Chapter 2
That night found Lucien Philippe de Vaux, Marquess of Arden, riding a stolen horse hell-for-leather through the dark and rain-washed streets of London. Only superb skill and strength controlled the excited beast on the slippery cobbles. When the drivers of startled teams cursed, he laughed, white teeth gleaming in the gaslights. When a costermonger yelled, "Bloody nobs!" and pelted him with some of the less choice of his wares, he caught one of the apples and shied it back to accurately knock off the man's felt hat.
He reined the horse in at the Drury Lane Theater and summoned a hovering urchin. "Guard the horse and there's a guinea for you," he called as he sprinted off towards the side door. The main doors were already locked for the night.
The barefoot street Arab clutched onto the reins of the tired horse as if they were his hope of heaven, as perhaps they were.
The marquess's banging on the theater door, executed as it was with a brick he had picked up in the side alley, soon brought the grumbling caretaker.
"Wot the 'ell ye want?" he snarled through a chink in the door.
The marquess held up a glittering guinea and the door opened wide.
The man grabbed the coin. "Everyone's gorn," he said. "If it's Madam Blanche you're looking for she's off with the Mad Marquess."
At the visitor's laugh he blinked and held his lantern a little higher. It illuminated clear-cut features and brilliant blue eyes. The-fact that the marquess's distinctive gold hair was a sodden brown did not disguise him. "Beggin' yer pardon, milord. No offense."
"None taken," said the marquess blithely as he pushed past. "The White Dove of Drury Lane has left her favorite handkerchief in her room. I come as her humble servant to retrieve it." With that he sped off down the dingy corridor.
The caretaker shook his head. "Mad. Mad, the lot of 'em." He bit the guinea as a matter of habit, though he knew Arden wouldn't offer false coin.
In a few moments the young man ran nimbly back down the corridor and out into the rain, which was surely ruining a small fortune in elegant tailoring. He took the reins of the horse and pulled out another guinea. Then he hesitated, glancing down at the urchin.
"I'd be surprised if you're more than twelve," he said thoughtfully. "You'll have trouble splitting this."
It was not a problem bothering the boy, whose wide eyes were fixed on the gold.
The marquess grinned. "Don't worry. I'm not going to chouse you. How would you like to ride back with me, and I'll fix you up right and tight?"
The boy took a step back. "On the 'orse, guv?"
"Of course on the 'orse," said the marquess, leaping onto the back of the big bay. "Well?"
The boy hesitated, and the marquess impatiently said, "Make up your mind."
The boy held up his arms, and the marquess hoisted his scrawny weight behind him. "Hold tight!" he called and kicked the horse into a gallop again.
The streets were a little quieter as the theater crowd and the hawkers who catered to them had gone home. There were enough people abroad, however, to keep the ride lively and to call up comments from the marquess's nervous passenger. "Gawd's struth."
"Watch it, Guv!" and—when the driver of a gig was so startled he steered his horse onto the pavement—"Wha' a slowtop."
The steaming, frothing horse was reined up at a grand mansion in a square in Mayfair far from the urchin's usual beat. The nob slipped off the horse and called back, "Watch the nag a minute!" as he raced up the wide steps. As a bell in a nearby church began to chime the hour, huge double doors at the top were flung open to greet him, spilling glittering light down the wet stone steps.
A delicate vision in white—white from her loose silver hair to a flowing lace gown to white slippers—flung out her arms and cried, "You did it! You did it! I knew you could." The marquess gathered her up and swung her around as she squealed at how wet he was.
As his debtor went into the house, the street Arab heard him laugh and say, "To the devil with your gown. I prefer you without one anyway. Where's Dare?" The big doors closed on the light.
The boy, who went by the name of Sparrow, or Sparra more like, shivered in the chilly damp. "Scummered for sure," he muttered. "Left perched on the back of a soddin' horse. Thank Gawd the beast's too shagged to move." It was a long way down to the ground.
