Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe

by Cassandra Dean

  His chest tightened at the thought of his dead brother, but he pushed those feelings aside. Looking down at himself, he saw he still wore his breeches and boots, though his shirt was untucked and his waistcoat hung open. Somewhat presentable.

  It was a short order to stumble from his room and up the stairs to the attic, and even less to lurch to the Torrence side. He managed to be mostly quiet as he stumbled through their hallways, unerringly making his way to Lydia’s room.

  She was asleep, of course. He stood just inside the threshold of her chamber, vacillating. Should he wake her? She looked so peaceful, but he wanted to tell her…. The room started to spin. He shook his head. Why was it spinning? He put his hand out to steady himself. Something crashed to the floor, the sound muffled by the carpet. A lamp? What was a lamp doing there?

  She stirred. “Oliver?” she asked sleepily.

  “Lydia.” The vague thought crossed his mind that this was inappropriate, but he’d known her forever and Lord Demartine was like his uncle. “I went to the fight, Lydia.” The edge of her bed was right there. He sat and ran his hands though his hair. He hadn’t pulled it back, and it hung to his shoulders. The room stopped spinning. “It was amazing.”

  The corners of her lips lifted. “Did you perhaps celebrate?”

  He held up his hand, thumb and index finger held an inch apart. Was it an inch apart? He couldn’t really focus. “A little. The fight was amazing, Lydia.”

  Sitting up, she crossed her legs beneath the bedclothes. “Tell me about it.”

  And, happy to have the attention of the one person in the world whose attention he always wanted, he did.

  ***

  OLIVER WAS THIRTY YEARS and seven hours when Lydia stormed into his breakfast. “Happy birthday,” she growled, and then threw herself into a chair.

  He lifted his coffee cup to his lips. He knew from long experience not to ask when she was in one of these moods and that it was always best to let her tell him.

  He didn’t have to wait long. “I don’t see why I should learn the pianoforte,” she complained. “It is a stupid instrument, and I am bad at it besides.”

  “It is what all accomplished young ladies learn,” he said. “Don’t you want to be accomplished?”

  She shot him a dirty look. “It is a waste of time. Why do I need these lessons, when I shall be marrying you once I’m old enough?”

  He frowned into his cup. She had been saying the same thing since she was a small girl and though he’d tried numerous times to dissuade her, she stubbornly insisted that eventually they would wed. It was right to dissuade her. One day soon, she would realise boys her age were much more interesting and she would forget all about how she’d once wanted to marry him.

  Something ached in his chest. He eyed the sausage with distaste. He was too young to suffer a heart complaint, but perhaps he should cut back on rich foods just in case.

  “However,” she said, dispersing thoughts of early onset heart conditions. “It is your birthday. What should you like to do?”

  “I should like to enjoy my breakfast.”

  As quickly as that, her mood changed and she smiled, dazzling him with its brightness. “Then that is what we shall do.” Grabbing a piece of toast, she munched away, grinning all the while.

  Shaking his head, he drank his coffee. The funny thing was, there was no other person he wanted to spend his birthday with.

  ***

  OLIVER WAS THIRTY-ONE years and five months when he looked up from his desk, saw Lydia in the armchair opposite, and realised she had become a woman.

  She sat in her chair as she usually did, her legs drawn up under her. Her shoes lay discarded on the floor, and she twirled a lock of red-gold hair around her finger as she read yet another book on architecture, writing every now and then in the leather-bound notebook he’d given her for Christmas. He knew the book to be on architecture, because every book in the pile on the table next to her chair was on the same subject. The long line of her thigh was outlined by the flimsy gown, and the turn of her head emphasised the graceful sweep of her neck. Her lips were pink and her teeth bit into the plumpness of the lower one, her lashes dark fans on her cheeks. Her breasts—

  Christ. He wasn’t going to think about her breasts.

  He stood abruptly. “You have to leave.”

  Startled, Lydia looked up from her book. “Pardon?”

