A Lover for Lydia (The Wednesday Club Book 4)

by Sahara Kelly

  She glanced up at him, appreciating the delicacy of both his words and his touch. “No, Mowbray. Your arrival was most welcome.” She looked back at Ivy. “I turned the damn man down in London before we left. At the very last ball.” Her shoulders rose and fell as she sighed. “I have no idea why he arrived here after my refusal. Apparently he can’t take no for an answer.”

  “Hmm.”

  She almost felt the sound as Mowbray hummed beneath his breath.

  “Well in that case, I’ll have a word with Woodleigh,” answered Ivy. “If he comes around again, I need to be the first notified. We’re much more informal here, but that shouldn’t mean that you have to entertain unwanted proposals.”

  Lydia slumped. “Thank you, dear girl. I’m not sure what spurred the visit, but perhaps it was a desperate last effort or his luck at the card table has deserted him. I had made myself clear, I thought.” She sighed. “By the way, I must mention that I am most impressed with the way you’ve slid into the role of elderly martinet. You could outdo Mrs Drummond-Burrell.” She giggled from the depths of the cushions. “You’re a good friend and I appreciate it.”

  Ivy peeked at Lydia from beneath her lashes. “The proposal was unwanted, I take it?”

  Lydia thought for a moment. “Well, he is quite a good kisser…”

  The choking sound coming from Mowbray made her grin. As did his hurried departure, with muttered comments to both women, that neither could quite understand.

  Of course, he hit the doorknob on the way out and careened into the doorjamb on the other side. Rubbing his shoulder with a mumbled curse, he vanished, leaving Ivy and Lydia to look at each other and burst into laughter.

  *~~*~~*

  Mowbray did his best to push the image out of his mind.

  A good-looking gentleman on his knees in front of Lydia could mean only one thing, and he would be damned before letting her throw herself away on a bounder like Anthony Calder.

  Striding over the meadow near Maiden Shore, he mentally shook himself. What she did was none of his business, no matter how much he wished it otherwise.

  Ignoring the damp grass, the occasional drizzle wafting over his head and dampening his shoulders, he marched on, lost in thoughts of Lydia Davenport.

  Just when he’d developed what he considered a somewhat absurd fixation on her, he wasn’t sure. Their friendship had come about easily as a result of their interactions at the Wednesday Club, and at the other places they’d all naturally gathered. He’d watched these women, Judith, Rose, Ivy, Lydia and Prudence; they were all unique in their own way, and their husbands reflected that quality.

  He secretly confessed to himself he’d been quite worried that Miles would end up with a beautiful ninnyhammer. It was, of course, Miles’s decision to take a bride, but their Mama had been incessant in her encouragement of various candidates. Kind people would call it encouragement. Mowbray called it nagging.

  Rose, however, had proved to be the ideal wife for Miles. She was bright, funny, attractive and madly in love with him. Even Mowbray, not given to romantic fancies, could tell her devotion was real. His brother was happier than he could ever remember seeing him.

  That was enough for Mowbray. Linfield Lisle would be in good hands and he was looking forward to becoming an Uncle when the time came.

  In the meantime, he had recently purchased his own small property not far from the Lisle. And yes, he admitted to himself that the time for him to choose a bride wasn’t that far off. He was well setup financially, and of late had started thinking of removing permanently to the newly christened Linfield House.

  In the overall scheme of things it wasn’t terribly impressive, but the whimsical turrets and columns had appealed to him. The selling point had been the sizeable rotunda on the roof and the glass dome covering it.

  His plans for a telescope and other equipment immediately expanded, and he had fallen asleep more than a few nights with visions of his own observatory dancing through his tired mind. So he’d set in motion some renovations and hoped that by the end of the year he might actually be living under his own roof. Or dome.

  The notion appealed; controlling his own surroundings, establishing his own routines and schedules. He loved his family and they loved him. Neither fact was in question. But the truth remained that at some point, a man—even himself—had to strike out and make his own way. Create the life that he wanted for himself.

