by Gina Conkle
Lydia’s head snapped up as she rounded a pair of chairs and delicate table. “This makes it seven, right?”
“Six.” The powdered blond head of the countess shook an emphatic “no.” “You won’t succeed by shortchanging yourself on this exercise.” She set her teacup back on its saucer with a definitive clink and put the dishes down. “You will complete ten perfect rotations. That is my mandate if you are to have a successful walk. We will practice this every day until you get this right.”
“And here I thought I’d walked well enough all these years.” Lydia couldn’t resist the temptation to smirk.
But her smirk at the countess was costly. Her knee bumped an ottoman, and down went an egg.
“Lud, another one down,” she groaned when the spoon’s load lightened, followed by the inevitable crunch and splat.
Lady Elizabeth snapped her fingers for a fresh egg, which Tilly supplied and then dropped on fours to commence cleaning the new mess. The countess sighed and repeated her same instructions.
“Let’s try again, shall we? Head up, shoulders back, arms to your sides, bent at the elbows, of course, to accommodate the spoons and eggs, level and forward. Think: always look forward.”
“One,” Lydia said aloud to denote the first of a new round of ten rotations.
“Know the landscape of the room, my dear, because that will enable you to know the landscape of a room.” Her ladyship’s rouged lips pursed on that mysterious advice.
Lydia moved past the large pale blue settee where the countess sat, and kept her face straight ahead. “I don’t suppose you’ll enlighten me on what you mean by knowing the landscape of a room? Something tells me there’s more to it.”
“Very good.” Lady Elizabeth’s head canted at a gentle angle, following Lydia’s progress.
Then the lady was behind her, and she dared not turn around to look her in the eye lest another egg drop.
“Apprise yourself of who will be in the room as soon as you arrive, if not before. We’ll start you off with small engagements, simple dinner parties to win over a few of the top matrons of Society. Always greet them immediately after your host. You may discuss the weather, your painting, simple estate matters, but never let on about your intentions with your art,” she said, finishing with brusque tones. “And to those you’ve determined are hostile, give a gracious greeting and move on.” Lady Elizabeth’s silk skirts rustled under what must have been her preening hands. “Many will be jealous of your sudden position, but I’ll be sure to catalog a list of those to avoid.”
Lydia snorted at that. The egg wobbled, she slowed, held her breath as her body tensed for the worst, but the minute back-and-forth rolling stopped, and she relaxed. “I didn’t realize people would be so unwilling to accept me. A list of people to avoid sounds very like a list of creditors to avoid until my debt is paid.”
“Society can be like that…full of jealous cats who resent your sudden social credit, if you will.” Lady Elizabeth made a small, thoughtful, humming sound. “There will be some social tremors from Edward’s marital decision. Nonetheless, you will charm them with your astounding elegance. I’ll make sure of it. You’ll be a trendsetter.”
“That may be a tall order.”
Nor did the lady ask Lydia what she wanted, but that was not at the forefront of matters in the blue drawing room.
Her rotation turned her to the wide double doors opening to the balustrade at the far end of the room. Beyond, she glimpsed the greenhouse, its chimneys swirling smoke into frigid air. Edward and Mr. Bacon strode across the curving graveled path, deep in discussion as they headed toward the house. A small groan escaped her. Now she’d have more witnesses to this indignity. Yet part of her thrilled to the knowledge of more contact with Edward. Her footsteps slowed, which the countess must not have noticed.
“Keep Edward in England, give me a grandson, and I’ll make sure you have my full, unwavering attention.”
At this end of the drawing room, Miss Lumley was in sight, and her bright blue eyes widened over red cheeks. Lydia and the older woman grinned like two connivers. All and sundry couldn’t wait to be free of Lady E.’s unwavering attentions, but Lydia, for now, was stuck.
She had made so many rotations about the room in her new heeled shoes but was still unused to the slight juxtaposition of her body from flat heels to high. Even stepping from the blue carpet onto wood floors in the drawing room threw her off kilter. Down went another egg. Her chin dropped to her chest and she eyed the latest casualty, when her other arm drooped, and that egg crashed near the toes of her brand-new shoes.
