about kissing his wife’s company. His stomach muscles clenched involuntarily at the horrifying prospect of losing his post. After years of living in a depressed state and resisting the urge to kill himself, he’d found purpose. He couldn’t lose this stability.
“As you’re aware, Lady Sherborne visited with my wife this afternoon.”
The pressure built inside his chest. He nodded slowly. “I’m aware of that, Captain,” he said cautiously.
The marquess carried his glass over to his desk and propped his hip against the edge. “Why, don’t you sit, Jones?” He waved his glass, motioning to the leather winged back chair at the foot of his desk.
Lucien hesitated and then with wooden movements, crossed over and took the proffered seat. Nausea churned in his belly. Since he’d fled Kent, thin, haggard and broken, he’d handled himself with an unflappable composure. Or he had. Until that blasted momentary loss of sanity in his employer’s foyer just a short while ago. With his lone hand, he tightly gripped the arm of his chair.
Lord Drake swirled the contents of his glass and then took a sip. “The Viscount Hereford is your father,” he said without preamble.
Lucien blinked. “Captain?” The question emerged haltingly as he tried to piece together not only the marquess’ discovery but also his interest in Lucien’s origins.
The other man took another sip and then set his glass down beside him with a soft thunk. “Surely you didn’t believe that I believed with your bought commission of lieutenant that you were not of some means.”
He narrowed his eyes. By God this was not about his kissing Eloise until she was pliant in his arms.
… I know what happens from here, you’ll forever resent me for it, but know I did everything I did for that love of you…
“I’m not of some means,” he said coolly. By God…Eloise! A slow, seething rage fanned out. He balled his hand into a fist. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“Very well, then you didn’t believe you came from means? It’s the same, though isn’t it, Jones?” he said pragmatically.
“It isn’t.”
“It is not my right to pry into your past.”
Then don’t. Lucien snapped his teeth together hard, gritting them to keep from hurling those disrespectful words at the man, who with his wife, had breathed life into him once again.
“I blamed my father for my enlistment,” Drake said quietly. As though filled with a sudden disquiet, the other man picked up his glass. He stared into the half-filled contents, seeing a world that only existed behind his eyes. Though Lucien ventured he knew a good deal about those visions there.
“Captain?” They were the kind of memories that robbed you of sleep and stole your sanity with one loud sound that transported you to the bloody battlefields.
The marquess gave his head a shake and took another sip. “It was the height of immaturity to enlist. I resented my betrothal to Emmaline and sought to escape my father’s domineering control of my life.” His lips twisted in a hard, bitter smile. “Yet, ultimately it was my decision. I spent years hating my father. Hating myself.”
Lucien well knew that. He lived with that very same hatred. Perhaps every man who returned did.
“It took my wife to teach me that hate is futile and useless. We lived, when others died…and to live our lives full of loathing and bitterness is a waste of that life.”
“You have a reason to live,” Lucien spat. The marquess hadn’t lost his wife and child.
Lord Drake shifted his hip. “I imagine you do, as well. If you’d but see it.” With that, he shoved himself up from his reclined position and carried his glass behind his desk. “I’m giving you three weeks.”
He shook his head slowly, uncomprehendingly. “I don’t—?”
“You’re welcome to a horse in my stables and a carriage.” He sat in his leather seat, the aged chair crackled noisily. “Go see your father, Jones.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
“As you’re aware, Lady Sherborne visited with my wife this afternoon.”
The pressure built inside his chest. He nodded slowly. “I’m aware of that, Captain,” he said cautiously.
The marquess carried his glass over to his desk and propped his hip against the edge. “Why, don’t you sit, Jones?” He waved his glass, motioning to the leather winged back chair at the foot of his desk.
Lucien hesitated and then with wooden movements, crossed over and took the proffered seat. Nausea churned in his belly. Since he’d fled Kent, thin, haggard and broken, he’d handled himself with an unflappable composure. Or he had. Until that blasted momentary loss of sanity in his employer’s foyer just a short while ago. With his lone hand, he tightly gripped the arm of his chair.
Lord Drake swirled the contents of his glass and then took a sip. “The Viscount Hereford is your father,” he said without preamble.
Lucien blinked. “Captain?” The question emerged haltingly as he tried to piece together not only the marquess’ discovery but also his interest in Lucien’s origins.
The other man took another sip and then set his glass down beside him with a soft thunk. “Surely you didn’t believe that I believed with your bought commission of lieutenant that you were not of some means.”
He narrowed his eyes. By God this was not about his kissing Eloise until she was pliant in his arms.
… I know what happens from here, you’ll forever resent me for it, but know I did everything I did for that love of you…
“I’m not of some means,” he said coolly. By God…Eloise! A slow, seething rage fanned out. He balled his hand into a fist. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“Very well, then you didn’t believe you came from means? It’s the same, though isn’t it, Jones?” he said pragmatically.
“It isn’t.”
“It is not my right to pry into your past.”
Then don’t. Lucien snapped his teeth together hard, gritting them to keep from hurling those disrespectful words at the man, who with his wife, had breathed life into him once again.
“I blamed my father for my enlistment,” Drake said quietly. As though filled with a sudden disquiet, the other man picked up his glass. He stared into the half-filled contents, seeing a world that only existed behind his eyes. Though Lucien ventured he knew a good deal about those visions there.
“Captain?” They were the kind of memories that robbed you of sleep and stole your sanity with one loud sound that transported you to the bloody battlefields.
The marquess gave his head a shake and took another sip. “It was the height of immaturity to enlist. I resented my betrothal to Emmaline and sought to escape my father’s domineering control of my life.” His lips twisted in a hard, bitter smile. “Yet, ultimately it was my decision. I spent years hating my father. Hating myself.”
Lucien well knew that. He lived with that very same hatred. Perhaps every man who returned did.
“It took my wife to teach me that hate is futile and useless. We lived, when others died…and to live our lives full of loathing and bitterness is a waste of that life.”
“You have a reason to live,” Lucien spat. The marquess hadn’t lost his wife and child.
Lord Drake shifted his hip. “I imagine you do, as well. If you’d but see it.” With that, he shoved himself up from his reclined position and carried his glass behind his desk. “I’m giving you three weeks.”
He shook his head slowly, uncomprehendingly. “I don’t—?”
“You’re welcome to a horse in my stables and a carriage.” He sat in his leather seat, the aged chair crackled noisily. “Go see your father, Jones.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
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