“Where isMr. Breedlove?”
“She’s a widow,” Delacorte said somberly.
Lucien nodded silently. Better and better.
“Perhaps you’ve both noticed that they’re both beautiful,” he said idly.
After a moment, Mr. Cassidy smiled slowly, ruefully at that. A tacit acknowledgment that all men of the species, no matter how formidable, were at the mercy of beauty.
And said nothing more.
He might get to like Cassidy.
“Have you got a wife, Bolt?” Delacorte ventured.
Lucien made an impatient sound. “Dear God, what would I want with one of those?”
They all laughed.
And when they were done laughing, Delacorte cleared his throat. “Actually I’m hoping to get me one of those.”
“Of course you are,” Lucien said. He blew a lazy ring of smoke into the room. “Perfect thing for you.”
“She’d knock the rough edges from me.”
“Justwhat I was thinking,” Lucien said.
He suddenly remembered Mrs. Breedlove’s expression, and her fists in the air snapping down. He felt his back teeth clamp. Thetemerityof the woman to lecture him that way.
But the restlessness he felt were her words scraping against his conscience. His own scrupulous sense of honesty forced the question: Was she right?
Perhaps he’d become the sort of man who could no longer recognize the good in others. Who could no longer respond to kindness with kindness. A little too dismissive. A little too like his father.
The notion made him uncomfortable.
“You’d be amazed what women want, Delacorte,” he added. More conciliatorily.
“You, I would expect,” Delacorte said sadly.
“Usually,” Bolt agreed vaguely. Sympathetically. “But a woman will come along who has eyes only for you.”
Did he believe this? He’d never really given it any thought. He’d known love in his life, but it came hand in hand with devastation. He had not even bothered envisioning an ordinary life; he still felt a bit like he was at the mercy of the heaving wave of fate that had taken him across the world. He was back with a mission. He would be glad when it was done. But beyond that he hadn’t yet imagined.
He’d made Delacorte smile, however.
“What about your mistress?” Delacorte seemed to relish the opportunity to casually use such a controversial word in a sentence.
“She left me to marry a wealthier man than I was at the time. I cannot say that I blame her.”
Somehow, once again, he’d created an utter nonplussed silence.
“Do you... miss her?” Delacorte ventured.
Lucien fixed him with a long, pained stare. A man could only endure so much. “For heaven’s sake... Delacorte. What on earth about me makes you think I might be a sentimental man?”
Delacorte was uncowed. “It’s just that it always struck me as rather sad when people leave.”
He has a kind heart, Mrs. Breedlove said.