“No reason,” Lydia said, wishing herself anywhere but here.
“Ah. Well, it was peculiar and many commented on it at the time. However, that is now past, is it not, and you have such delicious new gossip.” Her eyes brightened. “Tell me about the Duke of Meacham. He seems quite taken with you.”
She had no idea how to respond and so she didn’t.
“Though, if I recall correctly, you had forever set your cap for another.” Her smile cut precisely. “Were you not to wed Lord Roxwaithe?”
Lydia had only ever told people close to her about her certainty she would marry Oliver. Her parents knew. Her siblings. Violet. And, when she was young, stupid and under the impression they were friends, she’d told Seraphina Waller-Mitchell. Seraphina Waller-Mitchell was how she had learnt you did not trust everyone.
“Should we expect an announcement shortly?” Seraphina continued. “I have been scouring the papers daily awaiting the bans. Do share what is taking so long.”
Holding her elbows, Lydia pressed her arms into her ribs.
Seraphina, of course, did not require a response. “Perhaps it is Lord Roxwaithe has not yet proposed? Whatever could be keeping him? Or is it that he just does not want you.”
Holding her chin up, Lydia kept her gaze locked with Seraphina’s. She would not let Seraphina Waller-Mitchell see how deeply she cut, she would not.
“Is that it? Did you declare yourself and he refused? He would have done it gently, would he not? Lord Roxwaithe is nothing if not a gentleman.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, and cursed that her voice cracked.
“Because, my dear.” Smiling, she leant forward. “I don’t like you.”
Lydia could not speak, could only watch as a satisfied smirk settled on the other woman’s pink lips.
“Do be sure to invite me to the wedding,” Seraphina said, tapping her fan lightly against Lydia’s arm. With another smile, she glided into the throng.
Lydia sucked in a breath, but she couldn’t get enough air. She couldn’t let others see. She couldn’t stand here. She couldn’t—
She fled.
The room passed in a blur, and the hallway too, and then she found herself in a dark, quiet room. Wrapping her arms about her middle, she sank to the floor. Seraphina was right to mock her. She was stupid. She was naive. She was so stupidly young, believing a man like Oliver would love her, confusing friendship with love. He had never encouraged her, and every moment, every look she thought to be confirmation she now knew never was, was always nothing more than his friendship.
Taking a shuddering breath, she covered her face with her hands. Friendship. It was what he offered and it was what she would accept. She couldn’t not have him in her life. He meant too much...and perhaps everyone was right. It was a crush, and she would tell herself that until she believed it.
Chapter Seven
PULLING THE BELL, OLIVER stared impatiently at the door to Torrence House. He’d rushed through that morning’s work, had forced himself to eat a sedate lunch and finalise instruction for Rajitha to continue work in the afternoon without him before he’d fairly rushed through his door to hers, taking all of two minutes to clear the space between their houses.
Bouncing on his feet, he fought the urge to bash on the door. What was taking Jonas so long?
Finally, the door swung open, and the butler’s dour face cracked a smile. “Lord Roxwaithe. A pleasure, sir.”
“As it is to see you, Jonas.” He allowed the butler to take his gloves and greatcoat. It was ridiculous to don such for the two minutes it took to get from his house to hers, but society dictated more ridiculous things. “Lady Lydia is at home?”
“She is, my lord. In the blue room. Lady Demartine is with her, and I believe Lord Somerset is also in attendance.”
Surprise rose his brows. Harry was here? He hadn’t seen Lydia’s eldest brother in weeks, Harry obsessed with spending every moment with his betrothed. “Somerset is here?”
The butler’s mouth twitched. “I was surprised, too, my lord.”
“Well, lead on, Jonas. This I have to see.”
