Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe

by Cassandra Dean

  She cocked her head. “Is that your father you are quoting?”

  “Who else?”

  “He is dead, Oliver.”

  “And yet I still hear his voice in my head.” He exhaled. “Do not listen to me, I am being maudlin. We should instead focus on this travesty on the easel.”

  “It is not a travesty, it is a work of staggering genius.”

  “Of course it is.” Turning, she grinned at him and he saw the streak of paint on her jaw. Without thought, he raised his hand to wipe it clean.

  Her startled gaze flew to his. Fingers cupping her neck, his thumb rested on her jaw. Mesmerised, he watched her lips part, as she wet the soft flesh. This was how a suitor would stand before her. He would want to trace the line of her jaw, feather his thumb over her full lower lip. He would want to see her eyes darken and her chest rise, watch the drift of her gaze to his own lips. He would curl his hand around the back of her neck, his fingers spearing into her hair, as he drew her to him, as he lowered his head, as he covered her mouth with his. He would want desperately to touch her, to discover if the skin of her chest was as soft as it looked. He would want to determine the exact weight of her breast, and the sound she would make when he toyed with her nipple. He would do all those things, and more. Her suitor.

  Jerking his hand from her, he said hoarsely, “You had paint.”

  She blinked.

  “On your cheek.” He cleared his throat. “You must have wiped your cheek. It’s gone now.”

  “Oh.” Great hazel eyes glanced to the side. Then back at him. She shook her head. “Paint. Yes. I”

  “The Duke of Meacham is here to see you.”

  They both looked to the door. Jonas stood just inside the conservatory, his face impassive.

  Lydia’s eyes cleared. “Of course, Jonas. Thank you. Please tell his grace I will be with him shortly.”

  “Yes, my lady.” He bowed and departed.

  “I shall leave you to your guest,” Oliver said.

  “Oliver, you should not—”

  He forced a smile. “No, see to your guest. We will visit tomorrow. Or are you to the park?”

  “Probably to the park, but Oliver—”

  “Tomorrow,” he said, and left the conservatory.

  As he entered Roxegate, he told himself he hadn’t run from her. She had a visitor. It was right and correct he left so she could attend to him. Even if it was Meacham.

  A sour feeling settled in his stomach.

  It was none of his concern if Meacham chose to court her. None of his concern, bar she was happy. He wanted her always to be happy.

  Perhaps he should seek a wife. Maybe a sensible widow, or an aging wallflower. Or perhaps he wouldn’t marry at all. Perhaps Stephen could carry the mantle, and perhaps his brother would finally find purpose in the role of father and sire of the Roxwaithe heir. Although he, Oliver, should like children, their bright hazel eyes looking up at him as they shouted a greeting, and their mother tickling them and chasing them, her hair a red-gold stream behind her—

  Exhaling, he tugged at the knot of hair at his nape. He wanted Lydia to be happy, and if Meacham made her happy, then he would smile, he would congratulate them at their wedding, and he would bounce their children on his knee. He wanted, above all things, for her to be happy, and if he, on the other hand, wasn’t….

  He rubbed his hand over his face. By God, he would be happy for her. Even if it killed him.

  Chapter Ten

  THE LATE AFTERNOON SUN made long shadows of the trees and more people wore heavy attire than not, but that hadn't stopped most of London turning out to promenade around Hyde Park. It also hadn't stopped Violet from insisting on breaking in her new phaeton.

  The phaeton lurched forward and, bracing herself, Lydia gripped the side, her fingers digging into the soft lining. Unfortunately, Violet was not the most talented driver.

  Laughing nervously, Violet gathered the reins in her hands. “I promise you, I have this under control.”

  “Of course.” Lydia removed her claw-like grip from the padded edge.

  “Simon showed me only yesterday the best way to steer the horses.”

  “Steer?”

  “Drive. Whatever.”

  “I don’t think your brother is the most reliable source of information. Did he not crash his phaeton last week?”