“Blast it! Will I ever get this?”
Rogers and Miss Lumley came to the rescue, smiling encouragement and cleaning up the mess.
Lady Elizabeth sighed. “Come. Take a break.”
When Lydia looked up, Edward and Mr. Bacon pushed open the glass door, their breath still huffing small clouds of frosty air until they crossed the threshold. Edward froze, his dark eyes roving over her, catching on her messy skirt but rising to her face. His eyes spread wide, as did Mr. Bacon’s. Lydia, clutching empty silver spoons at her sides, laughed. What else could she do?
“I’m a fright with my egg-smeared skirts.”
“You sound like Lydia,” Edward began, and then his narrowing eyes lit with a low smolder. “But you’re a different version of the woman I stole from the Blue Cockerel. Who is this vision?”
Even Mr. Bacon’s bright blue eyes glowed with male appreciation. “Good afternoon, miss. You’re looking lovely.” He dipped his head in greeting, but his stare remained on her.
Lydia took a fraction of a second to register their responses to her, the subtle differences that went beyond the beautiful dress. Her hair was swept high off her face with only a few hot-iron curls falling artfully in the right places, since time was of the essence with Simpson. A thin line of kohl had been applied to her lower eyelid, and a touch of rouge to her lips. Simpson had plucked her brows into elegant arches, and earbobs dangled from her ears, teardrop in shape and identical in color to the burgundy dress, cheap paste to be sure, but pretty. Of course, there was more of her to see: two plump, cream-white curves rose from her square neckline. Could those few changes make that much difference in male reaction?
“May I escort you to your seat?” Edward offered his arm to her in what also looked like a subtle crowding out of Mr. Bacon. His gaze lingered on her cleavage then strayed to the spoons. “That is, if you promise not to slay me with your spoons.”
His lips twitched with humor, and Lydia slipped her arm into his. She turned her face into his sleeve, hiding a snicker at his jest. The day, odd and exhilarating, just got better, because Edward was here and close to her. Then he leaned his head near to hers, adding to the intimacy.
“I see my mother’s subjecting you to the same torture she exacted on my sister, lessons in graceful walking with eggs,” he said low enough for her ears only.
“My apologies to the Greenwich floors, my lord.”
“You and the eggs improve the place. Never liked it in here. Everything’s icicle blue, like being on a Nordic expedition.”
She giggled and leaned into his body warmth as they strolled to the seating area.
“Perfect. Lydia can practice her tea-service skills,” the countess crowed her pleasure across the room. Then she dismissed the servants with a quick clap. “That’ll be all for now, Miss Lumley.”
Edward delivered Lydia to a delicate white chair, bending deep with her as she took her seat. He dipped low and close, such that his warm breath fanned the top of her bosom. Some of her hard-earned decorum slipped. A rash brigand’s smile crossed his face, visible to her alone, and the spoons dropped in her lap with a rattle.
No matter, the voices of the countess and Mr. Bacon floated in the background, engaging in social chatter. Edward set a hand on the back of her chair, a move that was possessive and claiming, and she wanted to sink into him. His lordship’s sculpted lips twitched, and he looked pointedly at
the sliver of dark space between her breasts as if he would like very much to explore what he could and couldn’t see.
“I find that I’d like to continue our discussions tonight, if that meets with your approval,” he said for her ears alone.
His voice vibrated over her skin, and her body turned puttylike by his presence. When she responded, her voice kept their quiet, intimate thread. “You mean such as we had last night? Your talking with a woman for no particular reason over no particular subject?”
One corner of his mouth hitched up at that.
“Exactly the kind of discourse I had in mind,” he whispered and rose to full height.