Following the butler to the blue room, he pulled at his shirtsleeves as if that would temper the giddy thrum in his veins. The door opened and he found her unerringly, as he always did. She wore a yellow concoction of a dress, a splash of pale sunshine. Her hair was swept up in a complicated arrangement of knots and curls, displaying the smooth column of her neck. The demure fichu hinted at her collarbones and chest and did not quite disguise the swell of her breasts. She laughed, and he found himself smiling, happy he would finally speak with her like they always had. He took a step toward her.
“The Earl of Roxwaithe,” Jonas announced hastily.
Red stained his cheeks. In his eagerness, he’d completely ignored protocol. It did not matter, though. Lydia had not heard, instead laughing at something the pup before her—Verdon—said.
The room suddenly took shape. There were people here. So many people, and all of them centred about Lydia. Lady Demartine sat to one side, ostensibly embroidering but clearly enjoying the attention her youngest daughter garnered.
Lydia turned to listen to one of her suitors, the sweep of her neck leading to her barely covered breasts. The fichu was damn near see-through, and he noticed all the men noticing. He wanted to storm through the pack, pull their heads up so their eyes were where they belonged—
Christ. What was he thinking?
Inhaling slowly, he forced himself calm. Lydia was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. He’d observed her do so many, many times, and after she’d told him in no uncertain terms she did not require his protection. The last time he’d attempted it, with that cull Whitton, he’d hurt her. No way in hell was he hurting her again.
The boys still clustered around her, competing to draw her attention. Last night when he had suggested this visitation, he had not considered that Lydia was now out. Had not considered others would dance attendance upon her. Had not considered the season had yet one more week, and both she, her brothers and her sister would have friends and admirers visit their home. He’d, stupidly, thought he would have her to himself.
“It’s a bit like Bedlam, isn’t it?” Beside him, Harry Torrence stood regarding his sister with a bewildered kind of pride. “I don’t know how she gets them to come to heel,” the young Lord Somerset continued. “She’s like the Pied Piper, but with men of aristocracy.”
“Is it always like this?” Oliver asked, hoping like hell he’d disguised the fact he hadn’t noticed Harry’s presence until he’d spoken.
“More often than not. Lydia is a bit of a hit, you know.”
Harry Torrence, the master of understatement.
“I believe Father refuses suits for her hand—suits, you understand—almost daily.”
Oliver’s head whipped around. Too fast. “What?”
Rolling his eyes, Harry amended, “Maybe not that often, but it might as well be. She’s made quite the impression. It’s a bit disconcerting, really. I remember frog spawn in my slippers. Gave me a deathly fear of nightwear.” He shuddered.
Oliver rubbed the crick in his neck. The throng around Lydia had thinned a little, but there was still a gaggle of young men vying for her attention. Harry was right. It was Bedlam.
“What brings you here, Roxwaithe?” Harry asked. “It’s been an age since you attended one of these events.”
“Thought I’d visit with the family. It has, as you say, been a while.”
“You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you? Another hour, and these people will be gone. Tessa’s coming with her parents this evening, and you haven’t met her properly yet.” Harry fairly glowed at the mention of his betrothed.
“Of course. It would be a delight to dine with your family and your fiancée.” What would it be like to feel so strongly about another person, it burst from you? His gaze slid to Lydia. She was holding court admirably, making sure each buck was heard but none favoured.
&n
bsp; Lydia’s gaze found him. A glorious smile lit her face, genuine and blinding. A thrum began in his veins, and he took half a step toward her.
“Lydia’s got you on her hook, too.”
“Pardon?” He dragged his gaze back.
Shaking his head, Harry regarded him with a grin. “Damn, Alexandra was right. I owe her a guinea.”
Brow creasing, he said, “I don’t understand.”
“No, but you will.” Harry’s gaze slid to his sister. “She always did say.”
“Say what?” But Harry had already left.
Frowning, Oliver regarded Lydia. What was that all about? She found his gaze again and, the barest hint of a smile playing about her lips, she surreptitiously rolled her eyes. He raised a brow in response, Harry’s odd comments forgotten.
It took only a moment to be by her side. “Lady Lydia.” He tried not to smirk at the radiance of her smile, brighter than any he’d seen her give another.