  “That was on Rotten Row. He was going entirely too fast. I shall not do the same.” Violet urged the horses forward and they, seemingly confused, somehow still managed to take a step in the general direction they were headed.

  Turning her head, Lydia ignored the stop-start of the phaeton as they slowly picked their way along Ladies’ Mile. As long as she didn’t observe Violet’s attempt to drive the phaeton, all would be well. That was how it worked, surely.

  Tugging on the reins, Violet struggled to contain the horses, who seemed to be interested in anything but pulling the phaeton. “I don't understand.” Brows drawn, Violet stared at the horses. “Even Anne is competent at this.”

  “Your sister has been horse-mad since she was in leading strings. Remind me, when did you learn to drive a pair? Yesterday,” Lydia answered helpfully. “It was yesterday.”

  Violet shot her an annoyed look, only to have the most ferocious scowl overtake on her features. “Dear God.”

  “What is it?” Turning, she followed Violet's line of sight. There really was only one person who inspired such loathing in her friend, and she smiled when she saw him. “Ah. The Duke of Meacham approaches.”

  Her friend's scowl grew more thunderous. “Why is he coming over?”

  “Because he is a polite gentleman who has the acquaintance of us both?”

  “Would that he forgot our connection,” Violet muttered.

  Lydia tutted. “You won’t attract a husband with that attitude.”

  Her friend snorted.

  Meacham approached, smile wide as he placed a boot on the phaeton’s step. “Lady Lydia, how fortunate. I was hoping I might see you.”

  “And I, you, Lord Meacham. You remember Lady Violet Crafers?”

  “I do.” His grin turned to a smirk. “Lady Violet, you cut quite a swathe through the carriages of Ladies' Mile. Truly, I have never seen such...enthusiasm at the reins in my life.”

  Violet glared at him, and quite pointedly offered no greeting.

  As surreptitiously as she could, Lydia elbowed her.

  “Hello, your grace,” Violet said reluctantly.

  His smile widened. Turning his gaze to Lydia, he said, “Lady Lydia, would you care to walk with me?”

  Violet opened her mouth.

  “I'll have her back to you safe and sound, Lady Violet,” he said, cutting her off.

  Sulkily, Violet crossed her arms.

  “I cannot walk with you, sir. I wear not the correct footwear.” Lydia brandished her feet.

  He glanced at the sturdy leather books she wore. “So I see, my lady,” he said gravely. “Such delicate articles should not make contact with the ground. I shall shuck my coat and your feet need never touch the rude earth.”

  “I could never allow you to do such a thing. Your jacket is too exquisite. Your cloak, however...”

  “Yes. My cloak is a sad item of clothing. It would do well as a sacrifice for a lady.”

  They grinned at each other.

  “You two are so peculiar,” Violet said sourly.

  Lord Meacham smirked. Holding out his arm, he said to Lydia, “Shall we?”

  Grinning in return, she took his arm and descended from the phaeton. “Let’s.”

  They strolled along the Mile. “How is your family?” Meacham asked.

  “They are well. My father asks your opinion on the current bond market. I believe you were speaking of it previously? ”

  “Yes, we were. I shall be sure to send him a note.” He glanced at her. “Your sister was to travel, was she not?”

  “She was. To our family estate in Northumberland.”

  “I have long adm
ired Lady Alexandra. She follows her own path.”

  What an exquisite way to say her sister was odd. “She does indeed. You know of her interest?”

  “I do. It is intriguing, and she writes eloquently of it.”

  “You have read her articles?”

  “I have. She is much taken with Waithe Hall. The story of the housekeeper with the lost keys is a particular favourite.”

  “Good Lord, I have heard that story over and over. She is forever discussing it. Oliver says That is, Lord Roxwaithe is amused by her interest, and as our families are close, he is happy for her to investigate the tale and its origin.”

  He was silent a moment. “You are often with Lord Roxwaithe.”

  “I am. I grew up with him, and he and my father often discuss business. He is as a brother to me.” The claim felt like ash on her tongue. She had not, nor had she ever, regarded Oliver as a brother, however, perhaps if she said the words enough, she would believe them.

