The Golden Season

by Brockway, Connie

  “If I wed before my grandfather dies, I will inherit a great fortune. If I fail to wed before his death, his fortune shall be given to several universities. One in Edinburgh.” He lifted his upper lip in a delicate sneer. “Which would be a great waste of a fortune, don’t you think?”

  He cleared his throat and struck a stance. “Lady Lydia, I have come to believe that you and I would suit very well. You come from a noble family, have éclat, wit, and address and you are sophisticated.”

  For the first time, a hint of amusement lightened her dark eyes. “You have not mentioned my great beauty.”

  He’d forgotten it. To him only one woman’s beauty was worth comment. “That goes without saying. You are most beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was a little nonplussed by her lack of appreciation, truth be told, but plowed ahead even though he knew he did so with far less suaveness than he was used to conducting himself. “I, too, am imbued with all these qualities—except the noble family, though my antecedents are gentlemen.”

  “Indeed.” She nodded.

  “Therefore, Lady Lydia”—he cleared his throat—“it seems to me it would make perfect sense for such compatible people as ourselves to join together in matrimony.”

  “It would seem to make sense,” she murmured. “Perfect sense.”

  He nodded, abruptly feeling a little glum. “Indeed it does, and seeing as that is so”—he took a deep breath—“Lady Lydia, will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

  She did not answer his proposal, instead leaning forward and asking, “You really do not care about my lack of wealth? It does not cause you even an instant’s hesitation? I mean this, Mr. Smyth: I do not have any money.” She waved her hand around the room, inviting his scrutiny.

  He looked around, once again noting the paucity of . . . things. Ah, yes. This, too, made sense. She’d been selling off her famous collection of objets d’art. He hurried to reassure her. “It makes no difference at all. You can keep this house and redecorate. Without consideration to cost.”

  “I have no other property.”

  “I don’t need land, I need a bride.”

  “Not a sou in the bank.”

  “I’ll have sous enough for half of London.”

  “I’ve even sold the brougham with the yellow wheels.”

  Well, that was a shame. . . . He sighed. “We’ll just have to buy another.”

  She sank back, looking oddly deflated.

  “Will you? Marry me, that is?”

  She looked around the room, as though seeking inspiration, and his hopes both rose and fell. “Mr. Smyth,” she said, “I am well cognizant of the honor you do me, but I would do you a disservice if I were to claim an affection I do not have.”

  He lifted a shoulder in a sad little shrug. “As would I. I do not require your love, Lady Lydia, just your hand and I hope, your friendship, which, if given, shall put us leaps and bounds ahead of most married couples.”

  She was quiet a moment, her head bowed over her folded hands. Twice, he thought she might speak, but both times, her first syllables turned into shaky sighs. He did not press her. He had asked. He could not bring himself to do more.

  Finally, she lifted her head. “I know time is of the essence, Mr. Smyth, but I need to think. May I give you an answer tomorrow?”

  A day. His grandfather might not be alive. On the other hand, he had a special license already in hand. And what other choice did he have? There were not that many women in London who fit his requirements and, of those, he’d paid court to only Lady Lydia. No lady he would consider wedding would accept an offer made under such circumstances. “If I cannot persuade you to a quicker decision.”

  “I do not think you can.”

  “Then, of course.” He bowed. “I’ll take my leave, hoping your answer will make us both happy.”

  It was not until he’d accepted his hat and cane from the maid and stepped out the front door that he admitted he didn’t know which answer would accomplish that.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Lydia sat for long minutes gazing around a room stripped of nearly all decoration, as had been all the rooms in her town house. The Limoges, crystal bowls, gilt mirrors, auxiliary furnishings, silver candelabras, gold plate, bronze and marble statuary and fine paintings, the enameled snuff boxes, brass andirons, and Persian carpets had all been discreetly sold at auction by Terwilliger’s agents.

