Losing Lydia was not something he could have withstood.
So, he had remained silent. Had swallowed his self-loathing. Had married her, made love to her, shared the happiest moments of his entire bloody life with her. All whilst he had been living a lie.
It was shameful.
His gaze lit on her when he entered the drawing room. God, she was beautiful, and the mere sight of her left his chest feeling simultaneously full and hollow, as if she gave him everything yet had the uncanny power to take it all away. She sat calmly amongst her mother, Rand’s wife, and her younger sister. Lady Cecily was currently putting her pianoforte skills to good use. The chit was skilled and lovely, and Alistair had no doubt she would find a match easily enough, if one were the sort of gentleman who enjoyed such trivialities.
He far preferred an auburn-haired siren with a sharp mind, long legs, perfect curves, and a mouth that was temptation incarnate. The sort of lady who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind or berate a duke, a lady who stared into the heavens with wonder yet could name each constellation. His wife. The woman he loved. The very woman he would tell the truth to tonight when they were alone. He could only hope she would find it in her heart to understand and forgive him.
And maybe, if he were truly fortunate, one day love him as much as he loved her.
She bestowed a pleased smile of welcoming upon him that made him feel as though he were the only one present in the room. He grinned back at her like the lovesick fool he was, and took his place at her side, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. Violets hung in the air. He wanted to kiss her so much he nearly did right there before her entire family. With great effort, he held himself in check.
“Darling,” he whispered so that only she could hear, “I missed you.”
She giggled and gave him a good-natured swat. “Silver-tongued scoundrel,” she murmured without heat. “We were separated for a mere half hour, no more.”
“The longest half hour of my life.”
A smile played about her lips. “Behave.”
Duly chastised, he listened to Lady Cecily play. After an eternity passed, she stood to applause, none more rigorous than that emerging from the Duchess of Revelstoke, who was clearly a proud mama.
“That was lovely, Cecily,” her grace said with a sniff. “Was it not, Rand? Be a good brother and tell her how well she plays so she may have the confidence to play in larger gatherings. Nothing will win a husband as surely as your gift with the pianoforte, my dear.”
Warwick stifled a snort. He rather begged to differ on that assertion, but as he was not the appropriate audience for Lady Cecily’s skills, it was a moot point. Alistair looked to Rand, who was not looking in his youngest sister’s direction. Instead, he pinned Alistair with the glare of a predator sizing up his prey, determining the appropriate time to strike.
Bloody hell.
He knew his friend all too well, and what was about to happen could not be good. “Yes, Aylesford,” he goaded, for if anyone was to strike first, it would be he. “Be a good brother.”
“A good brother, you say?” Rand cocked his head, pretending to consider Alistair’s words as the rest of the company gazed on in alarmed confusion. “Ah, yes. But I am not one, am I? If I had been, Lydia would not be wed to your sorry hide right now. Would she, Warwick? I should have seen through your lies and uncovered what I now know before your nuptials. Now it is too late, but I can still right the wrongs you’ve done her.”
He felt Lydia’s gaze on him, sensed the questions and tension rising within her. But they had come too far to stop now. Dread, cold and sickly, unfurled within him. His hands felt like ice, his face frozen, his heart pounding.
“What lies are you speaking about?” he asked quietly.
“Aylesford,” Revelstoke interjected.
“Good heavens, Rand,” huffed the duchess simultaneously, sounding ruffled. “What can you be about? Do cease this nonsense at once.”
“Aylesford,” cautioned his wife, her countenance growing worried.
“I have discovered,” Rand said slowly, his gaze going to Lydia, “that you were indebted up to your eyebrows. That your father owed nearly all he had to the cent-per-centers, and only a handsome dowry would rescue you from utter penury. All of that would be the truth, would it not, Warwick?”
“It would,” he agreed tightly. There it was, then, sparing him the duty of confessing himself. “Shall I thank you now or later, Aylesford?”
“Alistair.”
He turned at the tortured, almost pleading note in Lydia’s voice, and faced her. “Lydia, love. I can explain,” he said quietly, hoping she would wait. Would allow him to speak to her without an audience, reveal everything and let her cast her judgment as she saw fit.
She searched his gaze, the happy flush leaching from her skin and leaving her a pale husk of the bold beauty he could not wrest his eyes from all evening long. The transformation cut him with the precision of an assassin’s blade, deep and true, finding its mark.
“Is it true?” she demanded, a tremor in her voice that even she—redoubtable as she was—could not suppress.
He would not prevaricate, as it would do him more harm than good. But how could he feign protest, offer glib reassurances, when she looked at him as if he had crushed the very heart of her beneath his boot heel?
“Yes,” he admitted, his jaw tightening so much that pain radiated through his teeth. It was not enough penance. No amount of suffering on his behalf would be. How could he rectify the isolation he saw in her expression, the pain?
The loathing?
“My God.” Her nostrils flared, her hand going to her mouth as though she were about to be ill.
The enormity of her reaction hit him with the force of a blow straight to his chest. He nearly doubled over from the magnitude of it. “Lydia, please.” He caught her hand in his, squeezing her unresponsive fingers. “Let us speak alone after our guests have gone. I will tell you anything you wish to know.”
