Page 25 of Lucien's Gamble

“I said you look like hell.”

“I heard that part,” he muttered, wiping his hand on a linen napkin. “It was the rest of it I missed.”

“No, you didn’t. I met your love last night.”

Lucien blinked, his head spinning. “What did you say?”

Amanda dropped two lumps of sugar into her tea. “She’s lovely and feisty.”

“Julienne washere?”He shot to his feet.“Last night?”

“Sit down, Lucien. I shall get a neck cramp looking up at you.”

Frowning, he sat.

His Julienne?Here?In the midst of London’s demimonde? He flushed.

“It bothers you that she was here?” his mother asked.

“Why was she here?”

Amanda smiled. “She was dragging her scapegrace brother home.”

Lucien stood again. “Montrose is back?” He swallowed hard. This was dreadful. Now Fontaine could pay his addresses.

“Lucien, please! Sit down.”

Again he dropped dutifully into the seat. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely, fighting off a mild panic.

“She was quite firm with him, scolding him and ordering him to start accepting his responsibilities.”

Lucien couldn’t hold back a smile. Fierce, passionate, no-nonsense Julienne.

Amanda smiled over the rim of her cup. “And when Montrose made a nasty comment about you, she defended you. I wish you could have heard her. She was magnificent.”

The nausea he’d been fighting all morning suddenly worsened.

Last night.After the things he’d done and said to her, Julienne had defended him anyway.

His head dropped into his hands. Damnation. He would have felt better if she’d maligned him right along with her brother.

This morning he’d been certain there was no more wretched person on earth than himself. He’d believed it wasn’t possible to feel any worse.

But he did. Much worse.

How would he ever make amends to her? Fueled by brandy, jealousy had eaten him alive. Julienne had spoken with Fontaine at length. The sight of them together had crushed him further. They presented a dashing couple—two perfect, blond, beautiful aristocrats. The handsome marquess had staked an obvious claim to Julienne, and Lucien had wanted nothing more than to rip them apart.

He’d determined to make her as jealous as he was, to force her to share in his misery. But when he’d succeeded, when she’d fled the room in obvious distress, he’d followed, unable to do otherwise. The smell of her, the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth—he’d been consumed by a singular madness. To give her up, to lose her, was nigh unbearable, and he’d wanted her to say she felt the same. He’d wanted her to fight for him, and when she had, when she’d turned the tables, he’d wanted her even more.

“Lucien?” His mother’s voice was filled with concern.

He slid his hands through his hair and laced them at the back of his neck. He looked at his mother with a pained smile. “I’ve made a mess of things again.”

The parlor door opened.

“Good morning!” the duke greeted as he entered.

Lucien rose from his chair and extended his hand to the man with whom he bore a remarkable resemblance. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

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