  Lydia’s face swam before his eyes, and he sighed at the impracticality of his most private desire.

  She would hate it, he realised.

  A society beauty, used to the London gatherings, walks in the park, friends in the evenings, and modistes only short journeys away…how could he possibly imagine her ensconced at Linfield House, nestled at least a couple of hours from the outskirts of town? He could almost hear the laughter from everyone who might have even suspected such a thing.

  He headed toward the water, a barely visible murmur to his left. And caught his foot on a tuft of sea grass.

  He managed to remain upright after a few heavy, awkward strides to regain his balance, but his lips twisted into a wry expression. There was always that, his inability to be anything other than clumsy. Cursed from the time he took his first steps, his family had learned to live with it, their physicians had thrown up their hands and suggested glasses, and he had fought to learn to cope with it.

  He wore his glasses occasionally, more for reading than anything else, and did his best to keep his mind focussed, not let it wander down paths more interesting than Lady Whatsit’s drawing room, where most of his embarrassing moments tended to occur.

  A large amount of awkward self-consciousness, combined with a tendency to allow his thoughts to focus completely on something other than his surroundings—well, that had proved itself to be a recipe for his undoing.

  Oxford had been both a miracle and a nightmare. The miracle of learning so much, of feeding his hunger for information of all kinds. And the nightmare of being teased, bullied and made to feel ridiculous. He’d embraced the first and managed to mostly ignore the other.

  But the scars remained, as did his brilliant education.

  And neither helped him with the problem he was currently facing.

  Miss Lydia Davenport.

  Reaching the beach, he obeyed an urge to pick up some flat stones and send them skimming over the water, trying to beat his own bounce record of seven. Miles had never managed it, and it was one of his proudest accomplishments.

  Since this was the ocean, however, not the tranquil lily pond at Linfield Lisle, he couldn’t manage more than four bounces before the gentle waves disrupted his throw.

  He sighed. All this introspection was getting him nowhere. At least he knew Lydia wasn’t interested in Calder, which was a relief. The problem he had to solve was how to get her interested in himself. How to show her he could be as good a kisser if not better than Calder.

  That might be an insurmountable goal.

  With a muttered expletive, Mowbray turned his back on the ocean and headed for Maiden Shore. And Lydia.

  Chapter Nine

  Lydia, unaware she was the subject of Mowbray’s inner discussions with himself, went about her days at Maiden Shore with a relaxed and cheerful state of mind, unencumbered by the schedules imposed during a season in London.

  She didn’t have to dress for lunch. She also didn’t have to change for tea or do it all over again for dinner.

  For almost her entire life, she had been at the beck and call of traditions, expectations and presentations, along with most of her peers in her social circle. She was intelligent enough to be grateful for the circumstances of her birth. She didn’t have to work hard for little pay, slave in factories where human life was valued less than the week’s output, or lie on her back and let numerous men have their way with her. Her survival was pretty much guaranteed by the status of her family.

  And sometimes, she thought over breakfast one morning, that was just wrong.

  An
article in the paper—a gossipy piece hinting about the activities of several young blades who were facing punishment for being rowdy and punching a highly-respected member of Parliament who tried to stop them assaulting a young girl—reeked of smug grins and nudged elbows. Boys will be boys.

  She sighed.

  “Everything all right?” Prudence wandered in.

  Lydia nodded. “Yes. Just some rubbish in the newspaper that irked me.” She folded the thing and set it aside. “But I refuse to let it ruin my day.” She smiled as Prudence poured herself tea. “What are your plans?”

  “Well…” Prudence sipped and peeked at Lydia with a blush. “I have been invited to go sailing with Sir Ronan today.” She glanced out of the window. “And it does look as if it will be a fine trip on the water. See how calm it is? Just a slight breeze. Enough to send the Maeve flying like a bird over the waves…”

  Lydia chuckled. “Said Sir Ronan.”

  “Well yes,” agreed Prudence. “The man does have a musical turn of phrase, I’ll admit.”

  “So who will be in your party?”

