“Hmmph,” Lady Katherine sniffed, and folded her arms across her chest. “It isn’t beneath me, Miss Hoity-Toity, it’s beneath you. A little trick here and there to lure the bird won’t hurt, Lydia! Do you want him to propose to you or not?”
Lydia hesitated. She thought of Lord Sutton’s dizzying effect on her, the way his skin scalded hers, the way his voice made her weak-kneed and his gaze made her blush. And she thought about Peregrin Fawkes, rescuing her from beneath the hooves of the carriage horses with no thought to his own safety, and his easy smile and his friendly laugh rising above the clamor of the ball-rooms they had shared. But he wasn’t for her, was he? Was he? Lydia swallowed hard. Secret hopes were just that. Secrets.
“I want him to propose to me,” Lydia decided. And then: “I want Lord Sutton to propose to me,” a little firmer.
“Well for God’s sakes hush, I think I just saw him pass the window,” Lady Katherine cried, rushing over to pull at the draperies. And sure enough, within moments Lord Sutton was being announced by the butler.
He overpowered the delicate, dainty drawing room, which had been decorated for ladies by ladies. Broad of shoulder and wide of waist, with a strong jaw and fierce black brows, Sutton was quite as handsome and dangerous-looking as a Scottish warrior. But he bent over her hand with a mannerly courtesy that came only to the most gently-bred of men. “My dear Miss Dean,” he murmured warmly, her hand quite hidden in his, his eyes boring into hers. Lydia felt hot and cold and dizzy all at once. It was most disconcerting, and she could scarcely whisper a breathy “Good afternoon, my lord.”
Lady Katherine, although not the receiver of such a sultry gaze, seemed similarly overcome. Sutton was simply more man than either lady was used to dealing with in such close company. Lydia supposed they were bound to make cakes of themselves over him. But, she thought with a little head-shake, being borne down the hall with her elbow clasped close under his, there was little she could about it. Sutton was undeniably in charge.
And so here she was, settling in the curricle seat, which was too small for one giant male and two small females, trying to maintain her composure despite her overall fear of the horses — they would run away, they would overturn the carriage, they would all be smashed to bits against the cobbles — and despite her unprecedented dizziness in Sutton’s presence. He was talking in a long steady procession of eloquent words, every phrase poetically turned, she had no doubt, but she could not have said what he was talking about, nor described any bit of the conversation to anyone who might have asked about it, because she was too busy gripping the edge of her swaying seat with white knuckles and praying that even if the horses did not run away, she be spared the ignominy of swooning and slipping right off the curricle and onto the road below.
It was really the worst afternoon she had had in a while. And this was coming from a young lady who had recently been jilted in favor of her bosom friend while recovering from a severe attack of grippe. She was so unsettled that she did not realize when Lord Sutton’s conversation had given out, and no one was saying anything at all.
“Lovely afternoon,” Sutton said after approximately five minutes of silence had passed. She gave him an apprehensive, sidelong glance; he looked a little strained, as if he had not expected to have to work so hard for her attention.
Indeed, he did not know just how much of her attention he held. The combination of terror of the horses and physical awareness of his nearness was dizzying. But she gathered her thoughts and managed to speak, however inanely: “Yes. Quite.”
“The sun has not been too hot for you?”
“Oh! No. Not too hot.” She licked her lips nervously. She sounded like a fool. If she failed to nail down Sutton, after all the prattle in the drawing room last night, her mother was going to send her to the country and forget she was alive. She had to do better. “There has not been overmuch sun this spring, has there my lord? We had better enjoy it whenever we can!” She forced a note of gaiety into her voice.
He looked over at her, although she was certain his eyes were better focused on the road, and smiled warmly. “I am fond of the sun and the outdoors myself,” he said. “It is pleasant to know that you feel the same. I hope we can have more such outings as this.”
Oh, wretched men. With their outdoors, and their sun, and their sweaty animals. Why could they not let her stay indoors and read a novel? “That would be most agreeable,” she replied pleasantly, and plastered a bright smile upon her wan face.
