by Darcy Burke
Jason straightened his coat and strode from the room aware of Ethan on his heels. They followed the sound of people and eventually came upon a massive chamber. It wasn’t a ballroom, but it was far larger than a typical drawing room. There was furniture, but it had been arranged around the perimeter so that people could mill about—and perhaps later dance—in the center. It was the perfect location for what Jason had planned.
The moment he stepped into the room, heads turned. He registered no one’s identity as he methodically searched for Lydia’s cream complexion and dark eyes. She was the only person he cared about, the only one he wanted to see.
Conversation began to die out. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and his anxiety vaulted to new heights, but he ignored everything save his quest to find Lydia.
Ethan touched his arm and inclined his head toward the far wall. Lydia stood with Miss Cheswick and another young woman, a redhead Jason thought might be Lady Saxton, the Duke of Holborn’s daughter-in-law. Jason immediately cut toward them.
He didn’t think the room could grow quieter, but with each step the silence seemed to increase, as if it were a living, breathing entity that could consume them all. People fell away from his path, creating an ever-widening space in the middle of the room.
Ethan leaned close and muttered, “I hope you know what you’re doing,” and then moved away from him.
Jason stood utterly alone in the center of a sea of expectant and censorious faces. But the only one he focused on was Lydia’s.
“Lady Lydia,” he said loudly and clearly. Then he dropped to one knee. The entire room let out a gasp loud enough to make Lydia flinch. At least, he hoped that was why she flinched.
Once it was silent again, he gathered his courage. “I want to apologize for announcing our betrothal the other night. It wasn’t well done of me. I earnestly beg your forgiveness.”
Murmurs broke out, but Jason couldn’t hear what anyone said. Not that he cared. All of his apprehension, all of his concern was directed at Lydia. Her reaction, her opinion, her forgiveness was all that mattered.
He waited for her to speak. To move. To do anything but stand there and stare at him as if he was far crazier than anyone purported him to be. As one moment became two, his palms grew damper and his neck began to outright itch.
“Lydia?” he ventured softly.
She blinked, but otherwise continued to stand as still as a statue. “I appreciate your apology. And I accept it.”
“Thank you.” He exhaled with relief. But that was only one part of his scheme. The easy part.
Time to put everything out there. He sucked in a breath and forged onward. “I regret what happened the other night. Though I had no part in orchestrating what occurred, I could have handled things better. I’m . . . a hothead.” He offered a meek smile, but was discouraged when her features remained guarded. No, that wasn’t quite right. She looked as if she were about to be run down by a coach and four.
Still, he had to carry on. “If I’m guilty of anything, it’s of being too passionate.” More murmurs. “I suppose it’s why I hosted vice parties in the first place.” Because it was the only way he could get human interaction. But he wouldn’t bare his soul about that here. Later, he would more fully explain to her why he’d started them, why he needed them.
“However, with you as my wife,” he continued, somewhat surprised at how sure and strong he sounded given what he was about to say, “Lockwood House will no longer be the center of Society’s debauchery.” He’d chosen his words carefully. If he was going to humiliate himself in this fashion, he’d remind every single hypocrite that they were no better than him.
“Are you saying you’ll give up the vice parties?” a deep voice asked from somewhere behind Jason.
He didn’t turn, keeping his gaze focused on Lydia, whose returning stare was intent. But he couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or not. Damn it, why wasn’t she giving him even a bit of encouragement? Clearly he was doing something wrong.
The man’s question came back to him. Though it pained him to voice the answer, he did so, praying it would warm just a fraction of Lydia’s cool demeanor. “Yes, I’m giving up the vice parties.”
The murmurs grew louder as people discussed this shocking development. Jason didn’t even try to make out what they said. He only wished Lydia would say something. Anything.
“Looks like your plea is falling on deaf ears, Lockwood.” That voice he recognized.
Margaret. Somewhere to his left.
“A pretty speech, to be sure, but she’s too shrewd to accept him,” someone said just loudly enough that Jason could hear. “Marriage to him would scarcely be better than returning to . . . Where does her father live?”