  There was a moment or two of silence as Prudence sipped more tea. “Ah,” she carefully replaced the cup on the saucer. “That is a good question.”

  “Indeed. I rather thought so, since I asked it.”

  “I haven’t actually heard yet…” began the younger girl. “Sir Ronan left early—he has to prepare the Maeve for a sail.” She frowned slightly. “I’m not quite sure what that entails, but of course it’s important.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is.” Lydia waited.

  “I expect he’ll ask Ivy and Colly…”

  “A good guess. They would certainly be on my list.”

  “But until it’s confirmed, I really can’t say who will be on board.” She looked casually away from Lydia. “There are the Stauntons, too. I wouldn’t be surprised to find them sailing as well.”

  “I would,” muttered Lydia.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, dear.” Lydia felt a passing breath of age chill the skin at the back of her neck. “I’m confident that Sir Ronan will take care of you and everyone sailing with him today.”

  And that was the truth. Sir Ronan could be a rogue, but Lydia knew that beneath the wicked Irish surface lay a true and honest heart. He’d proved himself to be a friend several times, and she had no reason to believe otherwise.

  And she also knew that there would probably not be any other passengers sailing with them today.

  The clock in the hall struck the hour, and Prudence rose. “Well, I must be off. How about you, Lydia? I never had chance to ask about what your plans are. I’m so sorry.”

  Lydia waved away the apologies. “No matter. I am planning a much less exciting morning than sailing the Solent and drifting like a bird.” She chuckled at Prudence’s grin. “I’m going fossil hunting with Mowbray. At last.”

  “Oh lovely. I know you’ve been dying to go. Finally, the weather has improved enough for both of us to enjoy our day. Any idea about the others?”

  “Rose and Judith are taking the carriage into the village, I think. Rose saw a shop with some musical instruments that she thinks may be handmade, so Judith is going with her.” Lydia wrinkled her nose. “Ivy and Colly are off to meet with some of their tenants, and Miles and Ragnor…well, I don’t know what they’re doing. Sleeping late, probably.”

  The two of them laughed at the thought.

  “I do like it here,” said Prudence, straightening her skirts. “I’m glad we all came.”

  “Me too,” Lydia nodded. “Go and have fun and give my regards to Sir Ronan. I’m sure we’ll see him at dinner.”

  “I will.”

  Lydia watched her leave the room, an excited little bounce to her step. In some ways, she envied the sense of anticipation she knew Prudence must be experiencing. Going to spend time with a handsome man who had already betrayed a more than friendly interest…well, she recalled moments like that when she was young.

  Now that she was in her early twenties, and of course rapidly approaching old age, those moments had all but disappeared.

  Rising from the table, she rolled her eyes at herself for such silliness.

  Mowbray’s head peered around the door. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes. Is that enough time for you?”

  “Yes indeed,” she nodded as he grinned and then vanished.

  And all of a sudden Lydia surprised herself by having one of those moments.

  How silly.

  She walked upstairs to find that her maid had anticipated her trip. Sturdy boots awaited her, along with a simple cotton dress, high to the neck and with long sleeves that would protect her arms from the sun. An ancient bergère hat lay on the bed, sporting a bright blue ribbon. That particular style had been in vogue a generation ago; something a lady wore to shield her complexion.

  Lydia changed into the gown, finding the front buttoning most convenient. She slipped into the boots and laced them snugly, then reached for the hat, perching it on top of the knot of hair her maid had created that morning. The brim was wide and would prove every bit as good as a parasol, yet leave her hands free.

  In her reticule she’d secreted a tiny hammer; it had come from the kitchen where Colly’s cook had every possible culinary implement, including this unique tool for cracking crab shells. Lydia had read of the importance of a small hammer to tap rocks with, and she’d already requisitioned a chisel from one of the footmen who did a bit of carpentry from time to time. There was a chip on the end, so he wasn’t at all reticent to let Lydia have it to carve her way into the nearby cliffs.