  His gaze locked on her lips, which were pink and full and— “You have to leave. Now.”

  Her brow creased. “Why?”

  “Because this is... It’s inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate? How is today different from yesterday?”

  “Because it is.”

  “You are making no sense, Oliver—”

  “And that’s another thing. You should refer to me as Roxwaithe.”

  Her brows just about shot off her forehead. “Now I know you’ve gone insane.”

  He needed her gone. He needed her gone so he could get his thoughts back in order and not think how soft her skin looked. “Please, Lydia. Please leave.”

  Slowly, she unfolded herself from the chair. “All right, but only because you are acting strange.”

  Good. Good. He waited impatiently for her to do so.

  She stopped. “Mama wanted to know if you would like to come to dinner tonight?”

  “Of course.” Anything to get her to leave.

  She nodded and then gave him the most glorious smile. Something squeezed near his heart.

  Once she left, he rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. It was an aberration, these thoughts. He was just surprised, was all. He knew she was growing older, knew she would make her debut after she turned eighteen, but he hadn’t known. Now he did.

  Tomorrow, all would be normal. He would look at her, see a woman, and that would be all.

  That had to be all. It had to.

  ***

  OLIVER WAS THIRTY-TWO years and four days when Lydia kissed him.

  Torrence House was ablaze in light, the ball celebrating Lydia’s eighteenth birthday in full swing. Arms behind his back, Oliver stood against the entrance hall wall. From his vantage, he could see into the ballroom while also noting each person who entered. Usually, he’d stand with Wainwright, but his friend had gotten himself married less than a month ago and was currently enjoying his honeymoon with the new Lady Wainwright.

  Most of society had turned out for Lydia’s birthday ball, and he knew his brother was somewhere in the throng. He hadn’t seen Stephen for weeks now and, judging by the crush of people at Torrence House, he wouldn’t be seeing him tonight either.

  He most likely wouldn’t see Lydia either. He hadn’t seen much of her in the preceding weeks, which was good. It was right. She was preparing for her debut, for dazzling the young men of their set with her wit and her warmth. He would not be surprised if she ended the season with a multitude of admirers, a plethora of proposals, and some young buck’s ring on her finger.

  His jaw clenched. And that was good. It was right.

  “Dancing, Roxwaithe?” Lord Demartine stood beside him. Lydia’s father was an imposing figure, his shock of brown hair only lightly sprinkled with grey.

  “No, sir,” he replied.

  “No, you always were more interested in observation.” His smile took the sting out of the words. “However, I implore you, find Lydia. All she can talk of is the fact she can dance with you at this ball.”

  Heat burned his cheeks. “Is it appropriate, sir?”

  “I don’t see why not.” He levelled hazel eyes upon him. “You’re a good lad, Roxwaithe. You know timing is everything.”

  “Sir?”

  “Find her, Roxwaithe. Have pity for my ears.” He clapped him on the shoulder and left.

  Entering the ballroom took only a few steps and there, in the middle of the dance floor, was Lydia. She laughed as her partner whirled her around, her red-gold curls bouncing. She wore a light-coloured gown cut low, her breasts almost plumped. The young men
around him stared at her with lust-filled eyes, not that she noticed but he sure as hell did. He scowled.

  She caught sight of him and the smile she wore turned radiant. The dance ended and she said something to her partner before she made her way to him.

  “Your father said you wished to dance,” he greeted her.

  “I did. I do. But I should like to show you something first.” Wiping her hands on her dress, she licked her lips. “Come with me?”

  Distracted by her tongue, he nodded dumbly and followed as she led him from the ballroom. It wasn’t until she’d led him to the darkened, empty library he realised where they were. And how inappropriate it was.

  “Lydia, what are we—”

  And that’s when she kissed him.

  Her lips were soft against his, untutored, but full of passion. For a moment, half a second, he kissed her back and his hands flexed, wanted to pull her body into his. Then, he realised what he was doing. Christ, what the hell was he doing?

