by Tessa Candle
Poor Mrs. Havens' hand trembled a little as she handed the earl her parasol. She gave an apologetic look to Miss Worth, whose face now looked decidedly not pretty.
He shook the parasol lightly, and the rattle of the coins was audible even from Lydia's position.
“You can hear what condition it is in. Pray be terribly gentle, my lord, and do not twist it 'round, for the handle is clearly about to fall to pieces. Have mercy on poor Mrs. Havens, for it is the only parasol she has along.”
Lydia wondered exactly whom this pink-clad fraud thought she was fooling.
The earl gave the handle a twist, and it opened. He poured out the two guineas.
Mrs. Havens' face was beet red as she sputtered, “Forgive me, my lord. I forgot those were in there.”
“Quite understandable, Mrs. Havens.” The earl handed her the parasol and guineas. “Under the circumstances, it might slip anyone's mind. After all, you were distracted by difficulties with your shoe.”
Lydia had to admit that watching this entire scene unfold was better than reading her novel.
“I do not know anything about those coins. I certainly did not give them to her.” Miss Worth was doing her best to look surprised.
“Miss Worth, it pains me that I must be so direct, but if you are contemplating telling me that this woman has stolen the money, please do not.”
“But, I—”
“Not another word, if you please. I believe I have had quite enough of the gardens for one day. I shall depart.” When the irrepressible Miss Worth made to go with him, he added, “Alone.”
He walked a few steps and then turned to face the tree, so Lydia could now see only the smooth contours of his well-muscled calves.
“I am in your debt, dryad. I only wish that I might know to whom I speak. Perhaps we shall meet again under more pleasant circumstances, unless, of course, you would walk with me back to the hall.”
“That might be interpreted badly, my lord.” Lydia wished she were not such a coward. “But I wish you a pleasant afternoon. I hope we shall meet again.” If only she could think of something more clever to say.
She did, truly, hope they would meet again. Something in the polished restraint of his strength, his alluring voice and broad shoulders made her want to be closer to him. If only the other two women were not present, perhaps they might get better acquainted. He was certainly the first man who had seemed remotely interesting to her.
Though, perhaps it was merely that circumstances forced a more entertaining exchange than one generally encountered at tea. But he definitely had wit. It was too bad he was an earl, for they were unlikely to be in the same social circles. She resigned herself to her fate and turned back to her book, as the earl strode away.
“And what have you to say for yourself?” Miss Worth's voice was cold as she stared up at the tree with pure hatred in her eyes.
“Are you still here?”
“Do not think you will get away with this.” The pink of the girl's dress now amplified the angry blotches that were forming on her cheeks. Some people really should not permit themselves to become enraged. Lydia knew from personal experience how horridly red a face could become if one did not control one's emotions.
“I have not gotten away with anything. I have merely prevented you from doing so.”
“I will have your name.”
“Will you? I think not. It is an acquaintance I should rather avoid.”
“Coward. Come out and show yourself.” Miss Worth scratched at her cheek.
“If you are so intent upon knowing who I am, why do you not come up here? Then we shall see who is a coward.”
“I do not scamper about in trees.”
“Well, that is settled then. You may go now and leave me to my book.”
“You cannot dismiss me. Come down at once. I demand it.” The chit actually stomped her foot.
“And you cannot command me. But I can ignore you.”
Miss Worth bent to pick up a rock. “I know how to get a rat out of a tree.”
Lydia laughed. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am. Come down or I shall knock you down.” She rubbed her face with the back of her hand.
Lydia took measure of the bizarre young miss. Despite her mother's best efforts, Lydia had extensive experience scrapping with the farm children on her family's estate. She knew how to size up an opponent, and Miss Worth was a weakling.
“I must admit you have audacity,” Lydia replied. “But even if you could see me, I doubt very much that you could hit the broad side of a barn with a bucket of slop. Honestly, can you lift anything heavier than a scant cup of tea?”
“I am sure your experience with manual labour makes you feel superior, but I will best you. Come down, or be pelted.” Miss Worth was determined.
“I am waiting. Let us see this Amazonian arm.”
Miss Worth threw her rock as best she could. It flew into some branches ten feet away from Lydia.
“A little to the left and you might manage to hit your own foot.”
The incensed young woman picked up three more rocks and hurled them in rapid succession, each missing worse than the last as Lydia laughed and her assailant grew more angry.
“It is difficult to be certain, but I believe you may be aiming at the wrong tree.”
“Miss Worth, someone is coming.” Mrs. Havens had to physically restrain the girl from hurling another stone, just as a group of people came around the bend of the path.
Lydia recognized one of the voices. She remained very still.
“Darling! Mrs. Havens! There you both are. Mrs. Norwood, may I present my daughter, Emily, and this is Mrs. Havens. We have been looking for you this last hour, Emily. What have you done to your face?”
Miss Worth rubbed at her blotches. “It feels hot.”
“Is that a rock? Whatever are you doing?”
“I just…”
Lydia held her breath. Would the stupid girl risk exposing herself just to spite Lydia?
