The Golden Season

by Brockway, Connie

Lydia had no secrets from Emily. She knew quite well to whom Emily referred. “Is it so obvious, then?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Emily said.

  “Too obvious?” she asked worriedly.

  Emily gave a soft smile. “To whom?”

  “Do you think he will feel pursued? Like Byron did by Caro Lamb?”

  Emily laughed. “Good heavens, no. I cannot imagine you stalking a gentleman into his home,” she said, referring to the infamous visit Caroline Lamb, disguised as a page, had paid on Lord Byron and there attempted to take her own life. Lydia had been as shocked and appalled as the rest of Society by the story.

  Caro Lamb should have retained some measure of self-respect, an appreciation of who and what she was. She should have kept something back. But she hadn’t. She had loved hysterically and wholly and tragically and then netted the result of her unreasoning passion and now she was accepted only by those willing to dole out a portion of pity or wanting to indulge their curiosity. She was excluded. Alone.

  Lydia would hate being alone like that. Again.

  Not that it would happen. It wouldn’t. Because she would not ever behave in a manner that saw her ostracized from Society. More important, she would marry wisely, a man of standing, someone whose rank matched those of her friends, someone whose wealth enabled a life amongst the beau monde.

  Someone like Ned.

  There was nothing unwise in loving Ned Lockton. It was wise and wonderful. Realizing this fact anew, relief swept through her, as it always did when she thought of it, clearing away her unwarranted and mysterious unease.

  She nearly twirled again but caught Emily’s eye. Her expression had gone from approbation to concern.

  “What is it, Emily?”

  “Nothing,” Emily replied.

  “Something is amiss. I can see it in your face. Won’t you reconsider and come with me tonight? I should so like your company.”

  “No, no, dear,” Emily said. “I much prefer to stay here. My lumbago, you know. Besides, Eleanor likes to play chaperone in my stead. She rather enjoys showing you off, I think.”

  “That is not the point, Emily. I should enjoy your company.”

  It was no good, Lydia knew. Ever since Lady Pickler’s luncheon, Emily had refused to accompany Lydia to the many private soirees and balls to which she’d been invited. She would plead a headache or fatigue or some other excuse. Lydia knew better. Emily did not dare test her compulsion to take things. She would rather die than put Lydia in an untenable situation.

  “Please?”

  “No, Lydia. I am far more comfortable staying here and so should you be with my decision.”

  “Then at least tell me what thought caused you to look so unhappy.”

  She hesitated. “It’s silly.”

  “I hope so, but I will only be able to reassure you if you confide in me as I always do to you.”

  Emily gave her a quick smile. “Very well. I was wishing that things could stay as they were and that you weren’t obliged to marry. See how silly?”

  “But I thought you wanted to dandle my babies?” Lydia said, surprised.

  “I do!” Emily exclaimed. “But I don’t want you to have to marry.”

  “Most people find the two situations compatible,” Lydia said, attempting a light tone. “One marries; then one has a child.”

  For a heartbeat, Emily didn’t speak. Then she whispered, “Sometimes.”

  Something in Emily’s voice made Lydia glance up sharply. She knew little of the particulars of Emily’s marriage to Bernard Cod. Emily seemed far more willing to speak of her years at Brislington than those she’d been married and Lydia had not ever pressed her for more than she’d been willing to impart. All she knew was that Emily’s husband had been a banker who’d purportedly cheated his clients and was cruel enough to commit his wife to an asylum and there abandon her.

  Had Emily been a mother? If so, what had happened to her child? Had Cod been alive, Lydia would suppose the child would be with him. In cases of separation the father always retained sole custody of his progeny. But Cod was dead.

  “Emily?” she prompted gently. “Do you have a child?”

  For a long moment Emily was silent, her expression distant with bittersweet recollection. Finally she murmured, “No. She died before she was born. Almost twenty years ago.”

  Lydia crossed to Emily’s side and put an arm around her waist, drawing her gently toward the settee. She sat down and bade Emily do the same and only then said, “I am sorry.”