  Pulling back, he held her from him by the shoulders. “What are you doing?”

  Great hazel eyes opened, blinked slowly. She licked her lips, and he wanted to trace the path with his own tongue. Guilt bit him. She had her father’s eyes. “Oliver”

  He bit back a curse, and then, fuck it, cursed anyway. “You cannot do such a thing. Is this how you behave with those boys?”

  The dazed look disappeared as anger took its place. “You—”

  “Do not make me tell Lord Demartine,” he continued.

  “Tell my father what?”

  “You— I—” Fuck. He couldn’t tell her father anything. “Your behaviour,” he said lamely.

  She lifted her chin. “He will not care.”

  “He bloody well will, if he knows his daughter throws herself at men old enough to be her—” Christ, was he really old enough to be her father? “Uncle.”

  She threw him a withering look. “You’re not that old.”

  “Old enough. And you are too young. Lydia, you’re barely eighteen.”

  “So?”

  “I’m thirty-two!”

  “So?”

  “No. Just no. Whatever you’re thinking, it can’t happen.”

  “I’m thinking I love you,” she said.

  His blood chilled. “You don’t know what love is.”

  “Don’t tell me what I know.”

  “Lydia, be serious. You have not even debuted to society yet. You will meet so many people, and you will forget.”

  “I won’t forget.” Her chin set mutinously. “I won’t change my mind. I love you, Oliver.”

  He shook his head. She couldn’t love him. It was a crush. Only a crush.

  “You are so obstinate.” Determination setting her jaw, she gripped his upper arms and stood on her toes. She was going to kiss him again. She was going to kiss him and he was going to have to resist. She was eighteen.

  “Lydia!”

  They both froze. Oliver didn’t want to turn. He knew that voice.

  “Lydia. Unhand Lord Roxwaithe.” Lord Demartine said.

  White-faced, Lydia stared at Oliver with wild eyes. “Papa—”

  “Now, Lydia.”

  Averting her gaze, she stepped back.

  His heart ached at the shame in her expression. He didn’t want her to feel…She shouldn’t feel shame. “Lydia—”

  “Find your mother, Lydia,” Lord Demartine said.

  “Yes, Papa,” she mumbled. Without a glance his way, she left the room.

  “Oliver.”

  He didn’t want to turn. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in Lord Demartine’s eyes. Eventually, he had no choice.

  Lord Demartine regarded him soberly. “She is eighteen, Oliver.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “She still has a lot to experience.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “You know timing is everything?”

  His brows drew. “Sir?”

  Lord Demartine regarded him for the longest time. Finally, he shook his head. “It is of no concern, Roxwaithe. Come.” He held his arm out, gestured. “We have a ball to attend.”

  Three months later, Lydia and her mother left for the Continent. Oliver told himself he was happy for her, that he didn’t require her constant presence in his life. He wouldn’t miss her.

  Oliver was thirty-two and three months when he knew he lied.

  Chapter One

  Roxegate,

  London, England,

  July, 1819

  HE’D READ THE SAME sentence three times.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Oliver focused on the report before him and ignored the complaints of his stomach. He’d been at his desk since seven o’clock that morning, and he’d only just realised he’d missed lunch. Par for the course, really. His staff knew not to disturb him when the study door was shut and would no doubt deliver a larger dinner to make up for the shortfall, if he remembered to make his way to the dining room. Perhaps he should take a small break and ring for a footman to deliver a sandwich or some such, but from the corner of his eye he saw the towers of reports and papers his secretary had left this morning and discarded it as the wishful thinking it was.

  Exhaling, he leant his head on the back of his chair and looked out the window, resolving to ignore his stomach. Outside it was murky and grey, but when was London not murky and grey? The murky afternoon would pass into a murky evening, and then turn to a murky morning. London was nothing if not consistent. The street lamp outside the window would soon be lit, and then carriages against cobblestones would rumble past as society travelled to their amusements for the evening.