“I was just,” Miss Worth dropped the rock, “looking at interesting rocks. I do not feel quite well.” She scratched again.
Lydia realized suddenly that the redness was not merely a product of the girl's anger. Such blotches did not usually get itchy. Hopefully it was some fatal condition.
“If I may say so, Mrs. Worth, those welts look quite serious.” It was Lydia's mother. “I think you should get her home and fetch a doctor as soon as may be.”
“She is warm. I believe you are right, Mrs. Norwood. Emily, do not scratch! You will ruin your beautiful skin.”
The girl complied and lowered her gaze with a meekness that Lydia could not reconcile to the vicious tyranny that she had just witnessed. The party hurried off down the path as quickly as they could, while Mrs. Havens hobbled along behind.
Lydia realized that she would not get to read more of her novel, and had best return to the hall by the long route to give the Worths time to clear out before she reunited with her mother. A meeting with Miss Worth would be too risky.
In fact, rejoining her mother might carry risks of its own, for Mrs. Norwood, no matter how accustomed to her disappearing daughter, would not be best pleased. She set aside The Necromancy of Abruggio, tucking it into her satchel with a sigh, and began to climb down from her tree.
Chapter 2
Lord Aldley stomped toward his barouche. He was oblivious to the sculptures in the Classical Greek style, the shadowy temple ruins, and even the assortment of rare and fragrant flora that lined the walkway.
He preferred to focus his brooding gaze on, and occasionally kick, the rocks on the gravelly path leading from the pleasure gardens to the area where the carriages waited.
The sky was clouding over, but the earl did not care if he got rained on. He could not wait at the hall for the carriage to be brought around, and risk further affronts from the hordes of ambitious women who seemed to lurk in every public venue.
It was insupportable. To have a scheming little c
hit try to impose upon him and lure him into some sort of compromising situation was not to be endured. But it seemed his lot to be constantly exposed to scheming women. In most cases the mothers were even more mercenary than the daughters, and now that he was actually an earl, and not just the heir apparent, the case was even worse.
He had thought he might have a few quiet moments in some gardens and groves, without having to make the long journey to the family estate at Alderwick Manor that reminded him too painfully of his father. But apparently he was not permitted even this small reprieve.
There was not even a little time to mourn the loss of a beloved parent before he was set upon by the marriage vultures. He had only just transitioned from full mourning to an armband, and this was viewed as an invitation. These society women were reprehensibly ruthless.
Even his mother was determined to marry him off for her own advantage. He was persuaded that she never loved his father, for she seemed entirely unaffected by his death.
She had removed herself voluntarily from Alderwick Manor to take up permanent residence in the London home, perhaps a little sooner than could be considered decent, claiming that she felt he should have full reign at the estates, as he was the earl, now. He did not need his dowager mother in the way of his running things, she said.
And besides, in London she would be in the best position to find him a wife. As though her husband's death should never give anyone the slightest reason for pause in their business. It was unseemly how quickly she moved on. Were all women such plotting, unfeeling creatures?
Yet there was one woman, a total stranger to him, who had tried to help him and protect him from the schemers. And she was disinterested. She made no effort to insinuate herself, although she knew of his rank. She did not even seek an introduction when he offered to make her acquaintance.
And she had made him laugh when she skewered Miss Worth with her wit and sang froid. He wished he could do that, but earls were hampered by the stiff fabric of decorum. Well, perhaps many earls lived a debased life, following whatever whim sprang to mind without regard to correctitude, but he, at least, did not.
This dryad was quite shameless, however, and he could not help admiring it. She did not let social niceties stop her from putting it to the little fraud—although she was rather high up in a tree at the time, so he supposed, as a practical matter, social niceties were not under serious consideration.
Still, had she remained silent, her tree-climbing could have gone undetected, and he might have been entrapped. Perhaps she was not entirely proper, but she spoke like a gentle woman, and she was brave. She was someone he wanted to know.
But he had left without ever seeing her face. He supposed it was hopeless. How could they ever meet now, when he was on the eve of departing for France? He did not know when he would come back, but he had to get away.
He needed time to grieve, far removed from people who hurled their unwed daughters at his head. Someday he wanted something real, not a would-be countess, but a woman of substance who could love him for himself. Was this one luxury an earl could never have?
Lord Aldley reached his carriage, and flung the door open before his coachman, Trodder, could do so. He looked inside, and suppressed a curse.
“Trodder. Apparently this young lady is in some confusion about which is her carriage. I wonder that the coat of arms was not a bit of a hint. Kindly assist her out.”
“Yes, my lord.” Trodder gave his head a shake, but suppressed the grin that threatened to sprout at the corners of his mouth. He offered a hand to the débutante inside, who pouted among bales of tulle and yellow muslin. “Allow me, Miss.”
Aldley pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to get out of ruddy England.
Chapter 3
Lydia found herself thinking of the earl again, as she made yet another voyage into London at the end of another summer, stuffed into a carriage with her snoring mother and a cache of surplus hat boxes that apparently could not sit up top.
She had not encountered the earl since that day, for she was certain she would recognize his beautiful voice if she heard it again. She wondered if he ever thought of her, if there were any chance that they might meet again.