After a while, though, when the horse showed signs of coming back to life, the boy chose the lesser of the evils. Grasping the pommel, he slid down, falling flat in a puddle when he landed. The horse looked around in mild affront.
"'S'alright fer yous," Sparra muttered as he rubbed at the slimy mud on his already wet and dirty rags. "Sooner nor later summen'll rub yer darn, give yer a feed. They cares for their 'orses, does this lot. I should've grabbed the bloody goldfinch."
He looked the horse over to see if there was anything worth nicking.
Just at that moment thick fingers yanked at his grubby collar, and he was hauled around to face a burly giant of a man. "What are you doing with my horse, you devil's spawn?"
"I—I—" Sparra was half-throttled and scared out of his wits. He kicked and wriggled, but the man's hand was like a vice.
"I'll teach you to take a gentleman's mount, you wretched cur," snarled the man, and swung his riding crop down on Sparra's body.
"Ow! Please, guv... Aah!" The crop whistled and cut again and again.
A cool voice broke in. "I hardly think this is the place to correct an erring servant, sir."
The man stopped the beating but held on tight to his captive. "And who the devil are you, sir? And what business is it of yours what I do?"
The newcomer had obviously just arrived in a handsome traveling chariot. Everything about him spoke of top quality, Sparra decided with a beggar's unerring eye. Not just his perfectly cut caped greatcoat and his gleaming boots, his elegant beaver and tan gloves, but the way he stood and the softness of his voice.
A powdered footman stood behind him shielding him from the elements with a large black umbrella.
"I am the Duke of Belcraven, sir," the newcomer said, "and this is my house which you are disturbing with your brawl."
Sparra wished he could see the bully's face at that. He also wished the man would loosen his grip, instead of making it tighter. Then he could get out of here—fast. He wanted nothing to do with dukes, and horse-stealing got you knocked down for a crop.
"I beg pardon, Your Grace," said the man in a strained voice. "I was taking retribution on this wretch for having ridden off on my horse, which I left quietly hereabouts."
The duke raised an eyeglass and studied the horse, a large beast as would be necessary for such a large rider. Then he looked at the culprit.
"If he truly rode that horse into such a state," he said coolly, "I suggest you spare him the beating and promptly hire him as a jockey."
Sparra imagined a lifetime of being forced to ride enormous horses and tried to choke out an objection. The hand on his collar jerked him into silence.
At that moment, the doors of the great house opened again and a clear voice said, "What the hell—? Release the boy!"
Then, in a different tone, drained of all emotion. "Your Grace. I did not expect you."
The duke turned his eyeglass to look up the stairs, carpeted again in slick golden light. There Sparra's debtor stood against a backdrop of servants and gentlemen, with one petite lady in white beside him. The lady swiftly melted back out of sight. After a breathless moment, the duke let his quizzing glass fall and mounted the steps towards his heir, meticulously followed by his umbrella bearer.
"Evidently," he said icily. "If that is your fracas, Arden, kindly remove it from the doorstep."
He then entered his mansion and accepted the ministrations of his servants, forced to switch abruptly from the lighthearted demeanor suitable for the marquess and his friends, to the proper decorum demanded by the duke. The guests discreetly absented themselves from the hall but within minutes singing could be heard from the music room. It was not a particularly respectable song.
As the duke was divested of his damp outer clothing he merely said, "I will retire to my suite with a light supper. Arden, I wish to see you tomorrow after breakfast."
"Yes, sir," said the marquess impassively.
Followed by his valet, the duke ascended the great curving staircase.
The marquess watched his father for a moment, then looked out at the frozen, rain-soaked tableau, where the urchin was still clutched by the dumbfounded horse owner. With a shrug, he accepted the need to ruin another set of clothes and walked out into the rain as easily as if it were perfect weather.
"You will release this boy immediately," he said coldly.
"Oh will I?" sneered the man, misled perhaps by the marquess's dampened finery and the way he had been given orders by the duke. "Well, cockerel, this boy deserves a whipping and he'll get it, and no duke's lackey says otherwise."
