It was while he was wrestling with these torturous reflections in the library that the sound of approaching voices drew his attention to the corridor beyond the half-open door. He recognized Evangeline's clear tones immediately, though her companion's voice carried the sort of cultured accent that marked members of the highest circles of London society.
"Lady Worthington," Evangeline was saying with obvious gratitude, "your continued support during these difficult circumstances means more to me than you can possibly imagine. I had feared that Edmund's accusations might result in our complete ostracism from polite society."
"Nonsense, my dear," came the older woman's brisk reply. "Anyone with eyes can see that His Grace is perfectly competent to manage his affairs. The very notion that a man of his obvious intelligence and capability should be declared incompetent is simply preposterous."
Lucian felt a surge of gratitude toward Lady Worthington for her staunch defense, though he noted with bitter irony that even she based her assessment upon his apparent rather than actual condition. How different might her opinion be if she knew the full extent of his physical limitations or the depth of his psychological struggles?
"You are very kind," Evangeline replied with warmth that suggested genuine friendship had developed between the two women. "Though I confess myself sometimes amazed by the complexity of the situation I find myself in."
"Complex indeed," Lady Worthington agreed with sympathetic understanding. "Though you must not blame yourself for the circumstances that led to your marriage. A young woman facing destitution can hardly be expected to refuse an offer of security, regardless of other considerations."
The words struck Lucian like physical blows, confirming his worst fears about Evangeline's motivations with devastating clarity. Even Lady Worthington, who had seemed genuinely impressed by their partnership, understood that his wife had married him from necessity rather than inclination.
"I try not to dwell upon what might have been," Evangeline said quietly, her voice carrying a note of something that might have been regret or perhaps simple resignation. "Though Icannot deny that there are moments when I wonder what sort of life I might have had under different circumstances."
"Of course, you do, my dear. Any woman would. To be bound to a man so altered by his experiences, however noble those experiences might have been, it requires considerable strength of character."
Lucian's hands clenched involuntarily at Lady Worthington's delicate phrasing, though he could not fault her assessment of his condition. He was indeed altered, damaged beyond repair by experiences that had left him unfit for normal human relationships. That Evangeline endured his presence with such grace spoke to her remarkable character, not to any genuine affection for his person.
"He is not without admirable qualities," Evangeline replied with the sort of careful diplomacy that confirmed Lady Worthington's implications while maintaining appropriate loyalty. "His intelligence is considerable, and his sense of honour quite remarkable. Under different circumstances..."
She trailed off without completing the thought, leaving Lucian to imagine what sort of marriage might have been possible had he returned unscarred by war's devastation. Would she have been able to love the man he had been before? Could she ever feel anything beyond dutiful sympathy for the scarred recluse he had become?
"Indeed," Lady Worthington said with gentle understanding. "One can only hope that time and adjustment might make your situation more comfortable."
Comfortable. The word encapsulated everything that was wrong with their marriage—she was learning to be comfortable with a husband she could never truly love, finding ways to endure what could never be genuinely enjoyed. It was a grim prospect for both of them, though he supposed it represented the best outcome either could reasonably expect from theirpractical arrangement.
"I should return to my correspondence," Evangeline said with obvious desire to conclude a conversation that had grown painful in its implications. "There are several matters requiring my attention before dinner."
"Of course, my dear. And remember, you have friends who understand the particular challenges of your situation. You need not face them entirely alone."
Their footsteps retreated down the corridor, leaving Lucian alone with the devastating knowledge that his wife viewed their marriage as a burden to be endured rather than a blessing to be cherished. Her loyalty was real, her determination to defend him genuine, but both stemmed from duty rather than love—from pity for a damaged man rather than affection for a cherished husband.
The realization filled him with such profound self-loathing that he could barely remain seated in his chair. How could he have allowed himself to believe, even briefly, that a woman of her beauty and character might develop genuine feelings for a scarred recluse whose appearance frightened children? What monumental arrogance had led him to hope that duty might transform into something deeper and more meaningful?
She deserved so much better than what he could offer—a young, handsome husband whose touch would inspire desire rather than dutiful submission, whose presence would bring joy rather than social complications, whose love could be returned with genuine passion rather than sympathetic tolerance. By continuing their marriage, he was condemning her to a life of polite endurance that would gradually erode whatever happiness she might otherwise have known.
The competency proceedings, he realized with sudden clarity, might actually provide the solution to their mutual dilemma. If Edmund succeeded in having their marriageannulled on grounds of his mental incapacity, Evangeline would be free to seek the sort of love match that her character deserved. She could claim to have been deceived about his condition, present herself as an innocent victim of his alleged diminished judgment, and emerge from the scandal with both her reputation and her future intact.
It would be the kindest gift he could give her, freedom from a marriage that brought her nothing but social peril and personal sacrifice. Even if the legal proceedings destroyed his own reputation and autonomy, at least she would be spared the burden of spending her life bound to a man she could never truly love.
The decision, once made, brought with it a curious sense of relief that felt almost like peace. He would withdraw his opposition to the competency proceedings, cooperate with Edmund's efforts to have their marriage dissolved, and free Evangeline to pursue the happiness that association with him made impossible. It was the honorable course, the only choice that prioritized her welfare over his own desperate desire for companionship.
When she appeared in the library several hours later, radiant in evening dress and clearly prepared for the dinner party they were scheduled to attend at Lord Melbourne's mansion, Lucian felt his resolution waver at the sight of her beauty. How could he bear to lose her, even if losing her was the right thing to do?
"Are you ready to depart?" she asked with the sort of warm courtesy that had marked their interactions since Edmund's legal assault had begun, though he now recognized such warmth as sympathy rather than genuine affection. "Lord Melbourne's dinners are notoriously punctual, and we should not wish to appear discourteous by arriving tardily."
"I fear I must cry off from this evening's entertainment,"he replied with careful neutrality, rising from his desk to face her directly. "There are several matters requiring my immediate attention that cannot be postponed for social obligations."
"Matters?" Her expression grew concerned, and he noted with bitter irony how quickly she assumed that his withdrawal might signal some deterioration in his mental state. "Nothing too pressing, I hope? You have seemed somewhat distracted since the solicitors' visit."
"Nothing that need concern you," he said with deliberate coolness, beginning the process of establishing the emotional distance that would make their eventual separation less painful for both of them. "I am certain you will represent our family admirably without my presence."
Something flickered across her features at his dismissive tone—surprise, perhaps, or the beginning of hurt confusion. "Lucian, what is wrong? You have been different since yesterday. Distant. Have I done something to displease you?"
The genuine concern in her voice nearly undid his resolve, reminding him of all the reasons he had begun to hope their marriage might become something more than mere convenience. Yet her very willingness to blame herself for his withdrawal only confirmed that she viewed their relationship as a duty requiring careful management rather than a partnership based on mutual affection.
"You have done nothing wrong," he replied with the sort of formal courtesy that effectively ended further inquiry. "I merely find myself in need of solitude to address certain personal matters."