  “I am, too.” Emily’s smile trembled a second until, with an obvious effort, she shook off her melancholy. “But it was a long time ago. Still, you will understand my trepidation. My marriage was not happy.”

  “I am so sorry you were forced into a marriage you didn’t want—”

  “I wasn’t forced.”

  Lydia started. Though Emily had never said as much, she had always assumed that the unfailingly gentle woman had been pressured into an unwanted marriage with an abominable man. To hear this was not so surprised her.

  Emily glanced at her and smiled ruefully. “It is true that my parents were elderly when I made my debut and most anxious to see me settled in my own home before they died. But they cautioned me against accepting Cod. I thought it was snobbery on their part, because Cod’s family wasn’t as genteel as my own. If only I had listened.” She broke off and started again. “He didn’t seem—He was handsome and attentive and self-confident. . . . In short, all the things I was not. I fell in love with him my first Season out and nothing mattered but I be allowed to wed him. My father, unhappy with my choice, had papers drawn up that would guarantee me a yearly annuity and a settlement, but Cod would not sign them. I didn’t care. I begged my father to consent. I threatened to elope if he did not.” She looked down at her hands again.

  “And so we married. You know enough of my history to guess how terribly wrong I was about Cod’s character. Within a year of my parents’ deaths he had gone through my inheritance on schemes to grow wealthy that never materialized. He became increasingly obsessed with the accumulation of wealth. I learned later that he had begun to defraud his clients.”

  Her voice quavered and steadied. “He grew bored with me. He grew . . . most critical and dismissive. Then I became pregnant and soon after”—Emily stopped, took a deep breath as one preparing to face something horrible—“I had the accident that resulted in my losing the child. And after that, I . . . lost my way. I began to pilfer little things. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. And he sent me to Brislington.”

  Lydia could not bear the unhappiness in Emily’s face. She reached out and clasped her hand. “I am so sorry. You deserve so much better.”

  Emily squeezed her hand, releasing a long, unsteady sigh. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and when she opened them, they’d cleared. “You have been so happy as you are, Lydia. I know marriage is your only viable course now. I understand that, but I want you to be cautious. Consider carefully in choosing a husband, and do not be unduly influenced by romantic notions.”

  Lydia nodded in agreement. Emily spoke wisely, of course, but she could not ignore the “romantic notions” that fluttered in her heart every time she thought of Ned Lockton. But then, she did not have to. Ned had an exemplary character and she was the one with everything to gain from the association—companionship, affection, family, a noble name, and wealth, of course.

  “Make certain you are well compensated for marrying. Insist on an allowance in writing and a settlement that can assure your independence when he dies. Captain Lockton seems a very gallant and amiable gentleman, but still, take nothing for granted. Men’s hearts are inconstant and the promises they make are unreliable. Only independent wealth can guarantee security, my dear.” Emily gave another small sigh and smiled wanly. “But you already know this, don’t you?”

  Lydia smiled weakly. For the first time, she wondered if she truly did.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Happily, by the ti
me Eleanor had arrived to pick Lydia up in her carriage and they had made their way through traffic crush in front of Young’s house in Cavendish Square and the doorman had hastened down the mansion’s marble steps to light their way, and the majordomo had announced her name as a hundred pairs of admiring eyes had turned to where she stood shimmering beneath the glow of a thousand beeswax tapers, Lydia’s high spirits had been restored.

  She greeted her host and hostess, curtsying and moving on to the crowded floor beyond, eagerly searching for one tall, broad-shouldered figure. He was always easy to spot with his dark gold head of hair and his imposing height. Although in the last weeks she hadn’t needed to search him out as he’d always come forward to greet her as soon as she arrived. But tonight he was not immediately apparent.

  Her enthusiasm faded, her spirits dampened. So much of her enjoyment of the social whirl now came from knowing that Ned would be wherever she was going, awaiting her with a warm look of admiration, his manner attentive, his comments designed to tease a smile or provoke discussion.

