How could she try and force his hand in this manner? She looked down at a wrinkle in her skirts that traversed a path from her upper thigh to her knee. Nor was Lucien's story hers to tell.

"What is it?" Emmaline encouraged quietly.

"His father is ill," she said finally, settling for the simplest truth. "The viscount-"

Emmaline's eyes formed moons in her face. "The viscount?"

"I believed you knew." Guilt twisted even greater at unwittingly betraying his secret. "His father is a viscount."

The marchioness sat back in her chair, flummoxed. She shook her head. "I a.s.sure you, we did not." By the troubled glimmer in the marchioness' kind, brown eyes, Eloise suspected Lucien would have never been given his current post had that truth been known. Steward to the marquess, perhaps. But never, butler.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Oh G.o.d, he would never forgive her. But worse, if he did not journey to Kent once more and have his parting with his father, he'd never forgive himself. This betrayal of sorts was an attempt on her part to put to rights his broken family. Coming here, to this household had never been about Eloise or the dream of more with Lucien. It had only been about him. "His father is dying." Pain suffused her heart at the reminder that the viscount, the garrulous, smiling man she'd known since she was a child, was nearing the end of his days.

Emmaline pressed her hands against her cheeks. "Oh." That single syllable utterance conveyed all the depth of painful emotion known by a woman who'd also known loss. It was not, however, Eloise's place to delve into the loss she herself had known.

They spoke simultaneously.

"He must go see him."

"He will not go see him."

Their words ran together, and perhaps it was the jumbled confusion of their blended voices or perhaps it was shock at Eloise's words, but the marchioness widened her eyes and said, "Beg your pardon?"

She treaded carefully, seeking to divulge only the details she must. Though no matter what paper and ribbon were selected to dress it up, a betrayal was a betrayal. "It is not my place to share Lucien's history, but strife between them came when the viscount insisted on his youngest son," she paused remembering belatedly this woman, for all she did know of Lucien, didn't know all the parts of his life, the way Eloise did. "Lucien wanted to join the clergy. His father insisted he follow the drum." She moved her attention away from the other woman and her gaze collided with an urn filled with flowers.

"What happened?"

Those cheerful, delicate blooms served as a mark of cheer upon Eloise's dark thoughts. The white daisies within the arrangement beckoned, and she stood and wandered over. She leaned down and inhaled the sweet, fragrant scent that transported her to fields of spring flowers.

I am quite cross with you, Lucien. You were to help me pick flowers and... And that was the last he'd ever picked a flower with her. Or walked with her. Or teased her. "He fell in love," her voice, the faintest whisper. She straightened, glancing over her shoulder at Emmaline.

The marchioness stared at her with wide, tragic eyes. "Oh, Eloise." She gave her a sad smile. "You love him."

Tears filled her eyes and she blinked back the useless tears of weakness. Emmaline's words merely served to bring her to the purpose in coordinating their first meeting and coming here this day. "He is quite obstinate."

"Indeed he is."

"He'll not come merely because I ask it, or because he should."

Understanding dawned in the other woman's brown eyes. "Ahh."

Eloise hurried over, her skirts snapping wildly at her ankles. "He will not listen to me." She sank into the seat beside Emmaline. At one time he would have. No longer. "If you reasoned him out of London Hospital, my lady, then you can convince him to make this journey with me."

Emmaline said nothing for a very long while and Eloise suspected she didn't intend to help, thought she might gently, but politely, beg to not interfere in personal matters that did not belong to her. But then, she nodded slowly. "I imagine if I cannot see he makes this important journey, my husband will."

Her eyes slid closed on a wave of grat.i.tude. "Thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me," she said dryly. "I've not accomplished anything yet. And knowing your Mr. Jones as I do, if he does not wish to make this journey, well then it will not be an easy task for either me or my husband to accomplish."

Eloise opened her eyes and looked to Emmaline. She shifted under the weight of the marchioness' scrutiny.

Then Emmaline asked, "How long have you loved him?"

"All of my life," she said softly, remembering back to the day she'd first met Lucien and his brothers. Her father and the viscount, owners of property in the same county, had been fast friends from their youth. A wistful smile tugged at her lips. "Well, not my whole life. We were, however, children when we first met." The hard, angry frown an adult Lucien had turned on her moments ago bore traces of the child's frown he'd worn at their first meeting. "His father gave him the task of playing with me." Her lips pulled in remembrance of that long ago day; the fire in his gray-blue eyes, the tight set to his angry mouth. "Needless to say, he resented being made to play with a small girl."

Curiosity lit the other woman's eyes. "What did you do?"

She grinned. "I punched him."

