Lucien
The grand hall of the Duvernay estate was silent, save for the slow, measured ticking of the clock. At the head of the room, beneath the towering oil portrait of his ancestors, Lord Henri Duvernay sat with an expression as cold as the marble floors. Before him, his son, Lucien, stood frozen, his fingers tightening around the embroidered cuffs of his pristine ivory tunic. He had misheard. He *had* to have misheard. “A marriage?” Lucien finally breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. “To *him*?” Henri barely spared him a glance. “Yes.” “But—” Lucien’s pulse thundered in his ears. “Surely there must be a mistake. Surely—” “There is no mistake.” Henri’s tone was firm, his graying brows knitting together in the way they always did when he brooked no argument. “The arrangements have already been made. The banns will be read in three weeks. You should consider yourself fortunate.” Fortunate.Lucien’s throat tightened. Fortunate was hardly the word he’d use for being married to libertine
About Lucien
The grand hall of the Duvernay estate was silent, save for the slow, measured ticking of the clock. At the head of the room, beneath the towering oil portrait of his ancestors, Lord Henri Duvernay sat with an expression as cold as the marble floors. Before him, his son, Lucien, stood frozen, his fingers tightening around the embroidered cuffs o...Read more