His threat hung in the air between them.
“You know your role, Lucien,” Lady Brightstone said archly. “You must have an heir.”
“And I’ll fulfill my role,” he replied. “But it does not mean I have to do it while you are still alive. I refuse to subject my wife to you, whoever she may be.”
His mother sucked in a breath as if he had struck her, and it almost made him feel ashamed of his words. Almost.
She had shoved and bullied everyone in her path, forcing them to conform to her will. He was not such a pawn.
“Old men wed young wives and have children all the time,” Lucien continued. “I have no qualms with waiting, but I do very much protest your belief that you have a say in the matter regarding who I will spend the rest of my life with.”
“Well.” She folded her arms over her narrow chest, blinking in surprise at the affront.
“I would also suggest you keep your strong opinions to yourself lest you find yourself weighed and judged. I wager you would not like the assessments.”
Her mouth fell open. “Lucien,” she hissed, appalled.
He stood in place, his stance wide, waiting for retaliation. Lady Brightstone pushed off the couch to her full height. In the candlelight, her face appeared wizened, lined with exhaustion that dulled her eyes. For the first time in Lucien’s life, his mother appeared truly aged.
It softened the steel in his demeanor somewhat, but still, he held his ground. She always attacked when she sensed anything she perceived as weakness.
Instead, she gazed at him, her gray eyes assessing his for a long, quiet moment. Finally, she patted his cheek with more affection than she had ever shown him. “It appears there is some of me in you after all, my son.” She nodded approvingly, then shifted to pass him. “Good evening, Lucien.”
With that, she quit the room.
But his mother was only one hurdle to clear before he could wed Hannah. The other would be Hannah herself and the reparations he knew would be difficult to make.
There had been little sleep for Hannah the night following Vauxhall Gardens. Lady Brightstone’s words resounded in her head, mocking her.
And yet, every time Hannah closed her eyes, her thoughts drifted toward the memory of Lucien’s mouth on hers, the exquisite way he had touched her. Her traitorous body heated with a desire that pulsed unsated in her veins.
Would he kiss other women as he had her? Would he tease his tongue over their throats and sweep the tips of his fingers between their thighs? Would he set them alight with a longing so great, they could not forget him no matter how hard they tried? No matter how undeserving of their time and their heart’s energy he was.
After all, she had merely been practice for him.
It was crueler than she could accept. But still, she had heard the words herself.
That morning, she refused to allow Mary to draw the shades back, preferring the cool darkness of the room against her misery.
“My dearest Hannah, there is a visitor for you downstairs,” Mary said excitedly.
Hannah rolled away from her maid, wanting only solitude to nurse the empty ache in her chest.
“It’s Lord Brightstone,” Mary chirped pleasantly.
Hannah could control the pain no longer, and a piteous cry wrenched from her heart. “I would sooner die than see him again,” she said between gasping sobs.
Mary left at once and returned moments later with a damp cloth. “You needn’t worry about him ever again,” she soothed. “Lord Westwich is seeing to him at this very moment.”
And, with that reassurance in mind, Hannah relinquished herself to Mary’s coddling.
Time was a cruel mistress as it slowly dragged from one minute to the next, each seeming to last the span of an hour. Lucien’s foot bounced anxiously against the Brussels weave carpet in the drawing room at Westwich Place. But with Hannah the night before, time had slipped through his fingers like sand, passing too quickly for him to relish it to the extent he longed to.
He only hoped he could convince her of his true intent, of the power of his feelings for her. The bit about Lady Alison could come later. After all, Hannah ought to know of the other woman’s vitriol against her. But his failed attempts had taught him he needed to tell Hannah first why he longed to be with her.
That “why” was what would win her over now.
He had spent the night putting pen to paper, the way he expressed himself best. Once the enormity of his emotions had emptied from his jumbled mind into an orderly state on the page, the details were easier to assess, to remember, and would be recalled more readily for him to tell her.
Hannah would know exactly what she meant to him. If she felt for him even half of what he did for her, she would agree to marry him in an instant. Then, her reputation would be spared, he would not need to subject himself to a false courtship with Lady Alison and he and Hannah could begin their life together at once.
Everything would work out perfectly.
Except that when the door to the drawing room opened, it was not Hannah at all, but Lord Westwich. A very stern-faced Lord Westwich.
He strode into the room. “Lord Brightstone, I did not expect to see you back so soon.” There was an edge to his civility, and it cut a swath through all pretenses of polite conversation. “Nor did I anticipate you would be so close to my daughter again.”
“She is exactly the reason I’m here,” Lucien replied.
Lord Westwich lowered his head, glaring at him. “She is exactly the reason you should leave.”
Lucien frowned. Was she so very upset at him for his proposal after that kiss?
“I don’t—”
“With all due respect, Lord Brightstone, you have harmed the person in this world I cherish above all others.” A rattle came from the double doors. “In addition, of course, to my beloved wife,” he said over his shoulder in the direction of the doors. “I should like for you to leave.”
A protest lingered on the tip of Lucien’s tongue. He could not yield when he so dearly cared for Hannah.
But even as he opened his mouth, Lord Westwich’s rage melted away to sorrow, his large blue eyes so bright with hurt that it slammed Lucien in the chest.
“Please,” Lord Westwich said softly in a pleading tone. “You’ve done enough hurt to my little girl.”
And it was in that beseeching request Lucien saw exactly how deeply he had wounded Hannah this time. It was that stark understanding in the end that ultimately made him give up the fight.
14
Hannah was content to let the season pass her by. A fortnight faded away on the wings of time since the incident with Lord Brightstone. He had not returned to the house since her father met with him on her behalf.
She attended several soirees, of course, and a ball or two, but they lacked the brilliance and color and joy they once held. All she wanted now was a departure from the coldness of London for the embrace of nature and wilderness in their country estate. She longed for the balm of solitude and the stretch of freedom, far away from prying eyes and waspish tongues.
There had been only one time she’d seen Lord Brightstone at a soiree, and while his gaze fell on her and lingered, she ensured she did not once acknowledge his presence in the room. Her heart knew better, however, and beat in great, heavy thuds that remained with her not only through the night but for several interminable days after.