"Lay a stroke on the boy and I'll take you apart," said the marquess calmly. "I stole your horse."
The man released Sparra, but before the boy could flee he was caught in a grasp just as strong.
"Don't run away," was all the young nob said, but Sparra obeyed. He wasn't sure if it was fear, exhaustion, or just a trust engendered by that voice, but he did as he was told. He witnessed a grand mill.
The "young guv" was tall and strong and probably sparred with Jackson, but the "big guv" was a lot heavier and had some science, too. Once he landed a sweeping right which sent the younger man sprawling, but he was up on his feet in a moment and retaliated with a hard fist to the fat stomach.
By this time half a dozen young sprigs were out in the rain cheering on their friend, and a couple of passersby were giving advice, too. Sparra had never seen such a bunch of drowned swells. It'd be a grand day for the tailors tomorrow, he thought. He hoped the young guv didn't get so bashed up he forgot the dibs.
No danger of that. It became obvious the young man had just been sparring. Despite the hard blows swung at him, he had only been touched that once. Now he began to show his skill, and in a few moves he destroyed the bigger man's guard and landed him an annihilating left hook which laid him out cold.
Sparra's debtor surveyed his opponent and rubbed wincingly at his knuckles. "Repellent specimen. I would happily have paid for the use of his horse." He fished out a few guineas. "Here, someone put that in his pocket."
His friends showed every sign of sweeping him back into the house, but he pulled away. "Where's the lad?"
A glimmer of hope in his breast, Sparra came forward, and the swell studied him. Not ungently he lifted Sparra's tattered shirt and grimaced at the welts there.
"It's nuthin' much, guv," Sparra told him.
"Nevertheless, I owe you something extra for being my whipping boy, don't I? Do you have a home to go to?"
This was a question Sparra had to consider. He had a place in an alley with some other ragamuffins. "I 'as a place t'sleep," he muttered.
"What I mean is, do you have a family who would be missing you?"
"Nah, guv. Me mam died."
"Then spend the night with the grooms in the mews. I'll see you get a good meal and some warm clothing, and tomorrow we'll talk. I really am rather stretched at the moment."
"Aye," said the boy sympathetically, responding to the easy manner of the other. "That duke. He yer gaffer?"
"My master?" The swell gave a twisted smile. "Yes, I suppose he is. Marleigh!" he called out, and the butler stuck his head out the door.
"Your lordship?"
"Send one of the grooms to collect this child. What's your name, boy?"
"Sparra, yer lordship," said the urchin, much awed. "Beggin' yer pardon if'n I bin rude, yer lordship."
"Don't start to toad-eat, little bird," said the swell as he turned away "It's the one thing I will not stand for."
Then he ran up the steps again, followed by his herd of friends. The big doors shut again on the light.
Sparra wondered whether to make himself scarce, forget about the goldfinch. Dukes, lords—such types didn't shine right for kids from Figger's Lane.
Before he could decide, a sturdy boy some years his senior came up the basement stairs.
"You the one as is to be taken in?" he asked with great superiority.
"Yus," muttered Sparra.
The older boy looked him over, then his face relaxed a bit. "Never know what's next with Arden. Don't look so nervous, lad. It's a good house, even when the duke's here and we have to watch it. Come on then."
As they went down the stairs towards the warm lights of the kitchen, Sparra asked, "If this is the duke's 'ouse, 'ow come the young'un can bring me in?"
"'Cause he's his son. One day this'll all be his anyway. That's not to say he won't catch it for creating such a stir in the street. The duke's the only one Arden looks out for."
Even at this late hour Belcraven House was ready for unexpected guests, both above and below stairs. As the French chef whipped together a hasty gourmet meal for the duke, he served up a bowl of soup and a slab of bread covered with thick butter to Sparra, though Sparra was forced to sit on the floor in the scullery to eat it. After one horrified glance, the chef had banished the ragamuffin boy from the kitchen.