Emmaline's laughter echoed off the high-ceilings and plastered walls. "I imagine that did not earn you a friend in Mr. Jones."

"Oh, no, you're wrong, my lady." Eloise shook her head. "He accused me of punching like a lady and took it upon himself to instruct me on the proper way to plant one a facer." From that point, he'd become her best friend-whether he wanted her friendship or not. Then, he'd welcomed her friendship. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried the flesh. Now was an altogether different tale.

The marchioness placed a hand on Eloise's and she started. The woman held her stare and then said, "I visited Jones for several years...and upon each of my visits, he never opened his eyes. He would sit with his face directed at the window, but his eyes closed. I despaired of ever seeing them. I sometimes wondered if he were incapable of opening them...and yet, one day, he just..." Her expression grew far-off. "He just opened his eyes," she repeated. "I believe he will open them once more, Eloise. I truly do."

Not after this. Not after her great interference in his contented life. "Thank you, my lady," she said, not able to contradict the erroneous claim.

"Emmaline," the woman graciously reminded her.

"Emmaline," she murmured. And as Eloise took her leave a short while later, she felt the first stirrings of hope.

Chapter 11.

Lucien stared at the Marquess of Drake's closed office door. He'd been summoned. And he rather suspected he very well knew what this particular meeting was about-the steward's position in the country.

His mind had shied away from anything and everything that reminded him of Sara. The wife he'd loved and the happy life he'd imagined for them, belonged in the past. Yet, the post dangled responsibility in the respected position using his mind for business matters, a task he'd enjoyed once upon a lifetime ago, before he'd killed too many men on the fields of battle. Accepting the position would also mean he'd be free of Eloise, who'd inserted herself so effortlessly, so seamlessly, into his life. Eloise who, with her kiss and words of love, made him hunger for...more.

He raised his hand to knock. Then froze.

If he accepted the position, he'd never see her again. There would be little chance or need of the Countess of Sherborne to visit the marquess' country landholdings in Leeds. By all rights, that very truth should have easily sealed his decision. He closed his eyes tight. But by G.o.d, now that she'd reentered his life, he could not imagine a world in which she was no longer in it.

Lucien squared his jaw. And yet that great sacrifice would maintain the walls he'd erected about his heart, to keep him safe. He rapped once.

"Enter," the marquess' deep baritone carried through the thick panel.

Lucien pressed the handle and entered. "Captain," he greeted. "You wanted to see me?"

The other man looked up, something, an emotion very nearly pity and regret flashed in his eyes. "Yes, come in," he said quietly, motioning him forward. "Please, close the door."

Lucien hesitated a moment, the first stirrings of unease traversed a path along his spine. He closed the door and it clicked shut. He turned to face his employer and a sudden, horrifying niggling entered his thoughts. Did the marquess know Lucien had kissed Eloise, the marchioness' guest not once, but twice and very nearly a third time this afternoon when she'd arrived? His neck heated with shame and he resisted the urge to tug at his suddenly too-tight cravat.

Lord Drake shoved back his chair. Wordlessly, he crossed around his desk and walked with purposeful strides to the sideboard in the corner. He picked up a decanter of whiskey and pulled off the stopper. "Would you care for a drink?" He splashed several fingersful into a gla.s.s.

"No, thank you, Captain," he said.

The marquess was a man of honor. A gentleman who'd not tolerate his servants, even if they had served under him on the battlefields, to go about kissing his wife's company. His stomach muscles clenched involuntarily at the horrifying prospect of losing his post. After years of living in a depressed state and resisting the urge to kill himself, he'd found purpose. He couldn't lose this stability.

"As you're aware, Lady Sherborne visited with my wife this afternoon."

The pressure built inside his chest. He nodded slowly. "I'm aware of that, Captain," he said cautiously.

The marquess carried his gla.s.s over to his desk and propped his hip against the edge. "Why, don't you sit, Jones?" He waved his gla.s.s, motioning to the leather winged back chair at the foot of his desk.

Lucien hesitated and then with wooden movements, crossed over and took the proffered seat. Nausea churned in his belly. Since he'd fled Kent, thin, haggard and broken, he'd handled himself with an unflappable composure. Or he had. Until that blasted momentary loss of sanity in his employer's foyer just a short while ago. With his lone hand, he tightly gripped the arm of his chair.

Lord Drake swirled the contents of his gla.s.s and then took a sip. "The Viscount Hereford is your father," he said without preamble.

Lucien blinked. "Captain?" The question emerged haltingly as he tried to piece together not only the marquess' discovery but also his interest in Lucien's origins.

The other man took another sip and then set his gla.s.s down beside him with a soft thunk. "Surely you didn't believe that I believed with your bought commission of lieutenant that you were not of some means."