  Stripped of its gilding, one could now see the bare bones of the house, the tall airy windows spaced at regular intervals across the cream-colored walls, the lofty, coved ceiling with its carved plaster medallions, the subtle marquetry in the wooden floor. There was nothing left to distract from either appreciation or criticism of what, at this elemental level, it was.

  Childe Smyth had seen only what had been taken, not what was left.

  She did not know why she had asked for a day in which to consider his proposal. She would say yes. Of course she would. As he’d said, it made perfect sense. He did not love her, he did not pretend to, but neither did he expect her to love him. He had proposed a marriage of convenience, both parties benefiting equally from the arrangement.

  And as he’d said, they were friends. Not great friends, not the sort of friend with whom one might share one’s most intimate thoughts and dreams, confess one’s weakness and fears, discuss and debate things other than fashion and gossip. Not the sort of friend who made one’s heart skip simply by smiling, and whose laughter made one laugh, too. Not the sort of friend whose gray eyes seemed able to see into one’s very soul, and whose caress made one weak, whose voice seemed to pluck at some inner chord, and whose mouth inspired unquenchable desire.

  Not that sort of friend.

  She buried her face in her hands, tears damping her palms, her back shaking in silent sobs. God, what was she to do?

  A light rap on the door brought her head up and she dashed away her tears, dabbing at her cheeks with the hem of her gown. “Come in.”

  Her maid opened the door, her last footman being otherwise occupied. Eleanor did not wait to be announced but swept into the room as she handed the maid her bonnet and pelisse. “That will be all,” she told the maid.

  Lydia nodded and the maid bobbed a curtsy before retreating and closing the door behind her.

  “You look as glum as a cake in a butcher’s shop,” Eleanor said without preamble. “Whatever is the matter? You should be enjoying last night’s triumph. Really, my dear, I didn’t know at the time what you were about when you insisted on leaving in so covert a manner, but this morning your strategy has become apparent and, I must say, I applaud you. So clever!” She sat down beside Lydia and patted her hand.

  “What do you mean?” Lydia asked.

  “The entire ton is abuzz with speculation regarding the identity of Aurelia.”

  “Someone will soon piece it together,” Lydia replied without much interest. “Everyone saw me arrive with you.”

  “Not so,” Eleanor said. “Neither Emily nor I showed ourselves in the window. Only you. When we arrived, you wore your domino and stayed back while Emily and I entered. And when you were presented as Aurelia, we were not with you. And leaving before your identity was revealed? Genius. No one is talking of anything besides the golden lady.”

  She got up and began walking rapidly back and forth, her expression filled with anticipation. “When you do let it slip who you are, Childe Smyth will be falling over himself to ask for your hand.” She gave a ladylike snort of derision. “He will have finally found someone worthy to share the stage with him.”

  “What stage is that?” Lydia asked, unable to keep the bitter note from her voice. Was that all her life would amount to, an act upon a stage?

  Eleanor swung around, brows raised. “Why, the world stage, Lydia. How odd you are. Are you feeling all right? If not, for heaven’s sake, let my doctor fix you a tisane. You mustn’t look like this, like some pitiful ghost, when Childe Smyth comes calling. And he
will.” Her eyes sparkled. “His grandfather is nearing the end.”

  “Oh, glad tidings,” Lydia said sharply.

  Eleanor’s head snapped back as if she’d been slapped, astonished Lydia would use such a tone with her. Lydia understood. But she did not apologize. Ned had taught her the difference between decency and good manners. Eleanor had gone too far with this gleeful anticipation of an old man’s death.

  “You don’t even like Childe Smyth, Eleanor,” she said, “and yet you encourage me to accept his suit.”

  Eleanor’s lips twisted with impatience. “I did not like my husband and I accepted his suit. That’s hardly the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  Eleanor sighed and took the chair opposite Lydia, stripping the gloves from her hands, a sure sign she anticipated a lengthy debate and one she did not intend to lose. Laying them on her lap, she fixed Lydia with a hard gaze.