She tore away from his grasp, standing. Her gray eyes were accusing, hurt, ripping him to shreds. “I do not think I wish to speak to you now.” With the regal air of the duchess she now was, she addressed the room at large. “Thank you all for joining us this evening, but I fear the time has come for me to take my leave of you. I bid you good evening.”
“Lydia,” Rand and Alistair called out in unison.
“I do not wish to speak to either of you,” she clipped. “I bid good evening to you all.”
“Lydia, dearest daughter,” the duchess attempted, trying to waylay her without success.
Lydia was too nimble, too tall, too quick. Too determined. “I must go,” she said.
In a flurry of bold, red skirts, she left.
Alistair stood, not caring for appearances, not caring for anything or anyone but Lydia. “I love her, you bloody fool,” he grated, glaring at Rand. “I hope you are happy.” He turned to the rest, giving an exaggerated bow. “I bid you good evening.”
He ran after the woman he loved. Freckles. His duchess. His wife.
Lydia.
Dear God, he hoped it would not be too little, too late.
Chapter Eight
Lydia raced to her chamber, not caring that she left behind her a drawing room full of shocked family. Not caring about the stark anguish she had read on Alistair’s handsome face. Each rhythmic thump of her slippers on the carpeted hall mocked her.
Lies.
The man who had proclaimed he admired her mind, who had flirted with her in the moonlight, pursued her in Oxfordshire, who had courted and wooed her with his clever kisses and his facile tongue…that man did not exist.
Lies.
A sob tore from her throat as she ran, heedless of any servant who saw the duchess crying like a little girl, hiking her evening dress about her knees to aid in her humiliated retreat. She had asked him when he announced his intentions of courting her whether or not her dowry had been behind his sudden interest. Instead of answering, h
e had kissed her, and she, weak, pathetic naïf that she was, had allowed herself to be distracted.
All of it, lies.
How easily she had fallen into his trap, eager for his every kiss and well-practiced seduction. But then, she would have made a ripe partridge for the plucking, considering her sparse selection of suitors and the dismal future awaiting her as a companion. And he was London’s most handsome rake, with a beautiful face and the heart of a knave.
Lies.
The sorrow rose within her like a geyser, threatening to burst forth and consume her. She ran, her lungs burning, and it did not matter. He had dared to tell her he loved her. Had taken her to bed and pretended to find her attractive. His every word echoed in her mind, an endless taunt, embarrassment splitting the sorrow, smashing her heart to bits with the force of a blacksmith’s heavy blow.
I am honest to a fault.
If it has never occurred to you that I like you, Freckles, precisely for who and what you are, then you are a fool.
No one else will do.
Of course, no one else would have done. Clearly, the beautiful Lady Felicity did not possess a dowry rich enough to impress him. Rage hit her next as she reached her chamber door. She had never been given to fits of temper, but one was about to claim her now. With a raw cry of outrage, she kicked her chamber door.
And regretted it instantly, for a different sort of pain than the one clenching her poor heart assaulted her, radiating up her leg. For the first time in her life, she let loose a curse.
“Bloody hell.”
It felt good. It felt rebellious. It felt as if it took away the tiniest bit of the sting of realizing she had been manipulated and lied to by the man she had imagined herself in love with. She threw open the door in the ordinary fashion, limped over the threshold, and slammed it at her back. She took care to lock it and the door adjoining her chamber to the duke’s. She did not require his interference whilst she packed the few possessions she desired to take with her when she left him.
Scrubbing furiously at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand, she paced the chamber, scouring it for dear possessions. She scooped up her books and her writing supplies first. Somewhere between her brother’s shocking revelation and the moment her foot had struck the door, she’d realized that leaving Warwick was the only answer. As her husband, he could force her to remain, but since he already had obtained what he truly wanted from their union, she did not suppose he would be overly motivated to try.
The knob of her door turned. “Lydia, let me in.”
She searched about for a trunk in which she could stow her personal effects. “Go away, Warwick.”
He rapped on the door with enough force to rattle it. “I will not go away, damn you. Let me in so that we can discuss this.”
“I have no wish to discuss anything with you, Your Grace,” she gritted, gratified that she at least kept the tears from her voice. Above all, she did not wish him to know how deeply he had wounded her with his subterfuge.
“Lydia.” The pounding grew louder.
She ignored it. No trunk was to be found, so she whipped back the bed coverings and robbed the sheet from her bed, laying it in the center of the floor. Never let it be said that she was not resourceful, even with a shattered heart drowning in shame.
“Lydia.”
The thread inside her that had been holding her together gave way and snapped. She picked up the nearest object—a vase filled with fresh flowers, and heaved it against the door with all her might. It shattered noisily, water and glass and battered petals raining to the somewhat threadbare carpet.
Her gaze fixated on the carpet, noting it was dreadfully in need of replacement. Everything made sense now—the Spartan furnishings of the townhouse, the lack of honeymoon, the smaller-than-average number of domestics. How could she not have realized that Warwick had been pockets to let?
“Jesus, Lydia, what are you doing in there?” he demanded, sounding hoarse. Frantic.