Sparra didn't much care. This was as close to heaven as he could remember. As he slurped up the rich soup with whole chunks of meat in it, he wondered if there was anything he could do to save his benefactor from tomorrow's reckoning. He was still pondering this when he rolled himself in two dry blankets and settled down in a cozy corner of the stables. He was soon asleep, comfortable and well-fed for the first time since his mother died.
* * *
The next morning the marquess awoke with a sense of resignation instead of his usual zest for life. Whatever his father's reason for this unannounced visit to Town it augured poorly for himself. As his valet shaved him, Arden wondered why he could never get along with his father. He admired him tremendously, but whenever they were together they were like flint and steel. The slightest tinder and a conflagration would result.
It was damnable luck that the duke had turned up during a scene. Lord Darius Debenham—commonly called Dare—had laid a monkey that the marquess couldn't make it to Drury Lane and back with Blanche's handkerchief before midnight. The marquess never refused a bet. That blasted man's horse had been none the worse for the experience. Probably never had a good run before.
That reminded him.
"Hughes, how's that boy?" he asked, as he began to arrange a black cravat around his high collar. It should suit the mood of the day.
"He seems very happy with his situation, milord," said the valet. "In fact, if I may be so bold, it would be harsh to return him to his previous existence after showing him a taste of a reasonable life."
The marquess lowered his neck carefully to produce the correct creases for a Mathematical. "The devil you say. What the hell am I supposed to do with him?"
"I'm sure some position could be found, milord. The staff find him quite bearable, given his upbringing. Didn't complain much at having a bath, said please and thank you, and asked what he could do to help."
"A regular little gentleman, in fact. Oh well, I'll think about it after I've seen my father."
The marquess was eased into his dark blue jacket and stood before the mirror to consider the effect. "Think it'll turn my father up sweet?" he asked Hughes dryly.
"Any father would be proud of such a son," said Hughes and indeed, he thought, it was true.
The marquess had his father's height—over six feet but with more muscle than the duke. Not a heavy man but broad in the shoulders and with the strong legs of a bruising rider. And of course he had his mother's looks in a masculine way—the fine lines of the bones and a curve on his mouth a girl would envy. He had the duchess's golden curls, too.
The marquess was a delight to dress. His fawn pantaloons showed off his legs a treat and the blue superfine jacket was creaseless across his straight shoulders. The ivory silk waistcoat and three fobs was just the right touch. Yes, the duke would find nothing at which to cavil.
Whatever Hughes's opinion, the marquess found no approval on the duke's face when he presented himself in his father's study. The duke and the duchess kept separate suites in the house, and these rooms were always prepared for their occasional visits. The rest of the house was given over to their son's use.
The duke was seated in a wing chair by the fireplace.
"Good morning, sir," said the marquess, trying to read his father. He did not presume to take a seat.
The duke looked his son up and down, and though the marquess knew he was perfectly turned out, he was made to feel grubby.
"You will please explain what was happening when I arrived last night, Arden."
The marquess did his best. His racing feat was not admired.
"Is the actress your mistress?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do not bring her, or her successors, to this house again."
The marquess stiffened, but it was in acknowledgement of the justice of the reprimand. "Very well. I apologize, sir."
The duke inclined his head slightly. "And the boy?"
"He appears to have found favor with the servants, sir. I thought to find him a place."
The duke inclined his head again. "I understand you still owe him a guinea. I am sure you honor your debts."
The marquess marveled that the duke always seemed to know what was going on. There was, however, the slightest possible lightening of his father's expression. "Of course, sir."
The disciplinary part of the interview was apparently over. The marquess felt the tension seep out of him. Whatever had brought the duke to London so unexpectedly was obviously not to be laid at his door.
"Sit down, Arden. I have something to discuss with you."
As the marquess took the opposing wing chair he detected something in his father's voice which led him to another concern. "I hope Maman is well," he said.
"Completely."