  “The point is, Lydia, that you have only one solution to your situation: Marry Childe Smyth. You have no other options. If you do not accept him, you shall lose all those things most valuable to you.”

  She’d already done that, she thought as Ned’s face flashed through her mind. “And what do you think those are?”

  “Wealth, independence, prestige, and Society.”

  When Lydia only returned her regard with empty eyes, Eleanor switched tactic. “Lydia. You surprise me. Why are you acting as if you did not propose this course of action in the first place? You force me to be harsh.” She turned to face Lydia squarely. “You have been raised to enjoy a certain lifestyle that few people have even imagined. You have never known anything else,” she said. “It is not simply a question of having the wherewithal to purchase whatever takes your fancy. Many people can do that. It is the position in Society that your wealth has bequeathed you that is irreplaceable.

  “Your wealth has allowed you independence and Society’s tolerance of that independence. Because you are the fabulously wealthy Lady Lydia Eastlake, all doors are open to you despite your lack of an acceptable chaperone or sponsor. You have entrée to the best Society, the finest arts, luxurious travel, and myriad experiences you would never have known as simply Lady Lydia Eastlake.

  “It is not only what you drink but with whom you drink it, not only how you travel but where you travel to, not only that you can afford to purchase a rare Rubens, but that you are given access to acquire it. Few people understand the world you were born into, Lydia. Fewer still understand what that does to a person.”

  “And what exactly is that, Eleanor?” Lydia replied.

  “It permeates every aspect of your character. It informs all your actions and choices, with whom you associate, what you do, how you dress, speak, think. It makes you who you are. And without it, you cease to be.” She settled back, confident. “That is the point. And that is why you must accept Childe’s proposal when he offers.”

  “He already has,” Lydia said in a low voice. “He left just before you arrived.”

  Eleanor’s deep-set eyes widened with gratification. “Excellent! Than what are we talking about? Of course, it is regrettable the formalities must be done in so havey-cavey a fashion, but we shall contrive to put a good face on it. I will host a reception so grand no one will recall the brevity of your courtship—”

  “I haven’t accepted him yet.”

  “What?” Eleanor’s brows fell up in twin arcs of astonishment. “Lydia, I understand wanting one’s value to be appreciated by not being too eager, but I have word from reliable sources that the grandfather is a half step from death’s door. This is no time to play coy.”

  If only she was. She could not lie to Eleanor. “I am not sure I will say yes.”

  “Why not?” Eleanor demanded, astonished.

  “Mr. Smyth does not love me.”

  “All the better,” Eleanor said, openly exasperated. “He won’t interfere with you, then. As long as you behave with discretion.”

  “Unlike Sarah,” Lydia could not refrain from saying.

  “Yes. Unlike Sarah.”

  Nothing Eleanor had said struck her as being spurious. Wealth and privilege had been her bread and butter, everything she’d known had been within the boundaries of the haute monde; it had defined her.

  For a second, Eleanor’s eyes hardened with a coldness in their hooded depths Lydia had rarely seen. Then it vanished and Eleanor leaned forward, covering both her clasped hands under hers. “You must accept him. I understand your concerns. You have lived your adult life thus far without answering to any one person and it has spoiled you. Yes, Lydia. You are spoiled. But there is no reason to expect your life shall greatly change as Smyth’s wife. Perhaps you’ll be required to produce an heir, but even that is unwritten. I, as you well know, did not. You will marry and carry on exactly as you do now. Very little, certainly nothing of substance, will change. Nothing needs to change.”

  No, Lydia thought. No. For the first time during this interview, Eleanor’s words struck Lydia as not only untrue but patently wrong. Things always changed. Parents died, babies never drew their first breath, husbands abandoned their wives in insane asylums, friends ruined themselves for love, and Ned would marry someone else.

  “You will live exactly as you have always lived,” Eleanor was saying.

  Why, when just a few months ago that had been the only thing that mattered, did that now seem a sentence rather than a reprieve?