Lydia licked her lips, purely feline in nature. She followed him as he circled behind her and took his seat on the settee between her and the countess. He looked the same as all the other days since she’d arrived at Greenwich Park: plain woolen coat, brown today, with black breeches, unadorned linen shirt, and the same scuffed and worn brown boots, clean at least, and his queue tied but loose. But something about him looked delectable. She wanted to put her mouth to him and test him, and yes, nibble certain parts of him. Perhaps he read her mind, because a predatory smile curved his mouth, welcoming such exploration from her. But they were in one of England’s once-finest drawing rooms, and other matters beckoned.
“If you’re ready to practice with tea service,” the countess announced in a loud voice.
Her ladyship had likely tried for her attention, but that flirtatious interchange with Edward singed her ability to hear. Lydia’s fingers, scrubbed free of paint, linked together, a mutinous move, since they were needed to pour tea.
“Countess, do you really…” Her plea wilted under her ladyship’s starch stare. Lydia licked her lips and positioned her hands as gracefully as she could and proceeded to move through tea.
She passed a fresh cup to Lady Elizabeth.
“Mmmm, well done,” the countess said, setting down the cup she didn’t need, since she already had some. “Now offer to serve me with a motion of your hand like this—” She gently waved her open hand over the biscuits and petit fours. “And I’ll say, ‘No thank you.’ Then make the offer to our guests.”
Lydia mimicked the lesson, a little embarrassed that Edward and Mr. Bacon witnessed this, but they went along nicely with the lesson, accepting their refreshments. For Mr. Bacon’s plate, she heaped high the small dish with delectables, especially the tasty biscuits they both liked. When everyone was settled, her stomach growled for a biscuit, and she nearly reached for the golden delight with her hand.
Lady Elizabeth raised a single finger. “Ah, ah. Think again.”
Lydia’s hand floated gracefully to a plate and small silver tongs, which she had just used for the others. She wanted to heap it high for herself, but another of her ladyship’s pearls rang in her mind: at tea, never take more than one item. This isn’t luncheon, and your mantua-maker will appreciate not having to take out any seams.
She set a solitary biscuit on her plate and took a tiny bite. Between the tiny waists of her new gowns and the stiff whalebone stays squeezing her into place, she’d have to maintain correct posture just to breathe. As she chewed, Lydia dabbed the corner of a neatly folded napkin to her lips, hiding the rotation of her mouth behind the cloth. Then the countess offered up her latest lesson.
“Now, about your language. We never say blighter, blasted, or lud,” she instructed. “You must strike those words from your vocabulary.”
“Don’t worry, Countess. I’ve a lot of other salty words I can replace them with,” she said, grinning, and took a healthier bite of biscuit.
Mr. Bacon chortled, wiping crumbs from his beard. “Like a regular sailor, you are.”
For the first time, her ladyship cracked a smile. Her head dipped as if she couldn’t let her charge see the teacher taken in by that bit of cheek. How nice to see this side of the grand dame. The countess coughed a polite sound of redirection, but her lips pressed into a smile-suppressing line.
“Be that as it may, you must strike all such language from your vocabulary. You’re surprisingly well-spoken, but my best advice is find someone who speaks well and mimic her.”
A compliment from the countess.
Edward, who sat closest to her, raised his cup in salute to Lydia at the hard-won positive comment.
Lydia swallowed the morsel in her mouth and ran the tip of her tongue over her lips to capture crumbs. “You mean someone like you, minus the verbal daggers, if you’ll beg pardon for my directness.”
Jeweled blue eyes stared back at Lydia with the first reflections of honesty and openness. “My dear, noblewomen since the time of the Conqueror wore their daggers about their waists. Today we are more civilized and refined.” She looked blankly across the tea table into open space. Her lips turned in a bitter line as Lydia guessed she was surely recalling a past incident. “We still keep daggers of our own, our tongues, which are no less lethal in bloodletting.”
“Your lessons are well and good, but I like Lydia exactly as she is,” Edward said as he returned his cup and saucer to the table. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Edward’s blunt statements were as good as bringing in the sun on the still-dreary days. Lydia sat up taller, and her smile spread wider, brighter she was sure, and all for him.
