by Gina Conkle
But she wavered between angry and miserable and empty, with very little time to sort out those emotions. She was marvelously “peacocked,” as Edward would say: her gown of deep blue and green brought to mind that exotic bird similar in vibrant hues and richness. Clothing, however, was part and parcel of her battle armament. The evening required self-control, restraint, yes…even discipline. She breathed in air, as much as her sharp stays allowed, girding herself for the first hurdle, a man of great importance who graced her gathering.
She smiled and sank into a deep curtsy. “I’m honored with your attendance, Your Grace.”
Voices hummed all around, and when she rose, Lydia placed her fingers in the duke’s proffered hand.
“My dear, I think the patrons will find you the greatest work of art in the room.” The Duke of Somerset bent over her hand, his head not quite touching her.
A sphere of awe surrounded the duke, a man of average height and thinning hair. She kept a respectful arm’s length from him, but he would have none of that, pulling her into the rarified space next to him, tucking her arm over his.
“Let’s take a turn around your salon and admire the outstanding art, shall we, Countess?”
The broadsheets would have much to say about his simple gesture, an elevation in status no doubt for her. Clusters of people parted for the duke, giving an unspoken radius of distance. Conversations lulled as people nodded and greeted him with polite refrains of “Your Grace.”
They were rewarded with his tight smile and coolness. In the midst of one frozen smile, he spoke to Lydia.
“You’ve come a long way from the wayward miss of Somerset.” The duke’s nose was in the air, the erect pose everything his position required; the surprising twinkle in his eyes when he glanced her way was not.
Lydia pasted a pleasant smile on her face and nodded greetings to a pair of ladies. She hesitated on how to answer that, but the duke was the one to save the day. He slowed their progress and steered her toward an easel, pointing at the modest landscape.
“I admire that piece.” The duke pinched his monocle in place and leaned in for closer examination. “The whimsy of the clouds in the distance. Brings to mind the work of one Rosalba Carriera.” He withdrew his monocle and used the glass as a pointer. “But this one done by a certain L. Wright, I see. Fascinating.”
Nervous pinpricks spread over Lydia, moving a flush of uncomfortable heat. Would the duke connect the initial of her first name and her true maiden name? She’d gone by Montgomery for many years, but of course His Grace wouldn’t forget her father. Her hands fretted, but she pinched them together near her waist, prodding herself to calm.
“There are many other artists of greater consequence that I can show you, Your Grace.”
“Oh no, this one captures my fancy.” He waved his monocle at the painting. “Lady Greenwich, I must have it, a gift for my daughter’s birthday. She delights in Carriera’s work, and this is so similar.” He tucked his monocle into his waistcoat pocket and went on with some bluster. “Though a woman artist…the very idea.”
The friendly sparkle in his eye was the only acknowledgment—he knew. She smiled graciously, and her hands relaxed at her waist.
“The world is changing, isn’t it? Sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better.” Lydia paused, and they both took a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s tray.
A good hostess was not supposed to partake, instead looking to her guests’ need for refreshment. Lydia needed the bubbly liquid and let the chilled gold beverage tickle her throat a bolstering few seconds.
“Hmm.” The duke’s thin gray brows raised as he sipped from his glass. “True. But women artists?” He shook his head and took another sip. “Then again, what else can you expect from the Italians? All that sun makes them hot-blooded, I’m sure.” He tipped his head at the modest painting beside them. “But this L. Wright, an English painter of some quality. I hope to see more.”
Lydia set her champagne glass on another passing tray and let elevating victory lift her. She smiled at the Duke of Somerset, thankful for his support. A Russian diplomat and a marquis of someplace or another approached His Grace, and she benignly stood there, nodding from time to time as if fully engaged.
Her art filled a place sublime and wonderful, but she’d tasted heaven at Greenwich Park. Funny how she had no time to paint in London, yet painting in that empty ballroom, having Edward hover as he tried to understand art, had thrilled her. She was more alive those weeks with him. But like a coward, she never said those magical three words: I love you.
But what would he have done if she gifted him with that deepest emotion, love?
Edward should be here. Tomorrow he’d be gone.
The whole room grew too hot, and the voices, so loud. Lydia set her hand to her waist. She’d have to warn Tilly not to pull her corset so tight; she could barely breathe.
“Edward…” She breathed his name, and her head bobbled as she pulled herself out of the haze.
The duke touched her elbow, his face writ with concern. “Yes, Edward.” He gently pivoted her to the other end of the room, advising her under his breath, “Steady, Countess. People are watching.”
The footman could just as well have announced the Greenwich Phantom, but to her, he was a knight in shining armor. Impeccably attired in black velvet, Edward stood tall, surveying the room with his hands clasped behind his back. His waistcoat shined a deep red silk, with the barest flounce at his neck, the minimum formality required, but worn nonetheless. The whole room hushed. Even the violins thinned to quiet.
Then one brave soul greeted him. “Glad to see you back, Greenwich.”
That broke the dam of silence as greetings trickled and then flooded around him. “Looking well, man…Greenwich, hale and hearty you are…Good evening, my lord…” And so poured forth the goodwill as Edward stepped into the conservatory.