It was a futile dream, for he was an earl and Lydia could not even claim to be a gentleman's daughter. And she was apparently not irresistible to the opposite sex, either, if her first crack at the London season were held up as an illustration.
Miss Worth had, unfortunately, survived the mysterious pox that smote her that day in the pleasure garden, for Lydia had subsequently seen her in London society. Neither of them let on that they had ever met over a dispute involving trees and rock-throwing, and Lydia could never be certain from her demeanour whether the other young lady recognized her or not.
But she thought not, for Miss Worth had been quite feverish, after all. Yet the illness had not even afflicted the débutante for long, and only marred her face a little, which seemed inequitable. And unlike Lydia, the pretty schemer had been successful in finding a gentleman to marry in her first year out.
Lydia could not repine at this injustice, however, for marriage conveniently removed Miss Worth from London. Nor could she envy the girl. As Lydia was rich, she saw no reason to marry, unless it be for love. And that seemed unlikely.
Mrs. Norwood, however, was not discouraged by the spectacular failure that was her daughter's first season. So Lydia, now nineteen, was left to glumly contemplate her fate as she listened to the rattle of the carriage and her mother's somnolent breathing, and stared out at the passing greenery, wishing she could ride her own horse to town.
Mrs. Norwood stirred and looked at Lydia, rubbing an eye. “I really wish you had not spent yesterday burning your nose like a chestnut.”
“I did not do it just to vex you, Mama. A stout breeze took away my bonnet.”
“Then you should tie it properly. Red-haired young ladies must be ever so careful with their skin. And indeed you needn't compound the problem of your wild-looking hair by taking every opportunity of running 'round with it falling out of your chignon and full of twigs.” Her mother yawned.
She looked at Lydia again and shook her head. “The freckles are bad enough, but I cannot be held responsible for our respectability as a family if you continue going about in all weather with half a forest on your head where your bonnet should be.”
“That was just the one time.” Lydia tried not to smile at the memory. “Papa was teaching me how to fish, and all the best spots are hidden away behind a bit of bramble.”
“Do not remind me.” Her mother put a hand to her temple. “I have already had a word with him. No more fishing.”
Lydia sighed.
“And you must lose this habit of sighing so much, or it will be taken as a sign of a sullen personality, which is not at all attractive to gentlemen.”
When they arrived at their London home, Lydia sneaked into the kitchen. She found Ole Maeb on a stool peeling potatoes over a bucket for Cook.
The eldest servant rose stiffly when she saw Lydia and waddled over to receive a kiss on the cheek. Cook pretended not to see it. Then the beloved old woman leaned to Lydia's ear and said, “The master is upstairs in the library, Miss.”
Lydia stole a biscuit on the way out. Cook also did not see this.
When Lydia entered the great, book-laden chamber, she found her father seated in an over-stuffed leather chair.
“So at last you have arrived, my dear. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”
She kissed him on the cheek, then slouched into the plump comforts of one of the chairs, inhaling the smell of leather. “Mama was not very forgiving about my nose, nor about our fishing trip.”
“No, I can imagine not.” His bushy brows arranged themselves in the comical way that always meant secret amusement. “But I have been thinking upon it, and I can see her point. All your mother desires is a good match for you. In truth I have done you a great disservice by encouraging your, um, country ways.”
“Papa, I despise the city.” She tapped her foot idly. “And I do not see what the great fuss about it is, either, if all people do is go about taking horrid refreshments in various parlours and trying to outdo each other.”
“But you must be looking forward to the balls, surely.”
“I enjoy dancing, but everyone seems to be at their most superior at a ball. I prefer a country dance, where the object is merriment, not making a display. And I so seldom get asked to dance at a ball.”
“Well, then, you had best heed your mother's advice and stop burning your nose.”
Lydia huffed. “Et tu, Brute?”
“I see I should never have let you see any of Shakespeare's plays. It makes you imagine you are clever.”
Lydia merely gave him a look.
“No, I think you must make more effort to present yourself well. Mrs. Norwood advises me that there is to be a tea party soon, at the Delacroixs. You must go and make a good impression. For you may then be invited to the Delacroix dinner party, where I understand a countess is to attend. We don't have so many connections to the quality, you know, so you must go and make the most of things.”
“Are you really my father, or some very talented imposter?”
“Don't be silly, my dear. Now off you go to pick out a nice frock.” He paused and poured himself a drink, grimacing a little, before taking a large gulp and adding, “Wear something pretty, and be charming and such.”
Chapter 4
By the time of the Delacroix tea party, Lydia was becoming gloomy about her future. Her mother would never give up trying to marry her off to a gentleman of some rank. And what was worse, her father now seemed allied with her mother. Such treachery.
Lydia nibbled an awful tea sandwich, which managed to smell vaguely of wet dog even as it tasted mealy and dry, as she looked about at the garish pink and gold patterned wallpaper. It was one of several recent improvements that Lady Delacroix had enumerated for her daughter's guests, before leaving them to their own scintillating conversation.