One often finds that merely pretending one is happy is enough to lift one’s spirits. And so Lydia, even though she thought she was having a dreadful time, gradually came to realize that she was having a perfectly nice afternoon. The horses were quiet and well-behaved, unlike those foam-mouthed demons that had loomed upon her in front of the Archwood house. Sutton seemed to control them imperceptibly, at least to her untrained eye, so that he was able to spend a great deal of time paying attention to her instead of to the horses. And the compliments that he paid! And the little touches that he stole! Every time he let a gloved finger stroke the back of her hand, she felt a shiver that stole right through her. A shiver that seemed to settle, with quivering intensity, somewhere between her thighs. It had nothing of the pleasant tenderness she associated with Mr. Fawkes. It was a much more raw, dangerous thing, and she wasn’t certain, but she thought she rather liked it.
You may as well like it, she told herself, for this is the man you are determined to marry.
And really, how dreadful was this? (Besides the obvious drawback of those horses.) She was out on a lovely spring afternoon, being courted by a man of great wealth and old title. And his effect on her, while not the most comfortable of feelings, was also not… unpleasant. In fact, it was, if she were to wriggle just so on the curricle’s seat, possibly, just a little bit… pleasant, one might say. There was certainly something there. She wriggled a bit more and Mary cast a disapproving glance at her.
That was just like Mary, Lydia thought stoutly, not giving up on her little shifts in position. Mary wouldn’t take pleasure from a man unless she was in charge. In contrast, there was no doubt that Lord Sutton would always be the one in charge in their relationship, and Lydia would not have expected her marriage to go any other way. And if just being close to his hard, hot body could offer her diversions such as the sensations currently occurring beneath her skirts, Lydia would be a simpleton to complain.
Why waste the opportunity to enjoy him? she asked herself. Though you might not ever love him, at least you will not be bored.
Beside her, Lord Sutton seemed to have noticed her wiggling. She felt his gaze on her and looked up innocently. He gave her a knowing look, his dangerous green eyes narrowing with something she did not quite trust — surely not desire? That seemed too gentle a word for the calculating certainty in his eyes. This was a man who knew what he wanted, and fully expected to get it, without dissent.
It was exciting. She could not help herself — it was exciting.
“I’m having a lovely afternoon,” she offered aloud, her heart pounding in her ears, and the husky purr in her tone surprised her.
Sutton gave her one of his slow, sultry smiles, and said nothing at all for a little while. He just kept stroking her hand through her glove, and she just kept shifting on the seat. If he knew what was going on beneath her petticoat, he didn’t let on. But something about that smile, Lydia thought, told her he knew exactly what he was doing to her.
He was dangerous, and intoxicating, and she was going to marry him. The thought was enough to bring her dizziness back full-force, and she swayed into Mary once more, who gave her another disapproving glare.
“We should be turning back,” Lord Sutton announced after a while more. “It is nearly time for tea. Your mother will expect you home.”
“So soon?” Lydia had never been so disappointed to hear that a drive was ending. She had nearly forgotten about the dangers of horses and hooves, and was much more enamored with the thoughts of the da
ngers of forceful, lordly men.
Sutton’s voice was amused. “I am afraid we have been out all afternoon, my dear, perhaps longer than what was suitable. But I am honored you have had such a pleasant time.” He took his hand away to turn the horses, and she felt a pang of loss. The heated feeling had not abated, and she was loathe to give it up. “Perhaps you shall come out with me again tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow!” Even in her current agitated state, Lydia knew that driving two days in a row with Lord Sutton was a provocative act which all the ton would note. In two days the gossip sheets would already have them wed. And it would be unbelievably, impossibly embarrassing if he didn’t make an offer at that point. Lydia would never come back from it. She’d be on the shelf for good. All at once, she felt less perfectly certain about his intentions. If he didn’t mean to marry her at once… she felt dizzy again, and for completely different, less pleasing reasons this time.
“Are you already engaged? I can take you the next day instead, although on Friday I am afraid I have an appointment which cannot be broken, and on Saturday, I depart town.”