Music resumed. Edward greeted people, nodding his way through the room, even smiling now and then, but his dark eyes were on her. Lydia, for all her newfound courage to set the art world on fire, was timid as a lamb. Her feet would not move. The duke put subtle pressure on her elbow.
“Go to your husband as befitting a wife.”
Lady’s E.’s voice chided her: Never let them see your discomfort. And for goodness’ sake, glide!
And glide she did to the man who claimed her body and soul. To all the world, this was part and parcel of the evening, a social morsel that would be rehashed at summer house parties.
Lydia extended her hand to Edward, and with all the cheer she could muster, said, “How nice to see you, my lord.”
Edward bent low over her hand, but his stare locked on her low neckline. “How nice to see so much of you.”
He kissed her knuckles, and his thumb stroked her fingers. He held her hand longer than was decent, standing upright and letting his fingers linger on hers before finally letting go. Nearby, a trio of ladies fluttered their fans, having witnessed up close the sensual interplay. It would be known that the Phantom Earl of Greenwich found his countess appealing.
Her breath hitched. “You’re looking well.” Her gaze dropped to his waistcoat. “A red waistcoat, a bold choice in fashion, but it suits you. You may win a few ardent female admirers this evening.”
“I seek to win only one.” He flashed his brigand’s smile, and something eased in his stance. “You like it then? It’s claret, not red, or so my valet informed me.” He leaned closer and his warm breath teased her skin, “I’d expect an artist to discern the difference.”
Just having him step closer to her made her body rejoice at the powerful draw he had on her. She worked to maintain composure, but Edward was more practiced in high decorum.
He saved her by nodding at the room. “We must take a turn around the room and welcome our guests.” He slanted a glance at her hair. “Thank you for not powdering your hair.”
She dipped her head, certain she was blushing like a schoolgirl, but glad he’d noticed
. Tilly followed her strict instructions to pile the glossy dark curls high and never powder them.
Lydia linked her arm through his. “Of course, and when you have a moment, you’ll have to tell me about this valet you hired, my lord.”
Did that mean he was staying?
His right hand covered hers as they began their stroll. “The valet? A gift for my ambitious art-salon wife.”
An elderly gentleman and his wife approached. She’d greeted them in the receiving line but had forgotten their names. Edward recognized them.
“Lord Ellerby, Lady Ellerby,” he called, stopping to chat.
“Good to see you’re out and about, man,” Lord Ellerby said, giving Edward the gimlet eye. “Your father would never have approved of your hermitry. Not even for the sake of science. Turn over in his grave he would.”
Lady Ellerby, a stout matron with a prim smile, tapped her fan on her husband’s shoulder, admonishing him. “Now, Hugh, that’s hardly the ideal greeting for a peer and fellow scientist.” She turned her smile on Lydia. “We should instead congratulate Lord Greenwich on finding so lovely a wife, and one so ready to enliven Society’s artistic circles.” The lady’s turquoise ostrich feather bobbled atop her hair as she spoke to Edward. “Your mother must be so proud.”
“My mother was beside herself when she found out I was to wed Lydia. It was all very quick, and done at our estate. I was quite smitten,” Edward said, smooth as silk.
“How lovely,” Lady Ellerby gushed, her chubby cheeks making her eyes small spots of color. “And romantic.”
They made their excuses and continued through the room.
“Quite the charmer, my lord,” Lydia said under her breath.
“I learned from the best, remember?” He scanned the room. “Speaking of that grand dame of social instruction, where is my mother?”
“She said Jane needed her…something about ‘if my children insist on marrying beneath their station, they will need my help for a leg up in this world’ or something of that nature.”
Intimate words ebbed in the sea of banal conversation. More people approached, among them Mr. Ryland and the Marquis of Northampton, with a throng of well-wishers. The Marquis of Northampton smiled and tipped his head.
“Edward, it’s been a long, long time.”
“Gabriel, good to see you.” Edward tipped his head at Mr. Ryland. “And you, Ryland.”
“Greenwich.” His gaze traveled from Edward to Lydia. Tonight he sported a yellowing bruise on his right cheek, but no one dared ask how he got it.
Mr. Ryland’s fathomless pewter stare missed nothing. At every social event, he gave the minimum niceties required, but nothing passed his notice. The man was like solid stone with the thinnest veneer of Society painted over him. Lydia guessed he was aware that much more hummed under the surface of this husband-and-wife meeting. But he stayed silent.
The well-dressed Lord Gabriel, however, took in Edward’s attire. “I don’t recall your wardrobe veering from anything other than brown or black. This suits you.” He flashed a brilliant, practiced smile at Lydia. “Something tells me you’re the cause of this transformation.”
She touched Edward’s sleeve, as much for needful contact as the desire to shield him from anything unpleasant. But that was silly. Edward didn’t need her to take care of him.
“I’m glad to see him, whatever color the wardrobe.” Her tone bristled with irritation.
Lord Gabriel’s brows shot up, but Edward jumped in quickly.
“Gabriel has a long history of summer days at Greenwich Park with Jonathan.” He gave Lydia’s hand a gentle squeeze. “He’s well acquainted with my past antics.”