He narrowed his eyes. By G.o.d this was not about his kissing Eloise until she was pliant in his arms.

... I know what happens from here, you'll forever resent me for it, but know I did everything I did for that love of you...

"I'm not of some means," he said coolly. By G.o.d...Eloise! A slow, seething rage fanned out. He balled his hand into a fist. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"Very well, then you didn't believe you came from means? It's the same, though isn't it, Jones?" he said pragmatically.

"It isn't."

"It is not my right to pry into your past."

Then don't. Lucien snapped his teeth together hard, gritting them to keep from hurling those disrespectful words at the man, who with his wife, had breathed life into him once again.

"I blamed my father for my enlistment," Drake said quietly. As though filled with a sudden disquiet, the other man picked up his gla.s.s. He stared into the half-filled contents, seeing a world that only existed behind his eyes. Though Lucien ventured he knew a good deal about those visions there.

"Captain?" They were the kind of memories that robbed you of sleep and stole your sanity with one loud sound that transported you to the b.l.o.o.d.y battlefields.

The marquess gave his head a shake and took another sip. "It was the height of immaturity to enlist. I resented my betrothal to Emmaline and sought to escape my father's domineering control of my life." His lips twisted in a hard, bitter smile. "Yet, ultimately it was my decision. I spent years hating my father. Hating myself."

Lucien well knew that. He lived with that very same hatred. Perhaps every man who returned did.

"It took my wife to teach me that hate is futile and useless. We lived, when others died...and to live our lives full of loathing and bitterness is a waste of that life."

"You have a reason to live," Lucien spat. The marquess hadn't lost his wife and child.

Lord Drake shifted his hip. "I imagine you do, as well. If you'd but see it." With that, he shoved himself up from his reclined position and carried his gla.s.s behind his desk. "I'm giving you three weeks."

He shook his head slowly, uncomprehendingly. "I don't-?"

"You're welcome to a horse in my stables and a carriage." He sat in his leather seat, the aged chair crackled noisily. "Go see your father, Jones."

It wasn't a suggestion. The marquess commanded with the same decisive firmness he'd evinced on the battlefield.

He gave his head a jerky shake.

"I'm not asking you," the marquess confirmed that which Lucien had already suspected.

Rage thrumming through his body, filled his legs and brought him upright. He paced in front of the immaculate, mahogany desk. "I have a new life. I have responsibilities-"

"And the under butler will see to those obligations while you're gone," the marquess a.s.sured.

He raked a shaking hand through his hair. He'd not seen his brothers and father in five, almost six, years. But for the one volatile visit when he'd first returned, he'd stormed out, made for London and never looked back. The stricken expressions on his brothers' faces-faces so similar to his own, as young men-it had been the same as looking into a mirror.

Only the gla.s.s had cracked and he was now the distorted, amorphous figure on the other side of that bevel gla.s.s. His father's insistence had ultimately plunged Lucien into h.e.l.l. His brothers, however, their only crime was reminding him of what had once been and what would never again be.

He shook his head again, this time slower with more precise movements. "I won't go, my lord." He paused and fixed a hard stare on his employer. "You'll have to sack me."

A wry grin formed on the marquess' lips. "You know me enough to know by now I won't sack you."

A momentary relief surged through him.

Lord Drake quelled that elusive feeling with his next words. "But neither are you permitted to stay here for three weeks." He waved a hand. "If you'll not go, then take yourself somewhere where you can think clearly and logically, and then hopefully that time to reflect brings you back home."

Before it is too late. The words hovered, unspoken in the air between them.

The set, imperturbable lines of the marquess' face proved that, once more, Lucien had been robbed of choice yet again. "Is there anything else you require?" The question emerged harsher than he intended...or could help.

Lord Drake shook his head.

With a curt bow, Lucien took his leave, closing the door behind him.

G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Eloise. G.o.dd.a.m.n you.

Chapter 12.

A loud bang jerked Eloise upright. She squinted in the dimly lit room, trying to make the numbers out on the ormolu clock atop her mantel. Ten o'clock in the evening. Quiet descended upon her chambers once more and giving her head a shake, she settled back to continue reading.

Angry shouts and her usually stoic butler's stammering cries penetrated the perceived peace. Eloise set aside her book of Coleridge's poems and flung her legs over the side of the bed. She dragged on her modest robe at the foot of her bed, concealing her equally modest nightshift.

Whatever...? If it was her blasted brother-in-law with his zealous opinions about her actions and inactions, she'd have him tossed on his ear this time, she would. She pulled the door open and started down the corridor. With every step she took, Forde's shouts grew frenzied in volume and pa.s.sion.