Page 78 of His Arranged Duchess
James swallowed thickly. He suddenly looked exhausted and ancient.
“Somebody had to,” he whispered.
Lucien jerked back to the present, almost losing his balance. He put out a hand reflexively, leaning against the papered wall for balance.
Frances was gone. She had left him standing there in the hallway like a fool, staring after her.
At once, he started forward, intending to run after her, but of course, it was too late. He had been lost in his reverie for only a minute or two, but it was unlikely he would find her now. She had probably already left.
He passed a shaking hand over his face.
The truth was that the story he had concocted—that his father’s death was an accident, and that he was the one who had pushed him—felt like the real one. The truth was, of course, much simpler.
James had pushed his father, and he had intended to do so. In fact, Lucien was glad things had worked out the way they did. Otherwise, he suspected that James might have beaten their father to death with his own cane, andthatwould have been much harder to explain away.
In the short months before Lucien tactfully chose to leave the country, everything had changed. Mary-Jane became sullen and withdrawn. James stayed in his study all day and all night, barely eating. Lucien stared at caricatures of himself in the newspapers, depicted as a devil-child murdering a parent.
It wasn’t just our cursed father who died that way.
A gentleman with a lady on his arm passed by, shooting Lucien an odd look. Lucien gave himself a shake, turned on his heel, and strode back to the opera box.
He’d half expected Benjamin to have left. But no, he still remained, sitting in Lucien’s seat, his elbow on the armrest and his fist pressed against his mouth. The opera had resumed, and a woman was singing on stage, arms outstretched, her voice powerful enough to shake the rafters.
For a split second, Benjamin did not notice that Lucien had returned. He sat still, eyes fixed unseeingly on the stage. There was a furrow between his brows.
And then he turned around, and something like wariness crept into his face.
“Lucien, there you are. You haven’t missed much, only…”
“Why did you do it?” Lucien interrupted.
Benjamin paled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Lucien took a step forward, and Benjamin flinched.
“Yes, I think perhaps you do. Stand up.”
When Benjamin did not immediately respond, Lucien dived forward, fisting his hands in his jacket and hauling him bodilyto his feet. Light glinted off countless opera glasses in the boxes opposite them, their attention attracted by movement and the promise of scandal.
“Get off me!” Benjamin hissed, tearing himself away. “It is not my fault you chose not to tell your wife something so important. Why shouldn’t she know the truth, anyway? James is dead, and Mary-Jane is gone from Society. Why should you be considered a murderer?”
“That is not the point,” Lucien snarled. “This was my secret. I told you the truth in confidence because I believed that you were my friend. I believed that you cared. I believed that you would never do what you have done.”
“Oh, and do tell me what I have done.”
“You told my wife something that you knew would distress her. You wanted to paint me as an untrustworthy liar, somebody who did not care enough to tell her the truth.”
“Well, whydidn’tyou tell her the truth?”
There was a beat of silence. Lucien swallowed hard, trying and failing to gather his thoughts.
“I was afraid,” Lucien murmured at last, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
Benjamin sighed, shaking his head. “This isn’t like you, Lucien. You aren’t generally so weak.”
He ground his teeth. “Don’t call me weak.”
“Listen to me,” Benjamin took a step forward, tentatively laying a hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “Let’s leave this dull old opera behind and go to some clubs. Let’s have some real fun.”
