Seduced By a Lady's Heart (Lords of Honor #1)(8)

He marched down the corridor to the kitchens. The kitchen staff looked to him. “Refreshments,” he barked, his voice still gruff from ill-use.

A handful of servants hurried to ready a tray for the marchioness and her guest. Guest. Aye, it was far easier to think of the lady with wounded eyes as a mere guest and not the girl who’d fished and swam alongside him and his brother, Richard, in the Kent countryside. To remember her as she’d been, forced him to think of the day he’d accepted that damned commission, capitulating to his father’s urgings, leaving his wife, and stepping into the European theatre masterminded by the power-hungry Boney.

A servant rushed toward the door with the tray.

“I’ll see to it myself,” he snapped.

The dozen or so of the kitchen staff stared at him, wide-eyed.

She hesitated and then handed it over.

They’d learned early on not to question his abilities or capabilities. He easily handled the silver tray in his steady, stable, strong, right arm and the partial left. With sure footsteps, he made his way to the door. A servant discreetly held it open and he exited the kitchens. With each step that carried him closer to Eloise, he steeled his heart, not allowing himself to think about what brought her here.

He remembered the troublesome minx she’d been as a child enough to know this was no serendipitous meeting with the marchioness. Instead, he chose to focus on this unfamiliar stranger who’d replaced the oft blushing, usually tongue-tied Eloise Gage.

She’d wed a nobleman. A Lord Sherborne. He hoped the blighter was possessed of a tolerant, patient spirit. The Eloise Lucien had long known had the frequent tendency to find herself in all manner of difficulties. He strode down the corridor. And by God he did not intend to allow himself to be her latest manner of difficulty.

He paused outside the open parlor door. A quiet, husky laugh, familiar and all the more aching for that familiarity, washed over him. He clenched his eyes tightly not wanting it to matter that Eloise laughed the way she had as girl and… His mind raced. She must be twenty-seven, nay. She had a birthday two months past, the twenty-fourth of January. She would be twenty-eight now.

And he hated that he remembered that piece of her because it meant he was not as indifferent to Eloise as he cared to believe.

“…I’m so sorry,” Lady Drake said softly.

His ears pricked up.

“It is…” The remainder of Eloise’s words escaped him.

God help him. If any of the staff spied the butler, the most distinguished member of the household staff, hovering at the door, eavesdropping like a chit just from the schoolroom, the marquess would likely sack him with good reason. But for that, he remained rooted to the spot.

“…I cannot imagine the loss…”

His gut clenched. What loss? And for the first time since he’d abandoned the more respectable, honored position as third son to a viscount, he damned the class division that obscured the truth and the remainder of that thought. What had happened to Eloise? After he’d returned and discovered the death of his wife, and a child he’d only learned of on the pages of letters handed him on the battlefield, he’d retreated to London, half-dead, emaciated like a stray dog in the streets, content to die. He’d not thought of Eloise. Or…

The tray rattled in his arm. He silently cursed as the silver clattered noisily. The ladies fell silent. A dull flush climbing up his neck, Lucien stepped inside the room. “My lady,” he said, his tone harsh.

Except, his employer, the benevolent Lady Emmaline Drake, had known him when he’d first found a place in London Hospital. She’d sat by his side reading to him, ignoring his surliness and had remained devoted. As a result, she gave no outward appearance of being bothered by his coarse tone and rough, soldier’s speech.

The marchioness smiled. “Thank you, Jones. If you’ll set it over here.”

“Jones?”

Lucien cursed and nearly upended the tray under Eloise’s perplexed question.

Lady Drake motioned in his general direction. “Jones, my…”

Eloise opened her mouth, likely to correct the marchioness’ error. He glowered her into silence and the words withered and died on her lips. She frowned, though the slight narrowing of her eyes indicated she had little intention of allowing the matter to rest.

He continued to glare at her. He had little intention of allowing the stubborn young lady an opportunity to ask her questions, in front of his employer no less. “Is there anything else I may get you, my lady?”

His mistress inclined her head. “No, that will be all.”

With a grateful silent exhalation of air, he started for the door, when Eloise’s words to Lady Drake froze him mid-step.

“I do not suppose Jones,” Lucien growled, his unblinking gaze on the bloody wall in the hall. Do not say it, “mentioned we were acquainted as children.” Of course, he should have known Eloise enough to know she’d never be reticent merely because he willed it. He shot a glance over his shoulder. Eloise angled her chin up. Her words were directed to the marchioness, her stare trained on him. “We were quite the best of friends.”

They had been. In this, the lady spoke the truth. As a young boy he’d not really seen the usefulness in girls. Father had demanded he and Richard entertain his friend’s lonely daughter, Eloise. Belligerent as any lad of seven would have been with those directives, it had taken little time for Lucien to find she was unlike any girl he’d ever known. She’d loved to spit, fish, and bait her own hooks. She’d been bloody perfect to a lad of seven.