“Anything would be better than shackling herself to a lunatic like him. Just look at him there. Down on his knee. He’s making an utter cake of himself.”
Margaret moved into his line of sight then, taking a position near to Lydia, but not directly beside her since Miss Cheswick and Lady Saxton hadn’t moved.
Miss Cheswick leaned down and said something close to Lydia’s ear. How Jason wished he could hear what she said, but he couldn’t. Lydia nodded though, and hope burgeoned in his chest.
And was quickly squashed.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure . . . ” Lydia said, her voice soft and wobbly.
Margaret reached around Miss Cheswick and patted Lydia’s arm. “Well done, gel.” Then she shot Jason a superior smile.
“Hear, hear!” someone shouted, followed by a clap. Then a second. Then a third. Soon dozens were applauding.
Lydia looked at Miss Cheswick and then at Lady Saxton, then her stunned gaze settled on Jason. He saw her mouth form the word no, even if he couldn’t hear her over the suddenly thunderous sound of applause in his ears.
Not knowing whether she could marry him was the same as a refusal. She either loved him or she didn’t. There was no middle ground. He’d put everything out there for her, had even offered to relinquish his vice parties, and for what? For her to take his heart and smash it to the ground.
He stood on surprisingly firm legs, but then he felt as if his entire body was made of wood. His blood, his heart, his very soul had solidified into a cold, hard mass.
People moved toward Lydia and surrounded her so that he could no longer see her face. Others turned toward him, some with pitying looks, others with smirks of disdain. He felt a hand on his shoulder and knew it was Ethan.
But Jason didn’t want his help or his comfort. He only wanted to get back to the life he thought he’d left behind. The only life he apparently deserved.
LYDIA STRUGGLED to free herself from the pressing mass around her. She barely registered who anyone was or what they said, though she was aware of Audrey’s hand on her arm, trying to guide her to freedom. She ignored everything but Audrey’s touch as they made their way through the cluster of people.
At last Lydia was able to see the center of the room, but Jason wasn’t there any longer. She frantically searched for him among the throng, to no avail. He’d gone, and she couldn’t blame him.
How could she have just stood there?
She been utterly, fantastically, and quite literally speechless. His heartfelt plea had shocked her. Not because he’d made it, but because of the manner in which he’d delivered it. He’d come here in front of the highest echelon of the ton and laid himself bare.
And her response had been no better than what he’d done to her the other night. Shame burned her face as she envisioned the hurt in his eyes. His scar had paled with pain while she’d fought to find the words to tell him that she loved him. Why had she muttered nonsense?
Because she’d panicked. She’d been afraid to throw her status and reputation away. But as her peers gathered round to cheer her wise decision, she realized this moment would define the rest of her life. And what she wanted most wasn’t a lofty status or a pristine reputation. She wanted him. A scoundrel, yes, but a scoundrel who’d
just publicly offered to change his life for her. And that frightened her more than anything.
“You’re smart to have turned him down,” someone said beside her. “Well done.”
“Of course she refused him,” Aunt Margaret’s voice cut through the dissonant noise surrounding Lydia. “She’s a good girl.”
Now she was “good?”
“I’m not,” she said. She reached for Audrey’s wrist and squeezed it. Audrey turned. Her face was flushed. Lydia needed someone to hear what she said. “I’m not good.”
Audrey pulled her forward and linked their arms. “Come with me quickly.”
It wasn’t quick, but eventually they were free of the drawing room and Audrey was ushering her down a slender corridor. Vermillion skirts swished ahead of them, and Lydia realized Lady Saxton—Olivia, as she and Audrey called her—was leading them.
Olivia opened a door and swept them into a small room with a dainty set of furniture, including a pale yellow chaise. “You poor thing.” Her eyes were full of compassionate warmth. “Do you want to lie down?”
Lydia eyed the chaise and for some ridiculous reason could only think of Jason’s fantasy room. Agony tore through her. “I want to go home.”
She didn’t really, at least not to Aunt Margaret’s. But she had no other options.
