Lucien le Duc could not wait to go back home to France.
He was the second-best blacksmith in a twenty-mile circumference, and he was tired of toiling every day before a scalding hot forge. Lucien could have become the first-best blacksmith if he could communicate with his clients in their language, but English exhausted him even more than the forge.
His brother Sébastien’s grease-stained hand poked out from under a mangled cabriolet. “Can you hand me—”
Lucien passed him a vise and a hammer.
When they’d first emigrated here in the midst of a revolution, his petit frère Bastien had been too young to build carriages and smelt iron. He and their petite sœur Désirée had spent their days inside their uncle’s cottage, hunched over children’s books borrowed from the castle library.
Lucien, on the other hand, had been thirteen. Almost a man, in his mind. When Uncle Jasper put him to work, Lucien wasn’t resentful. He’d been desperate for something important to do. Anything at all to keep his trembling hands busy, and distract his mind from his terrified parents’ final words before the crowd had grabbed them and—
“Can it be mended?” the cabriolet’s owner fretted for the third time in a quarter of an hour.
Lucien pierced him with his infamous smiting glare. No one was a better blacksmith than Bastien. If he said he could do something, he did it. The careless driver would receive his ridiculous summer carriage back as soon as Bastien deemed it safe, and not a moment earlier.
The man shrank back against the wall with both palms raised. “I’ll wait.”
Lucien turned back to his post, where one of the village sleighs awaited winter maintenance.
Well, technically, it wasn’t Lucien’s post anymore, n’est-ce pas? After years of working at his uncle’s side, then many more years of running the smithy alongside his brother after their uncle’s health forced him into retirement, Lucien could retire, too. Huzzah.
To some, three-and-thirty might seem a young age to retire. To Lucien, the years had been interminable.
He and his siblings had not been born to a humble family of country blacksmiths, but rather to a long line of blue-blooded French noblesse. Their family had possessed a grand chateau, endless coffers, a sprawling vineyard… He and his siblings had been destined to a life of leisure, just like their parents, and their grandparents before them.
And then: the revolution.
Lucien shoved those memories away, just as he always did. He would not dwell on the past, but concentrate on the future. What had been stolen from them would soon be returned. Not their childhood or their parents, but the land of their birth. Their place in society. The life they were always meant to lead. As soon as the war ended, he’d petitioned the government to restore their lost property. Grâce à distant familial connections to the new king, Lucien was certain the answer would be yes.
After paying off their debts and ensuring Uncle Jasper would be safe and comfortable, he and his siblings could finally return home.
Except, Désirée was now married with children, living in a fine house just up the road. And the smithy’s new owners had signed a generous contract making Bastien the lead foreman. All profit, no expenses.
Bastien had also married. He didn’t need to go home. He and Désirée had made new homes here in Cressmouth.
Lucien was the only one left who didn’t belong.
A coach-and-four pulled to a halt in front of the smithy, and a gaggle of well-dressed young ladies in feathered hats and fur muffs tumbled out onto the frost-tipped gravel.
“Oh!” gasped one. “That must be a le Duc brother. My, are they handsome.”
“Are you Lucien?” her friend called out boldly. “Or Sébastien?”
Their companions giggled and fluttered their eyelashes expectantly.
Lucien glared at them all.
“It’s Lucien,” the bold one whispered with confidence. “See how he smolders?”
He turned his back to them and resumed his work on the sleigh.
It wasn’t that he disliked young ladies. Lucien enjoyed ladies very, very much. He did not, however, enjoy looking like a fool in front of them.
Stammering out mispronounced words in jumbled grammar did not behoove an erstwhile aristocrat. He’d much rather be judged surly than stupid, and he definitely wouldn’t put himself in any position that displayed a weakness.
Between his potent glares and his reclusiveness with anyone who wasn’t family, Lucien had managed to stay out of the English villagers’ way.
Until that bloody article in the bloody Christmas Gazette.
Lucien’s name had always been known to his neighbors—after all, theirs was the only smithy for miles—but now that his new sister-in-law had printed a front page article fawning over the smithy’s integral role in the community and the le Duc brothers who ran it, every tourist passing in or out of the village stopped for a quick peek. He half-expected some of them to whip out a sketchbook or dash off a quick watercolor to immortalize the moment.
He was not a curiosity. He was a man. This was a smithy, not a circus—and certainly not a boutique wherein to obtain a temporary Frenchman, as some of these English women seemed to think. The only marriage mart Lucien was interested in was the one back at home. French ladies, who shared his history and his culture and his language.
And if he wasn’t going to court these silly chits, he certainly didn’t plan to ravish them, for God’s sake. He did not wish to be a notch on anyone’s bedpost, nor did he desire to add to his own. He was a gentleman. He might not look like it here, hunched in scratched boots and charred leather gloves, but he would be a proper gentleman again once his birthright was restored.