She swiveled her head and blinked up at him. “I don’t understand,” she said blankly.
“I’m going to Tivington,” Sutton replied matter-of-factly, without a trace of regret in his tone. “With the Archwoods.”
Lydia felt the world crashing around her ears. All around her, the pretty sights of Hyde Park fell away, swirling into oblivion, while she shook her head in disbelief. Tivington. With the Archwoods. But how — why — “It’s so early,” she blurted. “The Season isn’t half-over. Why would you go away now?”
“There’s a horse I want to see more of,” came the infuriating reply. “Lord Archwood was kind enough to invite me and it seemed like a good opportunity. I have an idea of expanding my racing stable, wouldn’t that be a nice thing?”
Lydia balled her fists in her lap. Horses! She wished they’d all just go to the devil.
“And,” Sutton added, “The city tires me, after so many months abroad. I do not wish to stay in London any longer than I must, and I think that my business here shall be concluded by the week’s end.” Daringly, shockingly, he put a hand on one of her little fists. She gasped and looked up at him, and he turned his heated gaze down on her. His lips parted, and unconsciously, Lydia’s did too. There, in the center of crowded Hyde Park, they were about to do something very, very fast.
And then Mary cleared her throat.
Lydia jumped in her seat, nearly tumbling out of the curricle, and snatched her hand away from Sutton’s so that she could clutch at the bench. Sutton glowered at the abigail, who gave him an arch stare in reply. He turned back to the horses and missed Mary’s private smile, directed only to her dazed-looking mistress.
They were soon clattering through the streets of Mayfair, Lydia feeling a bit nauseous again, Sutton looking rather closed and thoughtful. She didn’t know how it had gone until the footman was helping her alight from the curricle. He was suddenly there, all his great strong mass like a bull, muscles straining the superfine of his tight coat, and he was leaning over her hand, his green eyes sparkling up at her. And Lydia knew it had gone very well indeed.
She felt a surge of triumph as she climbed the steps of the townhouse. She’d be Lady Sutton, then. That wasn’t too shabby.
And if it wasn’t love, at least it was exciting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“He was going to kiss you, miss,” Mary repeated stubbornly. She was sitting in a chair with one of Lydia’s everyday stockings, darning a rip without really paying attention. Mary often declared she could mend Lydia’s things with her eyes closed, and Lydia, who couldn’t mend at all, supposed she was some sort of sewing genius. But just now Lydia wished her maid needed to think just a little about what her hands would doing, and quiet her nagging tongue. “He was going to ruin your reputation in front of half the Quality, and you were lettin’ him!I’m surprised by you.”
“Hush, Mary,” Lydia hissed. She was anxiously rummaging through the drawers of her bureau, looking for an envelope she had hidden beneath something — was it the handkerchiefs, was it the linens? A suspicion took hold of her. “Have you been in my drawers?”
“Of course I’ve been in your drawers, ain’t it my job to take care of your things?”
Lydia whirled. “And have you seen my letters?”
Mary cast her an innocent glance. “Letters, miss?”
“There was an envelope in here, full of letters. Did you see it?”
“No, miss.” She jabbed at the stocking with an air of unconcern. “Ain’t seen no letters.” She seemed very innocent.
“Wherever could they be?” Lydia went pawing through her linens again, tossing smallclothes onto the Aubusson carpet. Mary heaved a gusty sigh at the work being made for her. But Lydia couldn’t be concerned with her maid’s impatience just now. The letters that Lord Hadley had written her — they had to be in here somewhere. It was unthinkable that… no.
Yes.
“So you see, Mama, I couldn’t just burn them. I wanted some keepsake of him, even though things turned out so badly.” Lydia faltered; it was never easy to ask her mother for anything. “Mightn’t I have them back, please?”
Lady Katherine looked up at Lydia with a bland expression. She had been signing invitations, and sitting hunched over a writing desk did not put her in the best of moods. All the same, she did not look in the least angry about her daughter’s stash of love letters. Nor, it must be admitted, guilty that she had taken them from her daughter’s hiding place. “It was not healthy for you to keep them, dear. I burned them myself.”
