“Tell me the truth, Lydia,” he said softly. “Was it a glass of milk or brandy you came downstairs for?”
Earlier, in her thoughts, she had inwardly praised the level of this man’s astuteness and intelligence, but at this moment, she would have wished him to be less so.
She kept her gaze lowered as she answered him. “I had difficulty sleeping after my father died. The house suddenly seemed so big without his presence, the slightest noise a possible intruder, even though I knew it was most probably just the creaking inside the house as it settled for the night. A glass of milk at bedtime didn’t help dispel those fears or the insomnia, and so I—I—”
“Began to imbibe your father’s brandy instead.”
“Only at bedtime,” she quickly defended, her cheeks burning hotter and, no doubt, redder. “And then only a small amount, barely enough to cover the bottom of a glass, because I do not really care for the taste.”
“Only its effect.”
“If it helped me to sleep, then yes.” Her chin tilted in challenge. “What is your excuse?” She eyed the almost-empty decanter nearby.
He huffed. “I do not need an excuse.”
“Because you are a man?”
His lips thinned. “Because, unlike you, I am of an age that means I am not answerable to any man or woman for my actions.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
“Life is rarely fair.”
Lydia sighed heavily. “I assure you, I have not touched a single drop of brandy in the evenings during our journey here.”
“But tonight you felt the need again? Possibly because your fears have returned. This time because of me?” he suggested harshly.
She instantly gave a shake of her head. “No, not at all.”
His eyes narrowed. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I do not tell lies,” she stated firmly.
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“So why could you not sleep?”
“It is all so new here and—and I do not know you as yet. Perhaps once we are better acquainted, I might feel better able to relax enough to sleep.”
“But you insist you are not frightened of me?”
“I am not,” she averred. “Should I be?”
His brow cleared and he gave a derisive snort. “According to those in Society, yes.”
She grimaced. “I have realized recently that I do not care for the opinion of Society, most especially when it is based on gossip, hearsay, and speculation.”
“You should,” he stated grimly. “Because those same people can so easily make or break you as well as damn your reputation beyond repair.”
As had happened to him, Lydia knew. “I am not in the least afraid of you,” she repeated firmly.
He raised a hand and touched his scarred cheek. “Not even of these?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I do not find them unsightly,” she answered honestly.
“Has your eyesight been checked recently?”
She smiled ruefully at his derision. “My father taught me how to use a bow when I was younger, and even now my arrow still always hits the center of the target. Does that answer your question?” she challenged lightly.
“Then I can only presume the deterioration must have occurred recently.”
She chuckled. “It has not. I do not fear the way you look,” she repeated. “Perhaps if there were mirrors in the main part of the house, you would see for yourself that your scars, although no doubt painful and sore for some years after the fire, are now barely visible.”
“If there were mirrors in the house?” he drawled.
“I noticed there aren’t any and assumed that must be because you do not wish to look at your scarred appearance.”
“You really are not afraid of me, are you?” he mused.
Lydia would not go quite that far, but… “I do not fear the way you look, no.” However, the way he made her feel was a different matter.
Esher studied her for several long minutes before nodding abruptly. “Come with me,” he instructed as he picked up the lit candle with one hand and the decanter of brandy and his glass with the other.
“Where are we going?” Lydia demanded. She hurried to keep up with him as he strode down the hallway toward the back of the house. The tiled floor was cold beneath her bare feet.
“To the kitchen,” the duke answered without turning.
Lydia came to an abrupt halt. This man’s haughtiness was such that he gave the impression he would not even know where the kitchen was in a house, any house, let alone ever choose to go there willingly.
Gideon turned when he reached the kitchen doorway to see Lydia had come to a stop some distance down the hallway. “Come along,” he ordered impatiently. “Once I enter the kitchen with the candle, it will leave this hallway in complete darkness,” he warned.
Lydia appeared to snap out of her stupor before hurrying to his side. “Are you in the habit of frequenting the kitchens of your homes, Your Grace?” she prompted as she followed him into the cozy warmth of the huge room.
Gideon placed the lit candle in the middle of the kitchen table, the brandy decanter and glass alongside it, before crossing the room to take a saucepan down from over the top of the range. “When I am still awake and the servants have retired for the night, yes.” He took a jug of milk from the coolness of the pantry and poured several inches into the pan before placing it on top of the range to heat. “Please, sit down.” He indicated the four chairs placed about the kitchen table.
An invitation he regretted when Lydia obediently crossed in front of the lit candle and he could clearly see the outline of her voluptuous curves through the thin material of her robe and night rail. He had no control over the reaction of his body, his cock instantly engorging.
He turned toward the range to check the temperature of the milk so that Lydia should not see the evidence of his physical response to her.
Only to draw in a sharp breath when he turned back and saw that the robe had now slipped slightly off one of her shoulders, revealing the smooth and creamy skin beneath. Lydia’s unconcerned expression implied it was not an act of deliberate provocation.
“One of us is either overdressed or underdressed,” he rasped.
There was mischief gleaming in those moss-green eyes as Lydia smiled at him. “I do not advise I remove any of my clothing, Your Grace.”
