. Perhaps you can be someone new. Or a mix of old and new. Someone who builds a future rather than trying to recapture the past.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment Lucien glimpsed what his past self might have seen in her. Not just her beauty, but compassion, wisdom and understanding.
*
Courtney watched Lucienas he spoke, her heart aching at the familiar yet foreign way he moved, the ghost of remembered gestures haunting his unfamiliar mannerisms. He still lookedlike her Lucien except for the scar down the side of his face. Still so handsome, it was a struggle to breathe.
The way he ran his hand through his hair when troubled, that was pure Lucien. But the careful way he held himself, the slight Irish lilt that crept into his speech when he talked about his life in Malahide, his guarded smile—those belonged to a stranger. The old Lucien was full of life and spirit. This Lucien was battered and bruised. His eyes held no mischievous sparkle.
It had taken all of a few seconds upon walking into the room, for her to realize the Lucien she had loved and pined for was gone and he was never coming back. This Lucien, this stranger, was not the love of her life.
But still her heart clenched with longing. A familiar looking stranger, that made her want to pull him into her arms and kiss him senseless. She wanted to feel that it truly was him. But she couldn’t.
Because he didn’t remember her. The pain in her chest would not ease.
She’d once been his heart’s desire. He couldn’t keep his hands off her. Always finding ways to sneak a kiss and when they’d shared their secret night together… Her fingers rose to trace her lips, but she caught his raised eyebrow.
She wanted to ask so many questions. Did he still love poetry? Did he still argue philosophy with the same passion that had first drawn her to him at Lady Ashworth’s ball? Did he still have that deep laugh that used to make her heart skip? But those questions would only highlight what he’d lost, remind him of a man he couldn’t remember being.