When he found the mademoiselle he wished to spend the rest of his life with, Lucien intended to be worthy of her. Meanwhile, he saw no advantage to wasting anyone’s time.
“Pardon me,” one of the ladies called out. “Can you tell us which cottage belongs to the Duke of Nottingvale?”
Non. Lucien did not have all the right words, and wouldn’t disclose someone else’s information even if he did. Not that he was surprised to hear them ask. They were far from the first.
Nottingvale’s annual Christmastide house parties were almost as famous in Cressmouth as winter plays in the amphitheater or ice-skating on the castle pond… but much more exclusive. Only a select few received an invitation. A handful from the beau monde, and a handful who were not. Never the same guests twice.
Never the le Ducs at all.
He wasn’t bitter, Lucien reminded himself. If he had stayed part of the nobility, he wouldn’t invite blacksmiths to his lavish fêtes either. It was just… He wasn’t meant to be a blacksmith. None of his siblings were. They were supposed to be a “better.” Just like Nottingvale, important because they were born to be.
Not fleeting tourist curiosities because that was how far they’d managed to fall.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” came an unctuous male voice. “I’m the smithy’s new coordinator to the public, and I’ll be happy to answer any questions or give you a private tour, if you’d like.”
Lucien poked his head up from over the sleigh in disbelief.
Some fop with clothes even more pretentious than Lucien’s dandy brother was standing in the middle of the group of women. Who the devil was that?
Lucien stalked over to the cabriolet and kicked Bastien’s boot.
“Qui est cet homme?” he demanded.
“He’s cordnerer pufflic,” came the garbled reply, likely because Bastien had screws or a wrench between his teeth.
“I heard what he said.” Lucien dropped into a crouch to glare at his younger brother. “What the deuce does it mean?”
Bastien pulled the wrench from his teeth and sighed. “It means, thanks to the Gazette, the smithy is now one of Cressmouth’s top attractions. The Harpers have employed a go-between to handle the influx of tourists.”
Lucien’s head jerked back. “They’re paying someone to deflect distractions so everyone else can work? They must be furious.”
“They’re delighted.” Bastien shrugged. “High prestige comes with higher prices. Two new apprentices will start in the morning. Lads from town. That article is the best thing that could have happened to the smithy.”
Lucien stared back at him, speechless.
Bastien was right. Lucien might abhor the unwelcome attention, but the smithy was thriving. Cressmouth was thriving. Bastien was thriving. And Lucien was… redundant.
He didn’t belong here, either.
Without another word, he rose to his feet, placed his gloves and leather apron on their hooks upon the wall, and walked out of the smithy.
Lucien didn’t have a contract with the Harpers. He wasn’t being paid to work. He’d been paid to sell. Why the devil was he toiling in a loud, dirty smithy when he could be living the life of indolence he’d spent the past two decades fighting for?
Because that was his brother under the cabriolet, that’s why. Because his father’s last words had been be the man I expect you to be and his mother’s last words had been take care of your siblings.
Even if they didn’t need him anymore.
He pushed open the door to the cottage and stalked toward his private chamber. He stopped when he glimpsed Uncle Jasper in the drawing room, one gouty foot propped up on a stool and his balding head tucked against the side of a wingback chair.
Lucien didn’t ask, Comment va ton pied? because the answer was obvious. Uncle Jasper was in pain. There was little to relieve it, save for cold compresses and a cup of willow bark tea. Lucien turned away from his private quarters and headed to the kitchen instead.
In no time, he had cool compresses on his uncle’s swollen foot and a fresh pot of tea at his side.
“Thank you,” Uncle Jasper murmured. “That last pot had gone cold.”
Lucien frowned. He’d been in the smithy all day; there hadn’t been time to make pots of tea. How would Uncle Jasper…
Oh. Lucien tightened his jaw. They weren’t alone in the cottage anymore. His sister-in-law lived there, too. She must have tended to Jasper before leaving for the castle. Lucien was now just as superfluous inside his house as he was out in the smithy.
The worst part was, he couldn’t even be irritated. He was grateful to Eve for taking care of his uncle. Grateful to the Harpers for the windfall that had given their family financial solvency. Grateful that his siblings had found love and homes and happiness.
Lucien slumped into the chair opposite his uncle’s footstool and rubbed his face with his hands.
There were no more ties keeping him in England, but the same wasn’t true for everyone. He had been a selfish blackguard to hope Bastien and Désirée would want to come with him when he knew they’d be happier here without him.