  “Childe Smyth will make you a fine husband. You suit each other.” Eleanor’s voice was growing more insistent, a thread of desperation in it.

  She was afraid, Lydia realized, desperately afraid that Lydia would turn him down.

  “Don’t be stupid, Lydia. Don’t turn your back on who and what you are, on everything and everyone you know. Don’t turn your back on me.”

  “I never would,” Lydia protested.

  “You will if you don’t marry Childe Smyth!” Eleanor burst out and then, with a visible effort, rose, pacing to the window to collect herself.

  There came a knock on the door to which Lydia bade enter. The maid slipped in carrying a box wrapped with string. “Beggin’ your pardon, milady, but this come to the door and the chap what brings it says as he was told not to leave until he knows for a fact that it were delivered into your hands.”

  Lydia nodded tiredly and held out her hands for the package. “Give him a shilling and thank him.”

  Eleanor turned, looking over the package. “From Smyth?”

  “I don’t know. There’s no card.” Lydia untied the box and lifted the lid to find a thick nest of tissue paper within. She peeled back the top layer and her heart leaped in her throat. Lying there was a gold lamé glove. Hers.

  He knew who I was.

  She stared, her thoughts wheeling madly until she realized that it lay atop something more. She picked up the glove, barely aware of Eleanor watching with narrowed eyes.

  Underneath was a stunning royal blue and white bowl, the surface crackled with antiquity. The Kangxi bowl she found at Roubalais’s shop. He must have recognized her then, too.

  Dear heavens.

  She swallowed hard, lifting the beautiful thing from its wrapping. A folded piece of paper fell from the tissue. She picked it up, opening it. The thin paper shivered in her hand. There was no salutation.

  Eleanor was speaking, but Lydia did not hear what she said. Her eyes were following the bold script, reading.

  Loath as I am to contradict a lady, I find that I cannot tolerate one more hour knowing you labor under the misconception that I did not or do not “know you.” Allow me to make this clear: I have never mistaken you. I never will. No mask you might don, whether cast in gold or comprised of dust, can disguise you from me.

  In a thousand ways you are revealed to me: The way you illustrate a comment with your fingertips; the manner in which you tilt your head while listening to music; the quick intake of breath that precedes your laughter; the quality of your stillness.

  I have only to lift my hand to mi
mic the slope of your shoulder; close my eyes to map the blue-filigreed veins inside your wrist; inhale to recall the fragrance of you. I am an expert on the texture of your skin, a scholar on the changing hues of your eyes, and an authority on the cadence of your breath. And yet I do not need eyes or ears or hands to know you. Shut away, blinded, and deaf, I would still know you. I would still hear you, see you, feel you in my very core.

  You may as well accuse the sky of not knowing the moon, for that is how fixed you are in the firmament of my heart. And like the moon, whether you choose to shine or not, here you will remain forever.

  So I pray you, Lady Lydia, do not ever say again,

  I do not know you.

  Your most obedient servant,

  Captain Edward Lockton

  “Lydia? Lydia, whatever does that letter say?” Eleanor asked, coming over to her. “It is from him, isn’t it? Lockton.” She spat his name, looking down at where Lydia sat, her head bowed in concentration.

  “I can guess what this is. Some romantic drivel. Lockton has filled your head with starry-eyed notions, but the facts of the matter are simple ones: He deceived you, abused your trust, and inveigled himself in your . . . good graces and now you are pining for him.”

  Did Eleanor really not see the hypocrisy of this condemnation? “And what of my behavior toward him, Eleanor?”

  “Ach!” Eleanor looked away for a moment as though she could not bear looking at Lydia.

  “He cares for me, Eleanor.”

  “He’s a blackguard with the audacity to hound you even though neither of your circumstances are such that you can consider marriage to each other. I don’t understand . . . Wait! I do!” she announced, eyes flashing. “You do know what this is? He is setting the groundwork for a future dalliance. Perhaps he has more sense than I credit him with after all.”

  Lydia’s brow creased. “Dalliance?”