“Thank you,” she said, her heart beating a little faster after she’d calmed from his blatant sensuality while seating her. Lydia rubbed her finger over a gold-embroidered swirl on her skirt and schooled her breathing. “But I promise not to traipse about with egg-covered skirts.”
“Good.” Then his gaze rose to her hair. “And no powder on your hair.”
“Of course that must be part of her toilette, Edward,” Lady Elizabeth said, her voice firm and decided. “To attend a ball unpowdered would be gauche.”
“No powder.” He said that as if it were a king’s edict. “I’ll not have her stuffed and trussed like so many woman, peacocked and ridiculous. Powder would dull the color of her beautiful hair.”
“And what do you know of fashion?” the countess sniped. “She must have powder. We go to London tomorrow to begin selection of ball gowns and powder for her hair.”
That Edward had such strong opinions on her hair surprised her. She didn’t even think he noticed what shade sprouted from her head. Yet he and the countess shifted on the settee, two combatants about to square off in this latest challenge, and Lydia witnessed a fragment of the infamous tension between the two.
“If I have to work it in the wedding vows, I will.”
Lydia laughed at his last proclamation. Of course she planned to honor her vows, but what he’d said teetered on the ridiculous.
“I’ve never heard of anything so silly in my life,” Lydia said, her gaze bouncing between Edward and the countess.
He turned to her, and his strained visage softened. “I request that you never powder your hair.” And then he added, “For me.”
She knew right then she loved him, at least her imperfect understanding of something so perfect as love. Her heart belonged to Edward, and there was no going back on that. His quiet words, a request over something as un-life changing as hair powder, tilted the world upside down for her. Benumbed and exhilarated at the same time, she set her plate in her lap, lest she drop the thing as the skirmish of wills continued. Both combatants, however, were blithely unaware of her earth-shattering revelation.
This was not a matter of mind-muddling attraction, though all of her was drawn to him and longed for his hot friction. His fine form folded on the furniture, a feast for her eyes. He planted one tanned hand on his knee closest to her, and the same question that probed her at the Blue Cockerel came to the fore: What would it be like to have those tanned hands all over her?
The discussion between Edward and the countess escalated: powder or no powder, go to London for ball-gown fittings or stay at Greenwich Park to continue the neglected scientific illustrations. These became the hotly discussed topics around her and about
her. Then Edward turned and tried to draw her into the fray.
“What do you want to do?” Edward held up a hand to halt his mother’s verbal onslaught. “Lydia?” he called again and dipped his head for eye contact with her. “What do you want?”
She looked at him and the countess, drawn back from her stunning revelation. “I…I…”
Want to paint. Be naked with Edward. Tell him how I feel.
Another honest admission from her heart and mind, but she’d stifle those words and choose a diplomatic route. “Why don’t I go to London tomorrow for the fittings, and the next day I’ll catch up on the illustrations? I’m behind only a few days.” She gave Edward a triumphant grin. “One would think you’ve always had me around to labor for you. I’d say you’ve grown accustomed to me in your greenhouse.”
“If you must,” the countess said in a huff, though oddly sounding not too put out to have lost this battle. She smoothed her skirts and addressed Lydia. “I shall return later in the week to find a dance instructor, and you must have your own stationery. Don’t worry, I can decide that for you.” She tapped her fingers against her skirts. “Very well, I’ll take care of the other items that don’t require your immediate presence.”
“Going to London tomorrow, are you?” Mr. Bacon asked. “Then would you mind dropping off a small chest at Buckingham House? Saves me a trip.”
“Are we talking about the books you exchange with the king?” The countess turned to Edward, her eyes rounding at the mention of Buckingham House.
“Yes.” Edward nodded. “The chest’s manageable for your carriage.”
“Of course we can deliver them.”
Lydia guessed she’d find a way to drop that royal connection into conversations at tea with friends for weeks to come. But the recipient of that chest opened a new door on an idea that had been brewing. Timing and opportunity rarely fell so fortuitously in her lap. This was as near an invitation as she’d ever have.
She chewed her bottom lip, contemplating what would be her boldest move yet.