  But in the last few days she found her gaze wandering more and more to his mouth, wondering what it would feel like pressed to hers. Or dwelling on his hands, long-fingered and strong, recalling how easily they’d encompassed her waist. Or on his shoulders, remembering how solid and broad and warm they had felt when he had held her in Roubalais’s shop.

  Ned never hinted that he had recognized her from that encounter. She was glad, of course. She had, after all, been pawning her jewelry. But she could not help but think that had their situations been reversed she would have found something about him familiar. The shape of his mouth, the scent of him, the timbre of his voice . . .

  Why the blazes hasn’t he kissed me? Or at least told me he wanted to kiss me? It plagued her, this itch, this frustration, this sense of burgeoning need. Need? She was not thinking of taking a lover, she reminded herself. She was considering a kiss.

  Unfortunately, Ned showed no signs of a similar consideration. He was all that was composed and gentlemanly. Indeed, there was no evidence he had any trouble controlling his ardor. No evidence there was any ardor to control.

  Damn.

  “Lydia.” Eleanor appeared at her side. She looked out of sorts, her usual cool demeanor ruffled. “What ever are you doing standing here staring into space? A lady never waits for a gentleman. Come away before you make yourself even more obvious than you already have.”

  Lydia flushed, allowing Eleanor to draw her into the crush. The crowd parted as if they were royalty, then closed behind them. At a deliberate pace, Eleanor led the way, pausing here to return a greeting or there to exchange a few words, nodding at an acquaintance and smiling at another, and thus forcing Lydia to do likewise. Introductions were made and news exchanged. Gentlemen requested dances and ladies whispered the latest on dit. Admiring glances tracked their progress and hushed words of appreciation heralded their steps.

  But Lydia soon grew impatient to return to the front rooms, where Ned would be looking for her. Finally, when the crowds had thinned, Eleanor murmured into her ear, “Stop dragging on my arm like a horse with the bit in its mouth. He is not here, Lydia.”

  Lydia did not pretend to misunderstand. “He was invited.”

  “Then he has either been detained or he has decided not to come and do not dare ask Lord or Lady Young if they expect him or whether they have heard from him.”

  “I would never be so forward,” she proclaimed in an injured voice.

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, but really, Lydia, you are acting most unlike yourself of late. I swear you are greener this day than you were when you made your bow almost eight years ago,” Eleanor replied. “I will not tolerate two of my friends making cakes of themselves, at least not at the same time.”

  Two? Lydia abruptly stopped. “What do you mean?”

  Eleanor glanced around, circumspectly looking for eavesdroppers. Satisfied there were none, but well aware that interested eyes never strayed far from Lydia, she pinned a smile on her face. Only Lydia saw the strain in it. “Sarah. She is with Carvelli.”

  Prince Carvelli was Sarah’s latest in a long list of admirers. Sometimes her flirtations turned into brief affairs, but they only lasted a short while. Lydia was not surprised to hear Sarah was showing off her latest conquest. She was, however, surprised by Eleanor’s taut voice.

  “She has already had three dances with him and now she has gone in to dine at his side. She is openly affectionate, so much so that their intimacy is bound to invite censure.”

  “I will speak to her,” Lydia said.

  “It will do no good. She seems intent on destroying herself.”

  “I doubt that. Sarah might like to poke and prod at the line, but she has never shown any inclination to step over it,” Lydia said soothingly.

  “My dear,” Eleanor said, “you would be the last to notice the changes in Sarah, being consumed as you are with your own affairs. Which, of course, you ought to be and, indeed, must be.”

  Eleanor’s assessment caught Lydia off guard. True, Ned Lockton occupied her thoughts, but surely not to the extent that she had become oblivious to her friends. . . . Where is Ned? She looked around again, craning her neck, but did not see his dark gold head. Had he met with some misfortune? Had something, or someone, else demanded his time? What? Who?

  “Lydia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Lydia, are you attending me at all?” Eleanor asked, exasperated.

  Childe Smyth strolled up just in time to save Lydia from lying. He’d perfected the expression of the dandy, part boredom and all sardonic amusement. His brows canted up at the bridge of his nose and his lips curled in an attitude that might become a smile but might just as easily be a snicker. “Your Grace. Lady Lydia,” he drawled, essaying an elegant bow. “Faith! You have saved my life, m’dears.”