“Oliv— Roxwaithe. You have come.” She beamed up at him and her warmth invaded him, making his heart light and he wanted to grin in return but first….
He looked at the lad opposite her. The lad blanched and abandoned his seat. Oliver replaced him. The others clustered about her watched him warily and, one by one, they offered their apologies to Lydia and departed. Well, all but one.
“Tell us, Roxwaithe, why do you come?” Verdon blustered.
“Why should I not?” he said, his tone chilled.
Verdon blanched. “I had not thought to see you here, is all,” he stammered.
Stretching his arm along the back of the settee, Oliver levelled a stare on him.
Lord Verdon shot to his feet. “I beg your pardon, Lady Lydia, I did not notice the time. I must be on my way.”
“Of course.” She waited until Verdon had cleared the door before raising a brow at Oliver. “You do know how to scatter a room,”
He shrugged. “It is a gift. Do you like any of them?”
“I like all of them,” she said, picking up her needlework.
“Any one in particular?”
“Don’t try that with me. It won’t work,” she said.
“What won’t work?”
“That. That look. Your I am the Earl of Roxwaithe look.”
“I don’t have a look,” he said, giving her the earl look.
“No, of course not. You, however, shouldn’t be such a bully,” she said mildly.
“I am not a bully. I said nothing. The lads could have stayed.”
“Yes, because the Earl of Roxwaithe deploying his censure is a lightweight thing of no consequence.”
With a shrug, he concealed his smirk. He’d missed this. “You seem to be quite popular.”
“I am most fortunate to be visited by such fine gentlemen.”
He snorted.
“What?”
“You say that with a straight face.”
“Of course. They are fine men of my age. Why would I not?”
“They seem so—” Young. He was going to say young, but Lydia was young also. He shook himself. “Nothing. Apologies for running them off. Shall I fetch them back?”
“No. I would rather talk with you, now we are friends again.”
Their eyes locked. She wet her lips, slightly reddened by her teeth. She always worried her bottom lip when she concentrated, white teeth biting into plump flesh, and her breasts rose and fell beneath the sorry excuse for a fichu. She’d changed in the year and a half she’d been away. There was more polish to her and she did seem…older, for want of a better word.
The air grew heavy, and his fingers itched to trace her hairline, push the tendrils back, follow a line down her cheek, her neck. He’d cover her chest with his hand, feel the rapid rise and fall, count her breaths, his smallest finger less than an inch from the swell of her breasts.
“Lord Meacham.”
Jonas’s words rang throughout the room.
Breaking their gaze, Oliver straightened guiltily as Meacham made his way toward Lydia. “I apologise to be visiting so late in the day, my lady,” he said, bowing low over her hand.
“It is no issue, your grace.” Expression clearing, she offered a smile. “May I present the Earl of Roxwaithe?”
“We have met.” Meacham cast an assessing eye over Oliver.
Stone-faced, he returned the duke’s perusal.
The corner of Meacham’s lip lifted, though his eyes hardened.
Lydia looked between them and sighed. “Really?” she said, almost to herself.
Keeping his gaze on Meacham, he said, “You are recently returned to London, are you not, Meacham?”
“I am. I had the acquaintance of Lady Lydia in Vienna and am eager to renew it.” Sitting on the divan, he arranged himself carelessly and, though he smiled, there was an edge behind it.
Inwardly, Oliver scowled. The man was too good-looking for his own good.
“Roxwaithe.” Lady Demartine called from the other side of the room. “Please, come help me.”
Without thought, he stood and strode to her. “What is amiss, my lady?”
“I seem to have misplaced my yellow skein. Help me find it?”
“Of course.” He glanced over at Lydia and Meacham. She was laughing at something Meacham had said, her expression bright. Oliver scowled.
“Ah, here it is,” Lady Demartine said, producing a ball of yellow thread. “I must have been sitting on it.”