  “A brother.” He was silent a moment. “And Lord George still tours the Continent?”

  “He does.” She glanced at him. His gaze was forward, his expression considering. “My parents seek to join him in the coming month.”

  “And will you, as well?”

  “I had not considered it, but perhaps.”

  “If I may say, I would hope you remain in London. There would be many who would miss you, should you decide to leave England’s shores.”

  She didn’t know how to reply. She knew Meacham sought to court her, but this was as blatant as he’d ever been.

  “Although I would warrant your interest in architecture was piqued by your own journey to the Continent.”

  She’d mentioned her interest once, in passing, during a dance. Impressive that he’d twice now remembered. “I am happy with the architecture of London. There is much to discover, if one but looks.”

  “Indeed there is. Speaking of which, there is a lecture on the repair and reconstruction of St Paul’s on Thursday next. I believe there may even be a viewing of Wren’s original notes. It would delight me if you would allow me to escort you.”

  She tilted her head. He had clearly done his research, and was determined in his suit. She did like him. She had enjoyed their time together in Vienna, and this time in London. She could entertain his suit. Perhaps he would be someone she could picture her life with. “I should like that very much.”

  His eyes lit with warmth before glancing past her. “I should return you to Lady Violet before her scowls set me to flame.”

  She looked at her friend. Sure enough, Violet shot them looks that clearly spoke of his demise.

  A devil took her. “Perhaps we should walk further. I feel the need for exercise.”

  “But your friend—”

  “Yes. My friend.” She raised her brow.

  A slow smile dawned on his features. “Indeed, Lady Lydia. Perhaps we shall take the long way?”

  “Perhaps we shall.” Linking arms with him, they made sure they strolled. For a long time.

  ***

  At pace, Oliver strode down Ladies’ Mile. If he’d had any goddamn sense, he would have a horse made available for this jaunt to Hyde Park but apparently his brain was not working as it should. Instead, he’d rushed from the Roxegate as if the fires of hell pursued him, and without any thought. He was lucky he’d remembered a hat, coat, gloves and walking stick, and even then it was because his butler had pressed them upon him.

  Quickening his pace, he scanned those who paraded looking for Lydia. He’d tried to work all afternoon, but his mind kept wandering, and then he would think of something and want to tell Lydia. Finally, he’d given in. She’d said she was going for a drive with her friend Violet in Hyde Park, so here he was, weaving in and out of societal traffic.

  “Roxwaithe!”

  Brows drawn, he turned. Wainwright approached, a stupid grin on his handsome face.

  “What are you doing here?” Oliver asked. “Shouldn’t you be in the country?”

  “Lady Wainwright decided we must remain in London until the season officially ended and I am, as always, her slave. Besides which, there was a cracking football match between Westminster and Eton on Saturday that I thought I should attend. For reasons.”

  “Of course.”

  “What are you doing here? Can’t remember the last time I saw you in Hyde Park.” He looked Oliver up and down. “And on foot.”

  “No reason.”

  “Well, don’t look now, but your ‘no reason’ is walking with a duke.”

  He almost wrenched his neck turning so fast. Lydia did indeed walk with Meacham, their heads close. She laughed, her hand swatting the man’s forearm.

  Anger, annoyance tore through him. He refused to label it jealousy.

  Wainwright shook his head. “Yes, I can see that nothing at all has tempted you from your study.”

  “It is nothing. I merely thought to tell her of a lecture I saw advertised. She has an interest in architecture.”

  “Yes, I know. You have told me. Many, many times.” Wainwright looked at him curiously. “You are aware men our age marry women her age all the time.”

  “What?”

  “Take her duke. He is only four years our younger.”

  “Five.”

  “Four. Five. He is still almost a decade older than her.”

  “But she is not marrying him.”

  “Yet. She is not marrying him yet.”

  A protest leapt, but he wrestled it silent.

  “Someone will marry her, you know,” Wainwright said. “Why can’t it be you?”