His siblings didn’t remember France like he did. They’d been eight and ten when their parents were killed. Lucien had been a few scant years away from being treated as an adult in charge of his own life. Bastien had been thinking of wooden trucks and Désirée of porcelain dolls, but Lucien was already joining his parents on trips here and visits there, dance instructors and university tours, preparing him for the life he was going to live in just a few years. That was the world he yearned to go back to. The life he longed to have for the first time. The one his parents had died trying to provide for him.
He owed it to them even more than he owed it to himself. Lucien had given up his childhood, given up every hour of his life to provide for his family, but it didn’t compare to the ultimate sacrifice his parents had made.
Be the man I expect you to be.
I will, sir. I promise.
He patted Jasper’s liver-spotted hand and rose to his feet.
Once Lucien had land and a house back home in France, he’d find a way to bring Jasper over if his uncle wished to visit, or even to stay. All Lucien had to do was endure six more weeks. Twelfth Night would be his last day in England. His last day of being lesser. He was going to prove he belonged in the world his parents wanted to give him, and never have to fight again.
When he reached his chamber, three books wrapped in twine sat on his side table.
English books. Childish English books meant for children. No doubt a nudge from his sister.
Lucien opened the folded note laying on top:
I thought of you.
These are from the castle library.
Don’t stop practicing just because I’m not there.
You can do it.
Désirée
Maybe he could and maybe he couldn’t. Not starting until he was an adult had not helped matters. Neither did his unwillingness to display his obvious inferiority in front of others. For a while, Lucien had muddled through anyway. Now he no longer needed to. No matter what happened with his petition to the courts, he had a one-way ticket back to France. Back to where he belonged.
Lucien scooped up the books and walked them outside to the winding road leading up to the castle. Just like he wasn’t necessary anymore, neither were these books.
He ignored the curious looks as he strode in through the castle’s busy reception hall and up the stone spiral stairs. Most of the villagers came to the castle several times a week for meals or entertainment. Lucien was an unusual sight. He rarely came closer than the public park, where his new niece and nephew liked to play. Until he sold the smithy, Lucien hadn’t had time to try to fit in. Now that he had time, he no longer needed to bother.
He stepped across the threshold and into the library.
Empty. Perfect. He hadn’t wanted anyone to witness him returning books meant for babies.
Maybe what he ought to pick up were a few things in French. Was there a latest novel everyone would be raving about? A fascinating biography? Advances in wine production and the cultivation of grapes? He stepped around the corner... and crashed directly into a young woman emerging from between two tall shelves.
Her book went flying.
His books went flying.
She flailed for balance.
He caught her.
Gray-blue eyes met his and widened.
He sighed and summoned his best English. “You wonder… if I am… the local blacksmith…”
Her eyes glinted with mischief. “I’m actually wondering what else you can do with those big, strong hands.”
He let her go.
She placed the back of her wrist against her forehead and dramatically slumped against his chest as though she had just swooned.
Her eyes were still open. And twinkling wickedly.
Lucien had absolutely no idea how a gentleman should respond. So he froze. Her hair smelled like lilacs. An errant curl tickled his jaw. He had a feeling she knew it.
She pushed away from his chest and burst out laughing. “I’ve been dying to be alone with you for six long years. I thought I’d imagined every possible way it might happen, but you’ve just exceeded my every expectation. You even let me nuzzle against your chest for the briefest of moments. It was just as warm and hard and muscular as I dreamed it would be.”
He stared at her helplessly. The more she talked, the less he knew what to do with her.
“Here.” She knelt to the floor. “Let me retrieve your books.”
“No,” he barked, but it was too late.
A Little Pretty Pocket-Book was already in her hand.
She blinked at the title. “Interesting choice. I prefer gothic intrigue, and a shameless lack of virtue, but I suppose this could also… No, it probably couldn’t.” She handed him back his books.
“Who are you?” he managed.
But of course he knew who she was. Not her name, but her face. The village was much too small for even a recluse like Lucien not to recognize other locals. He’d glimpsed this black-haired beauty several times in the company of his new sister-in-law. Her generous curves and blue-gray eyes were impossible to miss. Nor could anyone mistake her habit of throwing back her head with a laugh so shockingly loud, so unabashedly delighted, so enticingly infectious, that even a marble statue would be tempted to smile back.
What he hadn’t realized was that she’d been watching him, too.
“I’m Meg.” She dipped an impressively graceful curtsey.
He waited.
She added no additional information.
He cleared his throat. “Meg…”
“Meg, of the Christmas Megs.” She smiled brightly, then fluttered her eyes heavenward. “If you must have all the boring details, I am Miss Margaret Church, cousin to Mr. and Mrs. Allan Farrell of the local dairy, and yes, I live there, too. Eve insists on saying ‘Margaret’ just to needle me, but friends can call me Meg.”
“Are we friends?” he asked doubtfully.
“Oh, do I get to decide? In that case, yes. We are most definitely friends. I’m Meg, and you’re… may I call you Luc?”