Lydia gasped. They had been her last connection to Lord Hadley. He had jilted her, true, but they had been in love, however briefly. At least — she had been in love with him. If he had ever loved her, well, that had certainly been called into question when he married Alyssa, and brought Lydia’s social career to a grinding halt. Now, on the cusp of greatness, ready at last to marry for position instead of love, she was determined that she should rinse all the vestiges of past affairs from her life. And her mother hadn’t trusted her with such a personal task. It was infuriating, but there was no sense in growing angry with Lady Katherine — her mother had no capacity for regret. “I had meant to burn them myself,” she admitted, voice low to mask her emotions. She cast her eyes down on the swirling paisley of the carpet. “I do not think of him anymore… it was silly to keep them. I have moved on to greater things.”
Lady Katherine reached out and touched Lydia’s arm in a rare show of tenderness, something she had been doing more since Lydia’s star was shining more brightly amidst Society again. “Dearest,” she said gently. “I am glad.” And there was actual emotion in her voice.
“Thank you, Mama,” Lydia whispered, driven nearly to tears by the sudden affection. Was this all it would have taken to regain her mother’s love — a resolution to forget the past, abandon her heart, and focus all her energies on catching the most eligible bachelor in London? Of course it is, she told herself chidingly. That’s all that’s ever mattered.
Well, now she had done it. Or, nearly.
“Do you expect Lord Sutton to call tomorrow?” Lady Katherine asked encouragingly. “Two drives in a row — curse this rain! Three would surely put the stamp into the seal.”
“I do,” Lydia said, and wandered over to look out at the wet London afternoon. The weather that had blown up over night wasn’t just the usual rain — this was a real gale, with wind bowing the trees in the square’s little park. A broken umbrella skidded along the empty street. “I had hoped he would call this afternoon, but this weather is too violent — there is no one abroad, not even a hansom. I know he meant to leave town tomorrow, but I am sure he will put that off.”
“I am sure. Listen to that rain! It’s a rare storm to keep London home,” Lady Katherine sighed. “I suppose everyone shall be simply wild with boredom by Lady Morven’s ball tomorrow night. It shall be quite a crush.”
&
nbsp; “Oh! I had quite forgotten about that ball.” Lydia wondered if she would be presented as an engaged woman in Lady Morven’s famously huge ball-room. She quite liked the idea.
Lady Katherine must have been pondering much the same thing. “Lydia, we must go and see about your dress at once,” she announced, throwing down her quill. “Tomorrow night you must look your absolute best!”
***
Well, Lydia thought glumly. I look my very best, but there is no reason for anyone to notice.
Lady Morven’s ball-room, fully twice the size of the largest townhouse ball-room in London, was a glittering, astonishing marvel as always. This was because Lady Morven did not deign to live in cramped quarters in town, but stayed just outside in a country village, where she could have a house as big as she liked, and a garden larger than a postage stamp. And so her parties were legendary, not just for the crowds that could be invited and comfortably housed, but for the ribald acts that went on in the countless dark and secret corners of the garden, from the maze to the rustic shelter to the sheltering boughs of the willow trees around the pond.
Lady Morven’s annual ball was the most daring and naughty night of the Season for many of London’s most moral and upright members of Society: few could resist the charms of that secluded garden. Lydia herself had been looking forward to further exploring that tingling sensation she had experienced on the curricle drive; the garden seemed to be the perfect place to grow a little more familiar with her newly betrothed.
But she wasn’t betrothed, and he wasn’t coming.
Glowing like moonbeam cloaked in blue satin, she had been waltzing around her bedchamber when the footman had arrived, the note on his silver tray addressed to her. She had snatched it up greedily, ready to forgive him for not coming to see her for a second afternoon in a row, ready to forgive him everything if he was writing to say he’d see her tonight at the ball. And her face had fallen when she had finished reading the first line of his elegant script.
The Honorable Nobody (Heroines on Horseback Book 2) Page 10
