Page 11 of The Earl and His Lady

Marcus had asked him, months ago, if Lucas would ever remarry.

Lying in his bed, alone in the house apart from the servants, Lucas considered the question anew. His younger brother had no wish to be his heir. Marcus was happy to remain a country gentleman and avoid the snares of society and rank, as was his wife.

Sleep eluding him, Lucas rose and pulled on his robe. He lit a candle and left his room, going to the family gallery on the floor above.

He walked with purpose, his thoughts spinning through the memories of the day. Again and again, the image of Lady Heatherton kneeling before her crying son came to his mind. Her blonde hair, piled atop her head in a curling crown, gave her a regal air. Green eyes, a shade reminding him of fields in the summer, had looked by turns uncertain and determined. She was tall, for a woman, but still shorter than himself. The gray of her gown, her fair skin, gave her a rather somber look.

Lucas stopped in the gallery, standing before his wedding portrait. Raising his candle higher, he met the hopeful, happy eyes of the young groom the artist had captured. The man in the painting had the whole of England at his feet and a bright future before him. He did not know that the woman at his side would not be long in the world with him.

Abigail’s beauty could not, Lucas told himself, ever be captured by earthly mediums. When he looked upon her portrait, studying the lines of her figure, he knew there were details his memory must make up for where the artist’s skill had lacked. The laughter in her blue eyes was hinted at, but impossible to truly see. Her light brown hair, strewn with pearls, brushed her shoulders in elegant twists.

The years since her passing had dulled the ache in his heart. Lucas accepted her death, but he missed her companionship still.

I loved her with everything I was, he thought. What would she think of me remarrying?

She would not wish him to be alone forever. He knew that. Had he been the one to go, he would hope for her to find happiness again.

“I don’t think I can love again,” he said aloud, staring up at her oil-painted eyes. “But Lady Heatherton might understand. She lost her husband recently, you know.” He was not really speaking to Abigail so much as thinking out loud. But it helped. When the one person in the world you could confide everything to vanished, it was hard to go back to keeping your own counsel.

He put the candle down on a table, allowing the shadows to conceal most of the painting. Lucas sat down beneath it, on the ground itself. He rested his forearms across his knees, allowing his hands to hang limply.

“She’s in trouble,” he said to the darkness. “And her sons. They are too young to suffer more loss.” He’d been a grown man when his father died, leaving him the title and responsibilities of an earl, and his pain had been acute. How did children cope with such a loss?

“I could help them.”

As he’d helped many people over the years. He’d whispered in the right ears sometimes or boldly extended his protection at others. It had become his habit to save people, to see them happy, to spare them pain.

Why should this case be any different? Assisting the baroness would be practical as well. Someday, he would need an heir. He could give her time to mourn, treat her with all the respect and deference a woman in her position deserved, and someday have a son of his blood to inherit the title.

The baroness’s sons would benefit from a stepfather like him, too. He could see them well trained for their futures, ensuring Edward received an education and entered a profession wherein he would thrive.

If she must marry to keep her sons, why not marry me?

Lucas constructed the plan in his mind, tipping his head back against the wall. The more he thought it through, the more at peace he felt in his decision. He closed his eyes and relaxed, preparing the proposal he would put to Lady Heatherton.

Virginia, he reminded himself. Her Christian name is Virginia.

¤

“My lord? Your lordship?”

The summons drifted through the fog of sleep, startling Lucas awake. He opened his eyes to a blur of shadow and light. He reached up to rub his eyes, disoriented. He tilted his head up and a terrible crack sounded from his neck. He bit back a curse and forced his eyes open again.

Gresham stood over him while Randal looked over the elderly man’s shoulder. “My lord,” the butler said, stooping. “Are you well, sir?”

“Perfectly well.” Lucas glanced about him, realizing he sat on the floor in the gallery. The night’s restlessness came back to him and he groaned. “Fell asleep in the wrong place is all.”

Randal and Gresham exchanged a look before Randal reached down. With his help, Lucas came to his feet and then leaned heavily on the table where his candle had burnt itself out. He chanced a look over his shoulder at his wedding portrait. He sighed and gathered his robe more tightly around him.

Sunlight blazed through the windows across the gallery, giving all his ancestors on the wall a most excellent view of his disarray. He wondered what they would make of him.

“What time is it?” he asked, raising his hand to cover a yawn.

“Half past nine, my lord,” Randal answered, fidgeting with the end of his coat. Lucas recognized the agitated movement. Randal thought something was wrong with him and wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d fixed it.

“We came looking when you did not come for breakfast, my lord.” Gresham fixed him with a sterner expression than most servants would dare. Perhaps he was less patient in his old age.

“Breakfast. Yes.” Lucas’s memories of the night before, of going to the gallery, finally coalesced. He did curse aloud then. “I’ve no time for that. I’m going to be late to an appointment at the Gilbert home.” He strode down the hall, his robe flapping behind him, and didn’t look back until he’d gained the doorway. “Randal, are you coming or shall I shave myself?”