“You’re welcome to come to Saxton House with me.” Olivia smiled. “Provided you don’t mind a newborn.”
Lydia stared at her, and again words were slow in coming. Finally she ground out. “Why? I was horrid to you when you came to Town. I deserve all of this.”
Olivia shook her head firmly. “No, you don’t. No one does.”
The door opened, and Lydia’s stomach dropped to her feet. If that was Aunt Margaret, she feared she might scream.
But it wasn’t Aunt Margaret. It was Philippa. She too gazed at Lydia with empathetic concern. Which made sense, given that she could understand Lydia’s plight better than anyone.
“How are you?” she asked tentatively.
“I don’t know.” She felt cold and hot and nauseous. “That’s not true. I feel awful. I just let him stand there—kneel there—and I did nothing. I’m the most horrible person.”
Audrey hadn’t left her side and now squeezed her shoulders. “You’re not. You’re human. You’ll talk to him. He’ll understand.”
“How can he, when I’m not sure I do?”
“Do you love him?” Olivia asked.
Lydia nodded. More than ever. More than she ever dreamed possible. Which only turned the blade deeper in her gut. “But you saw him out there. He doesn’t care what anyone says or thinks. He says he’ll give up his vice parties, but I know how much they mean to him. I tried to change him, I thought it was to help myself, but I think I really just wanted to conform him to the man I wanted him to be, instead of the man he is. And it turns out I love the man he is.”
Olivia gave her head a tiny shake. “Then what’s wrong?”
“He said he’d give up his vice parties for me.” Lydia still couldn’t believe he’d said that—and so publicly. “What if he grows to resent that? What if he grows to resent me?”
“He won’t,” Philippa said. “Lockwood risked a great deal to come here tonight. I’d wager he’s as ready to give up what’s important to him as you’re ready to thumb your nose at that lot out there.”
“You are, aren’t you?” Audrey asked.
Lydia never imagined she’d be able to turn her back on wanting approval and acceptance, but she’d found something far more precious. “I’m more than ready. I just hope it’s not too late.”
“Never.” Philippa smiled encouragingly. “I followed Ambrose all the way to Cornwall.”
“Luckily for me, Lockwood House is much, much closer.” Then Lydia hugged each of her friends in turn.
After spending a good hour in seclusion, she ventured back to the party and suffered people’s commentary and congratulations. With practice, she thought she could learn to not care what people thought of her or said about her. At last, it was time to leave and she was ensconced in the coach with Aunt Margaret for a blessedly short ride home.
Aunt Margaret nodded approvingly. “I’m quite proud of how you handled yourself this evening, though you shouldn’t have disappeared for so long. You’ve more than won your freedom to stay with me. I’ll write your father first thing in the morning.”
Oh no; she thought Lydia had humiliated Jason on purpose. “No, you won’t. I’ll write to him to inform him of my upcoming nuptials. Provided Jason will still have me.”
Aunt Margaret gaped at her. “You’ve lost your mind. You’ll be a pariah.”
“Perhaps.” Lydia shrugged. “Perhaps not. Philippa came through her marriage to Sevrin all right.”
The coach stopped in front of Aunt Margaret’s townhouse. Aunt Margaret scooted forward in her seat. “Not according to everyone. I’m shocked Lady Holborn would deign to include one such as him, but I suppose she did so to satisfy her son. Though look at what Saxton married.” She rolled her eyes. “He could’ve had any young woman, and he chose that nobody.” She returned her dark, malicious gaze to Lydia. “You’ll be utterly ruined if you marry Lockwood.”
“When I marry Lockwood.” Lydia refused to consider the alternative. “And I don’t care. Though I’m sure you’ll do everything in your power to make us miserable.”
The door of the coach opened, and the footman offered his hand to Aunt Margaret. “I won’t have to. Lockwood solidified his exclusion from Polite Society tonight and if you’re foolish enough to wed him, you’ll join him in perdition,” she said, taking the proffered hand and stepping down to the sidewalk.