Despite the reassuring reply, the duke's untypical uneasiness worried the marquess considerably. He felt an alarming need to fiddle with his cravat or cross and uncross his legs. This elegant room, with its rich gold brocade curtains and Chinese carpet, held no particularly unpleasant memories, but the duke carried the atmosphere with him. Wherever their meetings took place Lucien de Vaux felt as if he were back in his father's formidable study at Belcraven Park quivering under a caustic tongue-lashing or stoically listening as his tutor was instructed as to the number of strokes his latest escapade warranted.
He had always preferred the latter. The system had been quite clear to him from an early age. Beatings were rarely harsh and were reserved for the kind of mischief common to boys. The sting carried the message that he had done something of which his father disapproved but which did not seriously distress him.
A dressing down by his father was an indication that he had fallen below the standards of the de Vaux, that his father was ashamed of his son and heir. Arden had frequently wept.
Why did this occasion recall those painful times when it was clear the duke was not angry?
Eventually the duke broke the silence. "There is no way to dress this up with ribbons and bows, Arden, but I'm not sure in which order the news will be easiest." He fixed his heir with a direct look. "I have to tell you that you are not my son."
The shock was total. "You are disinheriting me? For God's sake, why?"
"No!" said the duke. "The very opposite. I have known since your birth that you are not my son."
Icy shock was replaced by hot fury, and the marquess shot to his feet. "You slander my mother!"
"Don't be ridiculous," said the duke wearily. "I am as tender of the duchess's reputation as you. Ask her if you wish. It is the truth. The briefest indiscretion with a childhood sweetheart...."
The marquess saw the old pain in his father—no, not his father....
The world shifted around him, and he grasped the back of the chair by which he stood. His heart was thundering in his chest. It seemed an effort to breath. Surely grown men did not faint....
He heard the duke as if over a vast chasm. "It happened when I was in Scotland after grouse. I broke my leg. There was no question of my having fathered you."
"His father would not lie. His father... this man sitting rigidly before him, had always been truthful, if cold. So much, so much was explained. The marquess felt as if his heart had been ripped out of his body. It was a draining effort, but he focused on essentials. "Why did you acknowledge me?"
The duke shrugged, not looking at him at all. "There were two sons already. It happens in every family now and then, and I loved your mother deeply. She would never willingly have parted with a child." He flicked a glance at his heir and then looked away quickly, paler still. "Then there was the accident and she was near her time. We could have pretended the child had died, I suppose. I have wondered... but it would have destroyed her." He sighed heavily. "She clung to you as to none of her other babes. It was not a time of rational thinking."
The marquess felt things begin to settle, to settle into a new and darker world. He looked down and saw his hands were bone white where they gripped the chair. He was quite unable to relax them. "What you are saying," he said, seeking in coldness a mask for the fury of hurt burning within him, "is that you have since wished me out of existence."
He looked up. The duke met his eyes firmly, but there was a whiteness about his mouth. "I have wished, and still wish, the de Vaux bloodline to continue unbroken."
It seemed the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life, but the marquess drew himself up and assumed the grand manner to which he had been so carefully raised. "I understand you, I think, sir. Do you wish me to shoot myself perhaps? Or shall I just flee to the New World under an assumed name? I fail to see how that will gain you a de Vaux heir, though. Or is Maman...?" He broke off in incredulity.
"Of course she's too old, Arden," said the duke sharply. "Stop emoting. I do not wish to disinherit you or dispose of you. I just wish to God you were my son." The duke stopped on that admission. After a moment he said, "Now, however, I wish you to marry my daughter."
The marquess gave up and collapsed into his chair. "That idiot last night must have hit me harder than I thought," he muttered. Or perhaps it was just shock which made his head float apart from his body, his thoughts seem like wisps of mist. One thought could be grasped, however. He had been reprieved, after a fashion. Like a man sentenced to hang who finds he is merely to be flogged.
The duke rose and poured two glasses of brandy. He thrust one into the marquess's hand and sat once more. "Drink that and pay attention, Arden."
The fiery liquid flowed down and drove the mist from his brain. The pain of reality returned, but the marquess forced his body to come to order, and prepared to try to make sense of things.