  He’d remain in his study and work, as he had most evenings for the past year and a half. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d attended a gathering of society, apart from the occasional dinner at Torrence House or with Wainwright and his lady. There was too much to do and there was little to tempt him to abandon it.

  Without him realising, his gaze had strayed to the chair by the fireplace and the stack of books on the table beside it.

  Jerking his gaze back where it belonged, Oliver leant over the report open on his desk. This one was from the steward of Waithe Hall, the usual quarterly report. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d been to Waithe Hall since becoming the earl but he’d not stayed there, instead staying at Bentley Close, the neighbouring estate owned by the Earl of Demartine. Waithe Hall held too many ghosts.

  Exhaling steadily, he glanced at the report and his gaze snagged on an odd phrase. Frowning, he reread the passage. The villagers of Waithe Village were still reporting strange lights troubling Waithe Hall, and the report claimed wild stories rioted in its wake. The villagers spoke of ghosts and ghouls, with a particular favourite being the old legend of a housekeeper of Waithe Hall roaming in search of her lost keys. He remembered as children, Alexandra and Maxim would search the hall for her keys and—

  He drew in his breath. A dull ache pained him at the thought of his lost brother.

  Shaking himself, he closed the report. He’d mentioned this phenomenon to Lord Demartine last month, but the earl had dismissed the report as so much talk, citing the Hall’s history of ghost stories that always amounted to nothing.

  His gaze again strayed to the chair opposite. Jerking his gaze away, he focussed on a report of the Roxwaithe shipping concern. They’d come close to losing another shipment on the passage around South Africa, treacherous waters and pirates doing their utmost to inflict damage. Lord Demartine had been right in his advice, however. The employ of a master navigator and a host of security staff had taken care of both concerns. Lord Demartine often said to make money one had to spend money, and the adage had proved true once more.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he exhaled. At least he had no parliamentary concerns. The summer session had ended the week previous, though he would remain in London through autumn and most of winter. Perhaps in the new year he would visit the Penzance estate. Lord and Lady Demartine were d
ue to tour the Continent, and their children would more than likely remove to Bentley Close in the coming months. There would be nothing in London bar work, and he could do that by the sea as well as he could do it in the capital.

  The door to his study opened. “I am not ready, Rajitha,” he said. “Come back in an hour.”

  “Roxwaithe?”

  His head jerked up.

  Instead of his secretary, a woman stood in the doorway. Light from the large windows in the entrance hall outlined her form and cast the rest of her in shadow. For a moment, for half a second, his heart beat faster and an inexplicable joy crashed through him. Then she stepped forward.

  She wasn’t as tall, and her hair was blonde instead of a reddish kind of gold. Her dress was a sensible shade of cream, and she wore a mint green spencer, the short jacket suggesting she had traversed the street between their houses rather than clamber through their shared attic.

  It wasn’t disappointment he felt. Of course it wouldn’t be her.

  Standing, he greeted Lydia’s sister. “Lady Alexandra.”

  “Lord Roxwaithe.” At his gesture, Alexandra seated herself in the chair before his. “How are you?”

  “I am well.” This was odd. He couldn’t recall Alexandra had ever entered his study, unlike Lydia, who had burst through the door more times than he could possibly recall. “And you? Your family?”

  “I and they are well. My mother asks after you and invites you to dine with us Wednesday next.”

  “I should be delighted to attend.” It was a strange circumstance with Alexandra. He’d know her since her birth but she always brought to mind his brother. As children, she and Maxim had been joined at the hip and no matter the years that had passed since his death, the sight of Alexandra Torrence brought a deluge of memories and with them, a wave of grief. “Will it be family only?”

  She nodded. “Though my middle brother is still on tour. George is still in Prague. We receive letters from him on occasion, and always filled with the most excruciating details. Apparently, he has discovered a history of grotesquery in an abandoned medical clinic outside Karlin.”