  Thus equipped, and with a couple of extra handkerchiefs just in case, she headed downstairs to meet her fossil-hunting guide.

  Once again her insides performed that peculiar sort of fluttering dance.

  His eyes were more green than gold this morning, his hair a bit tousled as always, betraying a flare or two of fiery red amongst the brown, and his clothing more practical than stylish. An elegant cravat would have been absurd on such a trip, so he’d dismissed it and wore an open-necked shirt beneath a sturdy leather vest.

  Mowbray was a good-looking man. Had she realised it before now? She wasn’t sure.

  She could see implements and tools in the pockets, and rattled her reticule as she neared him. “I have tools,” she smirked.

  “Excellent. We’ll be able to dig simultaneously.” He grinned happily. “Who knows what we’ll find?”

  “Some prehistoric monster, d’you think?” She turned to walk beside him.

  “If you do, please don’t bring it here,” commented Woodleigh as he held the door open for them. “His Grace would insist putting it into the library and the maids have just finished in there.”

  Mowbray’s chuckle echoed her own. “I doubt we’ll be that lucky, Woodleigh. But if we do, we’ll be sure to name it after you.”

  “I am without words to express my feelings, Mr Linfield.” Woodleigh’s tone said it all, and he closed the door quite firmly behind them.

  The sun shone, birds sang, and the scent of the sea wreathed around them as they set off for the cliffs.

  “Boots comfortable?” asked Mowbray.

  “Surprisingly so,” she answered, glancing down at them. “Not very stylish though.”

  “On you, everything is stylish.”

  “Why Mr Linfield.” Lydia batted her eyelashes. “What a charming compliment.”

  “It was, rather, wasn’t it? I practiced for quite some time to get it right.”

  She burst out laughing, and together they walked away from Maiden Shore and toward the cliffs in the distance.

  *~~*~~*

  Mowbray refused to acknowledge that his palms were slightly damp.

  The reason for this was strolling along beside him, chatting quite cheerfully about some of the material she’d read on fossils and fossil hunting.

  “I would so love to find something exciting,” she said, taking a large step over a rut in the field. “A fossil the
Royal Society might find interesting.”

  “You must have read about Mary Anning…” He smiled at her.

  “Oh yes,” she answered, returning his gaze with a smile of her own. “What a fascinating young lady. And how wonderful to be able to actually make a living doing what she loves.”

  Mowbray nodded, having already done his own reading on the girl from Lyme Regis who had discovered an amazing ichthyosaur fossil, one of the first complete representations of such an ancient creature. The announcement had thrown more than a few scientific organisations into chaos.

  “I doubt I’ll be as lucky as her,” mused Lydia, her eyes on the cliffs they were approaching, “but to have some fossils I personally found? That would be quite lovely.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll accomplish your goals,” he encouraged. “This area is ripe with all kinds of surprises.”

  Their walk had brought them to some rough ground, so their conversation dwindled as they were forced to begin picking their way over rocks, uneven and pebbly patches of land, and negotiate the increasing slopes heralding the cliffs growing rapidly higher as they neared.

  Skidding and slipping, Lydia laughed as she grabbed onto Mowbray’s arm and made her way past a particularly awkward boulder.

  His heart refused to settle down when her hand gripped his shoulder; it beat even faster when he put his arm around her waist to help her up and over some obstacles in their path. She fit him perfectly, he realised. Her height matched his, and he was loath to let her go.

  But with a sigh he did, watching her eyes light up as they reached the shore and could walk unimpeded to the first cliff face. She couldn’t get there fast enough, and he had to hurry to catch up.

  “Where do we start?” She stared at the cliff, rugged, grubby and rather overwhelming from this viewpoint.

  Mowbray grinned and pointed. “Anywhere you want.”

  “Right then.” Lydia headed to the rocks and put down her reticule, extracting her hammer and chisel.

  For a moment, he looked out over the ocean, seeing several boats and yachts already out enjoying the sunshine. He wondered if the Maeve had left yet, then his gazed turned to the beach where a few eager fossil hunters were working.