He glanced again at Lydia and Meacham. “If you no longer require my assistance—”
“I believe Demartine was asking for you, Roxwaithe,” she said calmly. “Something about drainage in Yorkshire?”
“He was?”
“Yes. You should go seek him out. I believe it was quite urgent.”
“Drainage?”
“Yes.” Lady Demartine did not lose her smile. “I’m sure Lydia and Lord Meacham will not mind. They are in the midst of becoming better acquainted, and you do not wish to interfere with that, do you Roxwaithe?”
He swallowed. “No, my lady.”
“Good. Find Demartine, Roxwaithe. Discuss drainage.” Her smile sweetened. “Now.”
“Yes, my lady.” He gave one last glance at Lydia. She was wholly absorbed in whatever tale Meacham imparted and had not noticed his absence.
Rubbing his chest, he left the sitting room. Lord Demartine was in his study, and he looked up in surprise when Oliver entered. “Roxwaithe? What are you doing here?”
He hovered at the threshold. “Lady Demartine said—”
“She did?” His gaze turned shrewd. “Lydia is entertaining guests, isn’t she?”
“She is.”
“Of course she is.” He shook his head ruefully. “Well, don’t just stand there, Roxwaithe. Come in.”
Closing the door behind him, he sat in his usual spot opposite Lord Demartine. Guilt crept over him. Lydia was this man’s daughter. The man who treated him almost as a son, who had guided him through those first hellish years of being Roxwaithe. If he knew….
He ran a hand over his beard. He needed these thoughts under control. She was an attractive young woman. Surely any man would occasionally feel as he did. It meant nothing. He would simply push such thoughts to a corner of his mind labelled “Lydia” and resolve not to think such again.
“Here to see Lydia, were you?”
Oliver glanced up. Rubbing his lip, Lord Demartine regarded him. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“It’s been a while since you’ve visited Torrence House. Lady Demartine tells me you and Lydia danced at the ball last night. Seems every man under the age of fifty has decided to descend upon my door.” Lord Demartine shook his head. “We didn’t have this problem with Alexandra. A normal number of suitors for her, though she’s yet to choose one.”
Oliver stared at the paper before him. It took all his control not to react.
Lord Demartine leaned back. “You know Meacham, don’t you, Roxwaithe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe Ly
dia got to know him in Vienna. Lady Demartine quite likes him. Worthy young man, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lydia could do worse. Has a few seasons under his belt, though. Nine years is not too big a difference between husband and wife. I should like Lydia to marry someone she cares for.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It will more than likely happen this season. One shouldn’t wait, if one were waiting.”
He didn’t respond,
Lord Demartine sighed. “I tried,” he said, almost to himself. “You are staying for dinner, yes? We dine en familie tonight, sans Alexandra. She’s disappeared to Bentley Close, probably to investigate those reports of ghostly activity. She always believed herself stealthy, but I know my children.” He stood. “My stomach is telling me it is close to the dinner hour. Let us head to the dining room. I’m sure there’ll be something to tide us over until the first course.”
Oliver followed Lord Demartine from the study, the dining room only a short walk. Lady Demartine had already arrived and Lord Demartine headed straight for his wife, brushing the top of her head with his lips before seating himself. Oliver trailed him…and stopped stock still when he saw the Duke of Meacham seated beside Lydia.
“Come sit by me, Roxwaithe. It has been an age since we caught up,” Lady Demartine said warmly.
He seated himself, and spent the rest of the evening resisting the urge to glare as Lydia and Meacham flirted their way through the meal.
Chapter Eight
THE THEATRE STALLS WERE quickly filling. Arms folded on the theatre box’s balcony edge, Lydia watched as those dressed in their finery took their seats. One lady wore the most exquisite worsted silk gown in a strikingly bold shade of orange. Not many women would be able to pull off such a colour, but the lady’s dark skin and darker hair perfectly complemented the sunset tone. Lydia was envious. Lord knew the shade would look horrible on her.
Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe Page 7