Perhaps he was afraid she was going to ruin whatever he hadn’t had to sell off prior to their wedding in order to keep his father’s creditors at bay. It would serve him right if she did.
“What does it sound like, Warwick? I am breaking things.” With that, she lobbed a crystal box against the door as well, wincing when it actually dented the portal. Breaking things, she added inwardly, to get even with you for breaking my heart.
“I will ask you once more to let me into this chamber so that I can explain everything to you.” He gave the knob another violent turn, smacking the door with what sounded like his palm. “I have the key. Do not make me get it, I beg you.”
Of course, he would have the key. She returned to the task of gathering up the things she wished to take with her. “I hope you did not send my family away, for I will be accompanying them when they leave.”
How she managed to speak to him without breaking down, she did not know. Perhaps her strength was born from necessity. Perhaps from a tenacity she had not realized she possessed. Either way, she was grateful that she did not sound nearly as weak and defeated as she felt.
“Lydia.” The knob twitched. “You cannot leave me, my love. Please, listen to what I have to say.”
His endearment had her itching to throw something else, but despite the temptation, violence was not in her. Smashing crystal and porcelain would not fill the hollow void inside her or cure what ailed her. She felt sapped. Drained. Deflated and sad.
Most of all, brokenhearted. “I can and will, as I have no wish to hear any more of your lies.”
“I never lied to you,” he dared to insist.
Lydia decided she did not require another thing if it meant having to listen to any more of his nonsense. “You married me to settle your father’s debts with my dowry, all while feigning an interest in me and pretending to court me. There is no other explanation for what you have done, and I will not argue a moment more. I. Am. Leaving. You.” She enunciated the last with more force than necessary, gathering up the sheet and its contents and slinging it over her shoulder like a sack.
“I married you because I love you. It is true that I required a dowry, but another’s dowry would have done every bit as well, Lydia.” Warwick’s voice sounded uncharacteristically desperate now. “I could have easily found a bride to bring me a greater fortune, but I did not want anyone else. I wanted you.”
She wondered why he hadn’t done as he’d threatened and retrieved the key. Either that too was a prevarication, or he hadn’t the gumption to barge his way inside after what he had done.
Lydia stopped before the door, another surge of pain making tears prick her eyes. She wished its source was the foot with which she had kicked the door, but it was not. “If you loved me, you would have confided in me. And if you care for me at all in any way, you will leave now and allow me to go in peace.”
The lock clicked then, and the door swung open, revealing him. The key had been in his possession all along, then. Just another falsehood in an endless sea. His blue eyes scorched her, searing with their intensity. He stepped forward, his expression hard, lips firmed.
“You had the key,” she accused, as if it mattered, this one small untruth between them. At this proximity, she could not quite stave off her reaction to him—his scent, his beauty, his body all so bitterly compelling—for as much as she knew what he could do to her, she also knew he was a heartless dissembler.
“The lock is easily picked,” he countered, “and it always has been. I simply saved myself some trouble. Lydia, if you believe nothing else I say, believe this: I love you. My love for you is endless and deep as the night’s sky. It is all consuming, all powerful, and nothing I ever imagined was possible before you. I believe that I loved you from the moment that I fished you from the pond, that even then, I was saving you for me, that I recognized you as my own, my other half. I love you so much that I cannot—will not—fathom my life without you in it. If you leave this night, you take my heart and everything I am with you.”
>
His words left her mouth dry, the hands clutching the hastily gathered sheet and its contents trembling. She could not look away from his gaze, so earnest and intense. And she wanted to believe him. Her heart wanted to believe him.
But the logical portion of her mind—the part of her that believed in substance and ration and fact—refused to. She had already lost so much to him, and she needed time and distance. To be away from him, to clear her mind. “I need to go, Warwick,” she forced herself to say, heart breaking all over again. “Pray do not stop me.”
And then she slipped past him and down the hall, clenching her small bundle of inanimate objects to her bosom as though it could fill the gaping chasm within her. But she knew the truth as she made her feet walk steadily away from the man she had fallen in love with. Nothing could diminish the emptiness inside her. Nor did his footsteps follow her, regardless of how much her foolish heart wished they did.
Chapter Nine
A sennight had passed. The worst sennight of Alistair’s life. He sat in Lydia’s chamber, contemplating how wrong everything seemed without her, as he stared upon the gift he had commissioned.
It was a telescope, designed and crafted by William Herschel himself.
Positioned at the window she no longer stood at, in the chamber she no longer inhabited, in the home that seemed like a prison cell without her, the telescope awaited her return. Along with Alistair. A return that, given her absence of communication following her flight, seemed increasingly impossible.
The first day she was gone, he had consumed enough whisky to convince himself she would return after her temper and hurt abated. The second day, he woke on the floor of his spinning study next to an empty decanter, his head pounding, and he had realized that the whisky had made him a fool. By the third day, he’d been unable to attempt to speak with her, so he sent her a note that was returned unopened. On the fourth, fifth, and sixth days, he called upon her at Revelstoke’s townhome where, on each occasion, he had been informed that his wife was not at home.
A Lady’s Christmas Rake Page 29