They made polite excuses and moved on, finishing their agonizing rotation around the room. So many questions swirled in her head. Was he planning to leave? Surely not if he hired a valet. Or did he do that to help her, a small token before he left? Edward didn’t wear a wig this evening, but his queue was as impeccable as his clothes, and he went out of his way to engage in social chatter.
What made him come tonight? Was it her? Or because he was leaving tomorrow? She agonized over the crowds of people still in the house and wanted a private moment. The chamber music was cloying, the guests too loud, and even the elegant chandeliers burned excessively bright. When sending out the invitations, she had wanted so many to come. Now she wanted them all to leave.
Lydia spied a potted palm and tugged Edward’s arm to follow. On the way, another footman passed with a tray of champagne, and she grabbed another glass, but this one she would finish.
Behind the safety of the palm, Lydia gulped down champagne.
“Easy, Countess,” he chided.
Lydia stopped gulping, but the glass rim touched her lower lip, and she blurted, “Did you do this for me?”
“Of course,” he said, his smile full of mischief. “Unless I have another ambitious wife waiting in the wings.”
She lowered the glass, clutching it with both hands in something resembling a prayer. “Edward, please…I need to know.”
Under normal circumstances, his humor would make things perfect, but in this strained, fragile state, she needed certainty. The past month had been a series of steps, one and two and three, with very specific goals in mind, yet she was empty. Oh, her art took front and center, but everything was out of balance. She needed him, but when his dark stare dropped to her slender waist, Edward turned into the earl.
“Are you pregnant?” There was a small light of hope in his eyes. “I was sure you’d write to me if that were so.”
The abrupt shift in conversation startled her. Their arrangement was fundamentally the same from that first night at the Blue Cockerel. When they’d exchanged wedding vows, she’d had her hopes, and he’d had his. Something died right then, growing small and hard within her. Lydia poured her remaining champagne into the planter and set the glass in the dirt. A scale of armor surrounded her, the same as the day she’d walked out of the public house when her first lover had callously mistreated her. Lydia smoothed both hands over her peacock-blue bodice.
“No, I’m not. As a man of science, you know the chances increase with more activity between husband and wife.” Her shoulders squared as she took a step away from him. “Not that there will be any of that in the future.”
He grabbed her wrist. “What’s this? Am I being dismissed?” He scowled. “I came with good intentions to help you.”
She faltered for a second, the part of her that turned to jelly at his closeness, his clean smell. Edward’s sculpted lips that she loved to kiss hovered close, though they curled now in anger. She guessed as well what steps he’d taken to be here tonight, and that was in no way easy. She loved him, but he didn’t love her back. Lydia took a deep breath.
“Thank you for coming tonight.”
“I’m not a guest to be brushed off. This is my home.”
“And mine,” she said staunchly and pulled away. He let her wrist drop from his grip. “I really must get back to our guests.”
Lydia took a few steps back toward the conservatory, where the crowd had thinned but still thrived. He would leave. Tomorrow. She stood in the doorway, a voice near shouting in her head to dismantle her safe harbor of pride and tell him how she felt, but when she turned around, Edward was gone.
***
Lydia’s sleep-grained eyes opened, and she was out of sorts. What time is it? She was in her nightclothes, but…Edward. She’d never had the chance to finish talking with him last night, or tell him…
She sprang off the settee where she must have dozed, waiting for him, and ran to the windows, yanking back the curtains.
The sky was predawn gray. His ship.
“What time is it?” she yelled, scrambling out of her nightclothes, so fast and hard that fabric tore.
Running to the bellpull in only her chemise, she yanked hard and yanked again. Lydia flung open her bedroom door and bellowed like a fishwife.
“Carriage! I need a carriage!”
“His lordship? Have you seen Lord Greenwich?”
The footman, an older man she didn’t know, adjusted his wig. “He, he left this morning for the docks—”
“No!” She bellowed her agony, both hands gripping her head. “I must see him before he leaves. Get a carriage. Quick!”
The footman disappeared, but Tilly stood saucer-eyed at Lydia. “Don’t gawk, Tilly. Button me up.”
Lydia planted herself on the ground and slipped on her stockings, while Tilly kneeled behind her, hastily buttoning up the back of the dress.
“There’s no time for this,” she snapped and scrambled off the floor. Cool air slipped into her back where the fabric gapped from what must be missed buttons. She started for the door.
“Wait, my lady. Your cloak.” Tilly flung a brown cloak at Lydia, who tore down the hall to the mews in her stocking feet.
She had to tell him she loved him.
Even if he never loved her, she had to say those words to him. The carriage awaited her in the back, and the footman must’ve conveyed her upset, for they moved with great speed. Lydia pulled the curtains back, clenching the fabric in her hands.
How could she have been so foolish? Did it matter if someone loved you back?
To love someone like this was a gift, not something to be hidden away. Share that love, give it, say it, and hold nothing back. Sitting in the rocking carriage was pure agony. They moved through near-empty streets. Palatial homes turned into practical midtown businesses, a blur of buildings which gave way to older, crowded structures of taverns and warehouses.