"After your birth I was under considerable strain. I myself formed a liaison and, unbeknownst to me, a child resulted. I received news of the girl's existence this morning. She has the de Vaux blood, though no one, now her mother is dead, knows of it except us. If you marry her, the line continues."
Stupidly, the marquess could only think that his father had betrayed his exquisite mother. "I have a better idea," he said bitterly. "Make her your heir."
The duke's voice was as chilly as a dash of cold water. "You are being nonsensical again. Are you refusing to do this?"
In his pain, with his devastated pride, the marquess longed to do just that, to throw the whole business in the duke's face and tell him to go to hell and take his bastard with him. But the pride of the de Vaux was in him, no matter how little it seemed he deserved it, and he struggled for an icy control to match the duke's.
"Do we know anything at all of this girl?" he drawled.
"Her age. She is just turned twenty-four, nearly a year younger than you."
"Firmly on the shelf, in other words," observed the marquess coolly. "She's doubtless an antidote."
"Is that your primary consideration?"
"It seems natural enough to wish to share one's life with a woman one finds congenial," remarked the marquess flippantly. "Where does my bride live?"
"In Cheltenham. She is a teacher at a ladies seminary run by a Miss Mallory, who is an old friend of the girl's mother."
"A blue stocking antidote. Oh well," said the marquess with an assumption of callous indifference, "we must hope that, unlike Prinny, I can do my duty."
"Even the prince begot a daughter," the duke pointed out.
"But that, as we know, is of no use to us." The marquess could endure this discussion no longer. He did not know whether he was likely to strike his father—the duke—or fall weeping at his feet, but neither was desirable. He rose to his feet with control but did not meet the other man's eyes. "Is there more to be discussed? I have engagements."
"I am having enquiries made about the girl. I only traveled down with urgency because your mother said you might offer for the Swinnamer girl."
A pretty china doll whom he had begun to think would do as well as any other for marriage. "I assure you I have given up the notion entirely," said the marquess carelessly, then realized he was shredding a tassel on the chair by which he stood.
"Are you claiming a broken heart?" asked the duke. "What then of Mistress Blanche?"
The marquess crushed the tassel in his fist. "Men have these arrangements," he said bitterly and looked up to meet the duke's eyes. "Surely you are aware of it, My Lord Duke."
With that he turned on his heel and escaped.
The duke sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He had never expected the interview to be pleasant. He was sorry, though, for the pain he had caused the boy. He had spoken the truth when he said he wished the marquess was his own son. He would have been proud.
He was wild, yes, a touch of St. Briac the duke did not appreciate, but nothing had ever besmirched his honor, and he had a keen brain. The duke had no qualms about passing the tremendous burdens of the Duchy of Belcraven over to Lucien one day.
If only, he thought—and not for the first time—he had never known. How happy they could all have been.
The dull ache of the long separation from Yolande was a chronic pain, but what else could he have done? He could not risk getting another son, for then the temptation to do just as Lucien had suggested—get rid of him in some way—would have been overwhelming. Yolande would never have stood for that, but he could never have let his rightful heir take second place to a usurper.
He sighed and hoped for the first time that Elizabeth Armitage turned out to be of a quality to compensate Arden in some way for all of this.
* * *
The marquess walked down the wide, curving staircase of his house—to which he apparently had no right—took his cane, his beaver, and his gloves from a footman, and passed through the doors into the spring sunshine. His long-limbed strides took him along the streets, but he really had no idea where to go.
To stay in the house would be unbearable. To go to a club insupportable—he did not wish to meet any of his friends.
No, that wasn't quite true. He wished Nicholas Delaney and his wife Eleanor were here in Town. He could talk to them. But they were in Somerset enjoying each other and their new baby. He was tempted to flee to their house as he had fled once before... but that had merely been in flight from Phoebe Swinnamer's matchmaking mama, not from the total destruction of his life, of his very self.
Poor Phoebe. She believed her beauty entitled her to the prize of the Marriage Mart. Would she ever realize how close she had come to achieving her ambition?
