Free Captivated by a Lady's Charm (Lords of Honor Book 2) by Christi Caldwell Page A

and now, ironically, as he’d inherited the late marquess’ mistakes, someone else’s sins, too. Only it was strictly Christian’s follies that haunted his dreams. Several creditors away from paucity with nothing to offer anyone but a damned title, there was nothing, nor would there ever be anything, romantic in such a person as he.
    “I did not mean to hurt your feelings,” his sister said quietly with an uncharacteristic seriousness.
    Involuntarily, the right corner of his mouth ticked up in a half-grin. “You’ve not offended me, poppet.” She’d merely spoken the truth and served to remind him of the direness of their circumstances. “Now,” he took her firmly but gently by the arm and guided her to her feet. “You are going to bed.”
    She made a sound of protest. “But—?”
    “Unless you care for me to share with Mother your inexplicable ability to have your governess avoid lessons in French, I suggest you seek out your chambers.”
    Lucinda widened her eyes. “You know that? How do you know that?”
    Christian waggled his brow. “I know everything,” he said as they reached the door. Except how to get himself out of debt and save his family and staff in a way that did not result in him bartering his freedom and taking some woman’s dowry.
    “Humph.” She glared at him. “It is wholly dishonorable for you to threaten to share my secrets with Mama.”
    No, dishonorable would be erroneously receiving the credit for actions at Waterloo, when, in fact, it was your best friend who’d fought off three French soldiers on horseback, while also single-handedly protecting Christian’s worthless life—and with nothing more than the edge of a bayonet, no less.
    Shame knifed through him, but he proved too much a coward to disabuse her of her foolish and wholly inaccurate notion. He inclined his head. “Good night, Luce.”
    “Oh, very well. Good night, Christian.”
    Christian stood staring after her as she disappeared down the hall and around the corner. With a sigh, he shut the door and this time remembered to turn the lock. His sister and her fanciful musings and bothersome questions aside, he returned to the stacks of ledgers enumerating the creditors owed.
    He sank into the folds of his father’s seat; the one piece Christian had brought with him from his previous life as baronet, to the new exalted, but bankrupt, position of marquess. Everything, from the unentailed property to the silver, had been sold off to cover the struggling crops and tenants. Christian picked up his glasses then popped them open. He placed them on the bridge of his nose, hoping they would help bring some clarity to the rather grim prospect.
    Except, his sister’s unwelcomed prodding had roused the reminders of what had brought them to London for the Season so very early—his need for a wife with plentiful coffers. In the scheme of uncommendable things he’d done in his life, this was hardly the greatest sin. As though to press down that particular point, his shoulder throbbed with the familiar pain from where that musket ball had torn through his person, cleanly exiting out the other side. So many men had lost more and suffered far worse. Others had given all, never to return. And yet, the weak, useless, and worse, dishonorable, Marquess of St. Cyr should live—now that was the great irony.
    A log tipped in the hearth and exploded in a spray of popping embers, calling his attention to the waning fire. His stomach churned with nausea. The blaze transported him back to the crack of a pistol, the horrified cry, lost amidst battlefield shouts, and then the burning of flesh. He pressed his eyes tight, but it was futile. When the memory crept in, it dug in with a tentacle-like hold and did not let him go. Nor should it. This time Toulouse merged with Waterloo and he was thrust into the heart of that famed battle, with the only thing between him and death at the hand of three French soldiers was Maxwell’s skill with a