Seduced By a Lady's Heart (Lords of Honor #1)(5)

“I’ll have you decide, Jones, which you prefer,” the marquess continued. There was no decision here. “You need but let me know.” He inclined his head, in a polite dismissal.

Would the man force him to give up the security he’d known and accept that position of steward? Lucien wanted to believe not, but having fought under the man in battle, knew the marquess’ mind had already been set and would not be swayed. For all the control Lucien believed he’d possessed these years, he was proven wrong yet again.

He stood and sketched a stiff bow. “Captain,” he said between clenched teeth and then took his leave, taking care to close the door quietly behind him. With space between him and his employer, he fed the annoyance that roiled in his gut. He stomped through the damned house. With the thin carpets lining the corridors and the Chippendale furniture, it may as well have been any other London townhouse. Or worse, one in particular. One he still could not shut from his mind, for all his trying. A place where another man had commanded and Lucien had listened. The past blurred with the present as with the marquess’ requests, the hint of English countryside flitted through his mind, nearly gutting him. How markedly different his life would have been if he’d possessed the strength to reject another man’s requirements of him, for him.

He stopped and pressed his forehead against the ivory, silk wallpaper lining the hall. He drew in shallow breath after shallow breath, concentrating on the quick intakes of air coming into his lungs and the air going out. The memories of war and his return slipped in, refusing to relinquish their hold. With all the bullets he’d taken at the bloody French’s hands and the sabers stuck into his skin, by all rights he should have died.

His wife, Sara had sustained him. The letters she’d written, but more, the memory of her, smiling and serenely beautiful, waiting for his return. But the letters had stopped. He’d crafted all manner of explanations for the sudden absence of those notes. Only his return had proven that which, he’d denied himself. She’d died. He steeled his jaw. She’d died and his bloody family had kept that truth from him.

Lucien thrust back useless, bitter regrets and instead fixed on the irony. He’d survived more pistol balls being shot through his body and bayonets slicing his skin, and his wife should have died—of a fever. Oh, the Devil had a wicked sense of humor. Lucien shoved away from the wall and forcibly thrust the memory of her into the past, where it belonged.

He continued down the hall, carefully schooling his expression, and adopting the firm, unyielding mask he’d donned through the years.

A knock sounded at the front door and he marched toward the responsibility that had given some empty sense of purpose these two years since the marquess had pulled him from London Hospital—and back into the living.

The slight pounding at the front door ceased. And then began again with a renewed enthusiasm. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He’d spent so many years away from the life of nobility, he’d forgotten that patent sense of arrogance. The doors opened at will by people whose sole purpose in life was to serve their pampered needs. With each step, with each knock, the fury burned inside. He fed it, because it momentarily quashed the memory of Sara and his great loss.

Another damned knock. Gritting his teeth, he continued striding forward. Whoever the hell was here to see the marquess or marchioness had about as much patience as Boney’s forces had in their march through Russia. Suddenly, finding an almost delight in the impatience of the damned noble on the other side of that door, he slowed his steps.



Eloise paused, frowning at the angry, lion knocker on the center of the black door. She fished around her reticule and pulled out the note she’d all but committed to memory when it arrived last evening.

My Dear Lady Eloise,

I do so hope you’ll join me for tea…

“At one o’clock,” she murmured aloud, stuffing the note into her reticule. She dimly registered the interested stares directed her way by the lords and ladies passing by at the fashionable hour.

Humph. She turned and peered out into the street. Perhaps the marchioness had meant a different day at one o’clock? But no, no, that wouldn’t make sense. Her driver remained patiently at the edge of the street, a pained expression upon his face at his mistress’ bold display. Eloise bristled with indignation. She couldn’t very well leave. And furthermore, mayhap the real area of concern lay not, in fact, with her public showing of eagerness at the marchioness’ doorstep, but rather the absence of a likely, indolent butler.

She knocked again. Whoever would imagine that the powerful, respected, and oft revered Marquess and Marchioness of Drake should have such inattentive servants? Eloise screwed her mouth up tightly, realizing even as the thought slipped into her musings how wholly arrogant it must seem.

Especially one who was merely a knight’s daughter. Another knock. Who is hardly sought after at the leading ton events. Another knock. Not that she cared either way about leading ton events. A strand of blonde hair escaped her serviceable chignon and fell over her eye. She tucked it behind her ear and, with a sigh, at last conceded that her serendipitous meeting with Lady Drake and the fateful offering of tea had merely been too much good fortune for one who was slated with nothing but bad luck. With a sigh, Eloise turned around.

The click of the door opening met her ears just as the tips of her right foot touched the step down.

“May I help you?”