He had dodged Phoebe, but he couldn't dodge this new trap. As he apparently had no right at all to his rank and privilege, the least he could do was pay for it through sacrifice.
Eventually he found his aimless strides had brought him to a quiet street of small houses. He sighed with relief.
Blanche.
She wouldn't expect him at this hour and so he used the knocker. He didn't believe Blanche would play him false by taking another lover, but if she had, he didn't want to know—he didn't need any more shocks today. He was admitted by her startled maid and in a moment the White Dove was with him.
"Lucien, love," she said, her carefully trained voice still having a slight northern burr. "What brings you here so early?" Despite the question she was already in his arms and studying him. "Are you in trouble, my dear?"
The marquess looked down at her perfect heart-shaped face and her amazing silvery hair, for she was prematurely gray and had turned it to her trademark, and sighed. "I just need a friend, Blanche."
Smiling, she led him to a sofa. "You have one. How can I help?" She brushed golden curls off his forehead with gentle fingers. "Is it your father? Is he very cross? I told you you shouldn't have taken me there."
"You were right." He captured her hand and kissed it. "Will you mind?"
"Don't be daft," she said with a cheeky smile and the accent of her native Manchester. "I've no silly expectations, Lucien. You treat me with respect and that's all I ask. Is that the problem then?"
He lay back and sighed. "No. No, it isn't, sweetheart. But I can't tell you what is. I just need peace and quiet to think something through."
"And you're a bit tight for empty rooms at home," she said understanding, gaining the laugh she sought, even if it was strained.
He drew her into a friendly hug. "I should have married you," he said, and she chuckled at the joke.
"Lummox. Is that it?" she asked. "Has the Swinnamer girl turned you down?"
"No. Stop asking questions."
She obediently lapsed into silence and rested in his comfortable embrace. She knew there were times when just to have someone nearby was a comfort, and she would give him any comfort she could. In a very real way she loved Lucien de Vaux, but she was three years older than him in age and a century older in experience. She knew better than to let her heart rule her head. The marquess paid her well and she gave what he paid for and more. One day it would end and that was how it should be.
With Blanche soft and perfumed in his arms, Lucien passed the brief interview with his father—no, the duke—through his mind again and again. Could he not have softened it in some way? It was not news amenable to softening.
So much now clicked into place, such as the formality of his parents' lives despite suggestions of deep feeling. Had his father never forgiven his mother? His words had been gentle this morning and yet the evidence was that they had been estranged for over twenty years. Lucien had always hoped it was just an appearance of formality and that in private they behaved otherwise.
He did not know how he was to face either of them again.
He understood at last the duke's attitude toward himself, why he had never been able to gain the warmth, the approval he sought. His father had chastised or commended him as appropriate but always in the impersonal manner of a guardian. He supposed, given the situation, the duke had been very good to him.
And now he must repay that goodness. It was his duty to make this marriage—though it would feel incestuous and be a mismatched union of the highest order—and produce the male heirs to ensure the line. Then perhaps, he thought bleakly, he could shoot himself.
Blanche was beginning to feel stiff. She stirred a little. "Would you like some wine, Lucien? Or tea?"
He sat up with her and kissed her lightly. "Wine, please. And perhaps some food? I skipped breakfast."
His manner was much like his normal high spirits and yet she could see the strain behind it and ached for him.
"Of course, love," she twinkled. "After all, you pay the grocer."
He grinned. "So I do. And also the jeweler. When I've fortified myself, I'm going to go and buy you more diamonds. Unless I can tempt you to sapphires?"
"And ruin my act?" she protested. "The day the White Dove wears any color I'll be over and done with. I saw some pretty hair pins in the Burlington Arcade."
"Consider them yours," he said. "You are a treasure, Blanche. You would make a man a wonderful wife."
His mind seemed to be fixed on wives. Blanche gave him a saucy look. "Isn't it nice of me then to spread it around a bit?"
He broke out laughing and it was as close to the carefree marquess as she could hope to get.