  Oliver stabbed at the ground with his walking stick. “I don’t feel that way.”

  Wainwright started to laugh, only to cut off abruptly when Oliver didn’t join him. “Oh. You are serious.”

  “She deserves someone her own age.”

  “Doesn’t she deserve the person she wants? And, from all accounts, that person is you.”

  “She wants Meacham.”

  “Well. You would know.”

  “Why did you say it like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Snidely.”

  Of course Wainwright didn’t answer. Bloody bastard. “I saw your brother the other night,” his friend said instead. “He was with the Waller-Mitchell girl.”

  “Who?” Waller-Mitchell…. Was she the woman who always gave Lydia grief? “Why was he with her?”

  “I don’t know. It was only for a moment, but you don’t want to allow that relationship to continue. The girl is trouble.”

  “I know. I’ll speak to him.” He glanced at Lydia. She was still with Meacham. Brows drawing, he watched them. They made a handsome couple. His gaze wandered over her. She was so pretty. So full of wit and intelligence. Why wouldn’t Meacham want her? Why wouldn’t any man?

  Wainwright watched him closely. “Yes. You clearly have no feelings for her.”

  “Do you have any plans?” he asked his friend abruptly.

  “I have the strangest feeling I am about to.”

  “Come to the club. Let us see the newest whiskies they have available.”

  “I shall come, but know Lady Wainwright expects me home for our evening meal.”

  “We will have you home well before then.” Turning on his heel, he did the right thing.

  He let Lydia go.

  Chapter Eleven

  UNLACING THE RIBBON BENEATH her chin, Lydia removed her bonnet. “It’s been a day, Jonas,” she said to the Torrence butler. “There was absolutely nothing of interest in the shops, and there was hardly any good gossip besides. Did you know Roger Crittinden is attempting to cross the channel in a rowboat?”

  “I had heard, my lady,” Jonas said gravely, taking her proffered bonnet. “I believe it is a wager with Lord Lilwhythe.”

  “Both of them, less than half a brain between them.” She shrugged off her pelisse.

  “The Duke of Meacham has been awaiting your arrival, my lady.”

  She paused i
n removing her gloves. She had not been aware Meacham was to visit today. “How long has he been waiting?”

  “Not long, my lady. I believe Lord Harry entertained him for a brief while before he was called away.”

  Well, that was horrifying. Harry would, and frequently did, talk the ear off anyone who would listen, and always on the most inappropriate topics. It was vastly fun when one was bored at a musical and stuck sitting beside one’s brother, but for a potential suitor to be exposed to it was nigh on terrifying.

  “He is in the yellow room, my lady,” the butler continued.

  “Thank you, Jonas.” She touched her hair. “How do I look?”

  “As pretty as always, my lady.”

  “You’re such a flirt, Jonas,” she said with a grin.

  The butler’s lips quirked and, having won herself a reaction, she made her way to the room, checking her appearance in a conveniently placed mirror before opening the door.

  The Duke of Meacham indeed occupied the room, standing in profile at the window with his hands caught behind his back as he looked out to the London street. He was dressed impeccably, his coat tailored to frame wide shoulders and a narrow waist, his breeches displaying powerful thighs and long legs. His hair was ruthlessly groomed, perfect curls tumbling over his forehead.

  He really was almost painfully pretty.

  “Your grace,” she greeted. “I hope you have not been waiting long.”

  He turned, and the sun could not compete with his welcoming smile. “Lady Lydia. It is, as always, a delight to see you. As for the wait, I only have myself to blame, arriving unannounced as I have.”

  “I understand my brother may have kept you entertained.”

  “He did, before he was called away. I believe his betrothed required his opinion on floral arrangements.”

  Her lips twisted. “Harry would have been only too eager to offer his opinion. He is, unaccountably, obsessed with floristry.”

  “He is a complicated man, your brother.”

  “He is something.” Moving to the lounge, she sat herself. “Won’t you sit, Lord Meacham, and I shall ring for tea.”