Lucien yanked weeds from the family garden with more force than usual.
Not that anything was “usual” anymore. Until his petite sœur had left home and got married, Lucien had never even visited the family garden. In fact, he distinctly remembered forbidding Désirée from working in the dirt because it was unseemly for a lady of her soon-to-be-restored stature.
She hadn’t listened. The family had to eat. And now that Lucien could finally afford to visit the village market and purchase everything in sight, here he was stabbing at frozen soil with a trowel because he had absolutely nothing better to do with his time.
The smithy was overrun with clients and employees alike. The Harpers’ new “representative to the public” had hung sprigs of mistletoe and boughs of holly on every post and wall. His sister-in-law was in the drawing room playing vingt-et-un with Uncle Jasper.
And Lucien… was out back behind the house, stabbing at a dead garden. Demoted from head of household to irrelevant. He yanked up his gloves. After years of refusing to accept their temporary lodgings as “home,” now that everything had changed, he could no longer deny that a home was exactly what it had become.
He missed the smithy, blast it all. Missed it and hated it. He missed being the one his uncle depended upon, the one his petit frère and petite sœur looked up to, the one who spent thousands of sleepless nights worrying about making the best possible decisions for the well-being of his family. The responsibility had been suffocating. But he’d loved it, because he loved them. Protecting his siblings was more than a duty. They were part of his soul.
And now they didn’t need him.
He should be thrilled. What better sign could there be that he’d fulfilled the promise he’d made to their parents? His siblings were safe and happy, in love and beloved.
They also weren’t going anywhere on the sixth of January. When Epiphany came, Lucien would have to sail for home without them.
He touched the waistcoat pocket that hid the tickets. Bastien had purchased boat passage believing the two brothers would make the trip side-by-side. Now he was working fewer hours and earning greater dividends than ever at the smithy. His wife Eve had gone from being an unpaid workhorse on her father’s gazette to being in charge of the castle’s public communications and well-compensated. They would still visit, Bastien said. All of them.
It wouldn’t be the same, but it would have to be enough.
Lucien would fulfill his final promise and restore his siblings’ birthright. It would be there if and when they wanted it, but more importantly, all the opportunities that had been taken from them would be there for future generations. Lucien’s children would never be laughed at, pointed at, or whispered about because they were too different from everyone else. They would grow up in a single, happy home, speak the same language as their neighbors, be treated with compassion and respect.
They would never have to doubt their place in the world. They’d be born into the life Lucien’s parents had wanted to give their own children.
Which meant, of course, that as soon as the family assets were restored, Lucien’s next priority would be securing an appropriate bride.
An image of laughing blue-gray eyes flashed through his mind.
He shook his head. Could there be a less suitable woman than Mademoiselle Church? No wonder she was a spinster. She was brash and boisterous, inappropriate and ill-bred, wicked and witty, surprisingly clever…
“Nether regions” reminded her of the Batavian Commonwealth? Why would anything remind her of the Batavian Commonwealth? “Redheaded champions” should make her think of… cow teats, perhaps. Something innocent. Didn’t she live in a dairy?
What’s more, how had she seen through him so clearly? She’d talked through the entire encounter and yet somehow managed to glean information he’d spent years concealing.
He hadn’t really let her nuzzle his chest, had he? Lucien rubbed the back of his neck. He’d known it wasn’t a real swoon, and yet he’d already caught her in his arms. It was too late. What was a gentleman supposed to do with a damsel in distress, even if her weak knees were the result of playacting? His flesh heated.
Part of him couldn’t help but wonder what their encounter might have been like if their fortunes were different. If Lucien were a lord, and she une dame. Would he have been appalled by her scandalous behavior and given her the cut direct in a fancy ballroom? Or would he have waltzed with her beneath a crystal chandelier and out through a garden door in order to steal a kiss beneath the moonlight?