“No.”
She tapped her cheek. “Lucien, then. But wouldn’t it be fun if we all had a one-syllable name? Meg, Luc, Eve, Beau—”
He crossed his arms. “My brother’s name… is Bastien.”
“Ah, but you knew who I was talking about, didn’t you? Yet I see your point. If everyone used a single-syllable nickname, it would become monotonous. Maybe Eve has it right, and I should be Margaret after all. Well, too late for us. You’re a friend who calls me Meg. I’ll have to save ‘Margaret’ for the next rugged blacksmith I collide with at the library.”
Lucien wished he knew a polite way to say Do you always talk this much? in English.
But he wasn’t here to be polite to English people. He was here to rid himself of English nonsense that he had no interest in reading.
Mademoiselle Church either took deep pleasure in being shocking, or she had no idea how scandalous her behavior actually was. A gentleman would walk away, so as not to find himself embroiled in scandal himself.
And he would leave. Any second now.
He narrowed his eyes. She was no debutante. Not just for lack of manners, but because Lucien took her age to be at least five-and-twenty. A beautiful spinster living in someone else’s humble country farm would imply Mademoiselle Church was an impoverished cousin relying on family charity. A poor relation to a dairy maid. Leagues beneath the caliber of well-bred aristocratic young ladies Lucien would be associating with once he returned to France.
No doubt she saw that damnable article in the Cressmouth Gazette, realized his family was no longer as poor as they’d been, and determined that a blacksmith would be a step up from her current circumstances. Well, he wasn’t interested. Not in her, or any Englishwoman. She would have to find some other mark to bat those long eyelashes at.
He opened his mouth to tell her so.
“No, no, don’t stop now.” She fanned her neck. “I love the way you glower. I have no idea what you’re thinking and really it doesn’t matter, because if you told me, all the mystery would go away. When you cross those big, strong arms over that wide chest and narrow those piercing chocolate-brown eyes to slits, it feels as though you’ve smited an entire room with the power of your thoughts. It comes across positively devilish.” She lowered her voice. “I adore anything wicked.”
He glared at her.
She clutched her chest. “Oh dear, my bosom… it’s heaving. And my nether regions…” A giggle escaped her throat. “Does that phrase make you think of the Batavian Commonwealth, too, or am I the only one? ‘Nether regions,’ the Netherlands… I always wonder why authors ruin a perfectly good licentious scene with words that sound like vague references to international diplomacy. Why can’t a woman just say that what she’d really like a man to do is—”
“Stop,” Lucien choked, his buckskins suddenly uncomfortable. He would never be able to hear news about Holland again without thinking of Mademoiselle Church and her nether regions.
She knew exactly how shocking she was being, he realized. She was doing it on purpose. Poking at him with her words the way she claimed he “smote” others with his eyes.
He wouldn’t stand for it.
Lucien turned his back—a cut direct was rude, but still well within a gentleman’s arsenal—and shoved his books onto the closest shelf.
“How was the Pretty Pocket-Book, by the by?” she asked, as if genuinely interested. “Should I give it a try?”
He spun back to her and… now that he knew what it did to her nether regions, he certainly couldn’t glare, but what else was he supposed to do with his face when he didn’t know the right words to say?
“You didn’t read it?” she said in surprise, then gave a little shrug. “To be honest, I probably wouldn’t have, either. I make fun of the vague descriptions in my favorite books, but I would cry if they weren’t in there. I’m hoping Fanny Hill isn’t afraid to say what it means. I’ve borrowed it from a friend.” She held her book out toward him. “Here. You read it first, and let me know if it’s something I might like.”
He would do no such thing. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. Not because even the mention of Fanny Hill was forbidden in polite company, but because it was a novel. Lucien could barely make it through the eight-page Cressmouth Gazette. Not that he would admit such a failure aloud. Better for her to think him scandalized than stupid.
Lucien tried to assume his haughtiest, most condescending expression of disapproval.
His neck and ears flushed with heat to spite him.
“You can’t read it?” she breathed in wonder, then shook her head. “Of course you can’t read it. You’re French.”
“French people… can read!” he ground out in offense.
“Yes, yes, obviously I meant because it’s in English, which is not nearly as romantic as French.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll wager French novelists aren’t dipping their quills in ink only to waste perfectly good parchment with phrases like ‘redheaded champion’ and ‘prurient ivory mounds.’ But when all one has is English…” Her breath caught. “Oh, I’ll teach you! There are so many good books on these shelves. You’ve no idea what you’re missing. Come, sit by the fire and let me assess your level of—”
“No,” he growled.
Lucien turned and stalked from the library without another word. He didn’t need English, he didn’t need Miss Church, and he definitely did not need her pity.
If he were fluent, he would have told her so.