Lydia followed her from the coach and trailed her to the front door. Now that she’d decided to embrace what she really wanted—Jason—she saw no reason to mince words with Aunt Margaret anymore. “Stop directing your hate at Jason and his mother. They aren’t the ones who hurt you.”
Aunt Margaret stopped short of the door and spun around. Her dark eyes were furious in the light cast from the street lamp. “Who told you?” Her voice had dropped in tone and volume.
Lydia moved closer to her aunt. She didn’t want to battle anymore, not when she was hopefully about to start a very happy life. Gently, Lydia touched her arm. “Wolverton explained everything, but he only wanted me to understand. I wish you’d told me. Maybe I could have helped you let it go.”
“Let what go?” Aunt Margaret snapped as she drew her arm away from Lydia. “I can’t believe Wolverton exposed my past to you, but I suppose I should be thankful he’s remained quiet all these years.”
Only she didn’t sound appreciative. She sounded bitter. “Is that why you spread gossip?” Lydia asked. “So that people will fear you, and you’ll never have to suffer it yourself?”
Aunt Margaret’s eyes widened briefly, but then her face shuttered. “It doesn’t matter why I do it. And I don’t want your pity.” With a grunt, she turned around. “Where’s Tate? Why hasn’t he opened the door?”
The footman who’d ridden on the coach rushed forward and opened the door. The foyer was empty. Eerily so.
Lydia stepped inside behind Aunt Margaret. “Something must be amiss.”
Aunt Margaret turned to the footman. “Go and find Tate.”
He nodded and took himself off.
“I’m going up to bed,” Aunt Margaret said crossing to the stairs. “I hope to heaven Coxley is there waiting for me.” She was halfway up the stairs when they heard running footsteps.
“Lady Margaret!” the footman called before his feet carried him into the small foyer. “You’ve been robbed! A group of men came into the house and tied everyone together downstairs.”
Aunt Margaret paled, and Lydia rushed up to steady her lest she fall down the staircase. As she patted her aunt’s shoulder, she turned to the footman. “Please send the coachman to Bow Street to fetch a Runner.” It was all she could think to do. Lydia realized she was trembling. She stopped the footman just befor
e he reached the front door. “Is everyone all right?”
He nodded briskly. “I think so, your ladyship. Just scared.” He departed, and Lydia turned her attention back to Aunt Margaret.
“Let me help you up to bed, then I’ll send Coxley up.” Lydia guided Aunt Margaret slowly up the stairs.
“No, I prefer you sit with me. For a bit.” She sounded small, frightened.
Lydia had never heard her like that. She put her arm more firmly around her aunt’s shoulders. “I’ll sit with you as long as you like.”
“Thank you. I do hope they didn’t steal my jewelry—or yours.” She flicked Lydia a glance.
Lydia thought of the pieces that had belonged to her mother and felt a pang of sorrow. “I hope so, too.” But more importantly she was glad no one had been hurt. Now more than ever she realized the importance of living her life to be happy, and she hoped Aunt Margaret finally saw it too.
Chapter Twenty-two
“MY LORD, my lord!” Scot burst into Jason’s bedchamber with North on his heels, fully rousing Jason from the slumber he’d been half-enjoying. Only half because it had taken him all bloody night to get there.
“Is the house on fire?” Jason asked, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he sat up.
Scot looked at his brother. “Do you want to tell him?”
“No, you do it,” North said, his expression foreboding.
Jason looked between his retainers with mounting frustration. “I don’t care who does it, but one of you better—and fast.”
“There was a robbery last night,” Scot said darkly.
His tone set off an alarm in Jason’s mind. That, and the fact that they’d charged into his room, which they’d never done.
“Who?” Jason asked with more than a bit of trepidation.
“Lady Lydia.”
Jason had almost been expecting her name. Who else would have caused these meddlesome servants to behave in such a fashion? What he hadn’t expected was the fear that settled deep into his chest. Particularly after the manner in which she’d thoroughly denied him last night. He ought to despise her, oughtn’t he? No, because regardless of their non-future together, he still cared about her. “How do you know this?”