  “Really? In what way, Mr. Smyth?” Eleanor asked.

  “I was about to succumb through sheer ennui. No one has anything to say. I swear all wit and drama sailed off with Byron and Brummell. The 1816 Season shall be remembered as a singularly boring one. Though”—he tapped his nose, his eyes shining—“your good friend, the delightful Mrs. Marchland, seems determined to provide relief, God bless her.”

  “How so, Mr. Smyth?” Eleanor asked in her most quelling tone.

  Lydia knew her friend did not like Childe Smyth. She thought him puffed up and self-congratulatory. But Lydia suspected he did not think quite as much of himself as Eleanor assumed. She discerned a bone-deep unhappiness beneath his brightly malicious gaze.

  “When I left the dining table, she was about to move to a new seat”—he paused for effect—“in Prince Carvelli’s lap.”

  “Dear Lord,” Eleanor breathed. “Lydia, if you would excuse me?”

  She did not wait for Lydia’s reply, but hurried off in the direction of the drawing room, presumably to extract Sarah from impending disaster.

  “A fond friend,” Smyth said, watching her departure. “Alas, I suppose her intervention will be successful and once more we will all want for a topic of conversation.”

  “I’m certain we can find some diverting subject,” Lydia replied. This was a form of conversation, the exchange of wry innuendo and ironic observation, that she knew well and had excelled at for years. “Come now, Mr. Smyth, you surely have heard some news worth imparting?”

  “Let me think,” he said, holding out his arm for her. She took it and they began a leisurely stroll. “I have heard about a certain beauty whose name may soon be stricken from Boodle’s betting book as having lost the right to bear the title ‘the Unattainable.’ ”

  Lydia’s heart leaped with excitement. What had led to this speculation? Had Ned been overheard saying something to someone? Or had the gossipmongers seen something in Ned’s demeanor? Or in hers? She disliked this last explanation, especially after Eleanor’s recent scolding. “Oh? And do you give credence to this rumor, Mr. Smyth?”

  He smiled. “Oh, yes. Jenny Pick
ler has made a modest career of reporting a conversation she had with the beauty herself in which the beauty declared her desire to change her marital status. Lady Jenny has, one might say, come into her own armed with this disclosure.”

  Smyth was speaking in the general. There was no specific speculation. She masked her disappointment.

  Childe nodded toward the side of the room, and Lydia indifferently followed the direction of his gaze. She started. She wouldn’t have recognized Jenny Pickler in the beautiful, raven- haired and animated young beauty surrounded by a coterie of besotted- looking young men. The girl had clearly arrived.

  “Do tell?” she said. “And have any names been forwarded as potential reasons the lady might quit her current circumstances? I am all agog to know.”

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as they started forward again. “No,” he said. “Not yet, though Borton may be on the cusp of entering the name of a former naval captain.”

  “Really?” She feigned surprise.

  “I know. I thought it absurd, too,” Smyth said, patting her hand consolingly. “I told Borton that the lady in question would not settle so easily.”

  Settle? How dare he insinuate that Ned Lockton lacked in some manner. What manner?

  “You think poorly of this naval captain?” she asked, investing her voice with icy hauteur. “Fancy. I wonder who he can be. For the only naval captains with whom I am acquainted are courageous gentlemen who fought for their king and country. I am sure you would not find anything wanting in any of them.”

  Smyth shot her an assessing glance but answered easily enough. “Good heavens, no. You misunderstand me. I in no way meant to impugn the good captain’s captaining. Lord knows, I could never perform the duty he has. My nature is too volatile. I am too passionate for such employment. I should imagine one would have to have ice water in one’s veins to command men to hold under enemy fire.” They continued their leisurely stroll.

  “Certainly the naval fellow to whom I refer appears to have the requisite phlegmatic mien and detached nature. I give him credit. Were I to be so frequently in this beauty’s company, I would never be able to conceal my ardor. But perhaps the captain is not burdened by intense emotion.”