“Then you should straighten your robe so that you are at least decent.” His voice sounded even harsher.
“Oh.” The color deepened in Lydia’s cheeks as she quickly adjusted the robe so that none of her bare shoulder was now visible.
It might not be visible, but Gideon was nonetheless still aware of how silky and unblemished her skin was. So smooth, and pale as warm ivory, and no doubt deliciously soft to the touch.
The difference in their attire, Lydia wearing nightclothes and Gideon dressed in black evening clothes, also seemed more noticeable in these less formal surroundings.
“Damn it.” He shrugged out of his evening jacket before placing it on the back of the chair opposite to where Lydia now sat. It still did not equate to the froth of white satin and lace Lydia wore, but he felt less ridiculous in comparison.
Her brow wrinkled quizzically. “What are you doing over there?” she prompted as he removed the pan from the heat of the range.
“Brandy on its own can be a little strong.” He poured the milk into a cup. “But when it is mixed with warm milk, it can be quite pleasant.” He carried the cup of milk and a spoon to the table before pouring some of the brandy into it and giving it a stir. “Try it now,” he invited.
She eyed him uncertainly for several seconds before slowly lifting the cup and taking a tentative sip. “Oh, that taste is so much better, thank you,” she approved.
Gideon pulled back and sat on the chair opposite hers at the table before pouring some of the brandy into his glass. “I believe the raw spirit is an acquire
d taste.”
She took another sip of the warm milk and brandy. “This is far more pleasant. How did you know to do that?” Her hands cradled the cup.
“My wife—” Gideon broke off abruptly. Harriet was the last thing he wished to talk about. That he ever wished to talk about ever again.
He knew that regrets over the past were a waste of his time and emotion. Mainly because he had inwardly regretted ever meeting Harriet many, many times, let alone committing the folly of marrying her. At the time, he knew he had been bedazzled by a pretty face and a flirtatious manner. He would not fall afoul to such weakness again.
“Why are you unmarried still?”
Lydia gave a visible start, no doubt at the harshness of his tone and the sudden change of subject. “That is a very personal question to ask me.”
“But pertinent to our current situation of guardian and ward, I am sure you must agree?”
That color deepened in her cheeks. “You did not have to accept me as your ward, Your Grace.”
“Where else would you have gone if I had not?”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I am sure I could have found someone with whom I might have lived.”
Gideon wasn’t sure who that someone might have been when he knew that the new earl did not wish Lydia to reside in his household and that she had no other living male relatives.
His eyes narrowed. “How old were you when your mother died?”
“Four.”
“And no female relative took her place as your companion until your father employed Miss Babcock?”
“Charlotte is a distant cousin on my mother’s side of the family, but she did not come to live with us until after her parents died of influenza.”
“She is an impoverished member of that family, I would hazard a guess.”
Lydia looked irritated. “That is hardly her fault.”
“I did not say that it was, only that the two of you, one impoverished and the other without an acceptable chaperone in Society, could not have continued to live alone together in London.”
“And yet we did so for several weeks after my father died,” she defended.
“A situation that could not have continued.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I have already expressed my gratitude to you for having accepted us into your household,” she reminded stiffly.
“I meant no criticism of you, Lydia,” he said to soothe her obviously ruffled feathers. “I was merely curious about your situation after your mother died and before Miss Babcock came to live with you.”
Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. “My father employed a governess when I was younger.”
“A woman who was no doubt a sexually repressed spinster who quickly fell in love with your handsome widowed father and then left his employ when her years of devotion to him showed no signs of having that emotion returned.”
Lydia appeared to recoil at the suggestion. “You are very harsh in your judgments, Your Grace.”
“Gideon,” he bit out tersely. “You will address me as Gideon when we are alone,” he added softly.
She swallowed before slowly nodding. “If that is your wish.”
“It is. And harsh or not, it does not make my supposition inaccurate in regard to Miss Babcock or the feelings of your governess.”
“I have never considered the idea of Miss Humphries being in love with my father before now. But perhaps you are correct.” She frowned. “She did seem to simper and blush a great deal whenever my father was in the room. But she left when I was twelve and was replaced by a much older woman. One whose only purpose was to ensure I was prepared to be presented in Society when I reached the age of seventeen.”
“Those skills will not be necessary here when I have no time or patience for the Society which ten years ago accused me of killing my own wife.” He lifted and swallowed down the contents of his brandy glass.
Chapter Five
Lydia watched the emotions flickering across the austereness of Gideon’s features.
The anger.
The hurt.
The despair.
Followed by a stiffening of his austere features as his thoughts turned inward.
Too much so for Lydia to allow it to continue. “Gideon?” she prompted. “Gideon, look at me.” She rose to walk around the table until she stood at his side. “Please, Gideon.” She placed a persuasive hand upon his shoulder when he continued to stare down into the bottom of his now-empty brandy glass. She was able to feel the firmness and heat of his skin through the thin material of his shirt.
She kept her hand there in comfort, too easily able to imagine how this man had suffered under the unmerciful auspices of Society’s accusations.
A Society in which her own future had been precarious after her father died. She was no longer the daughter of the Earl of Chessington, but a young lady whose very place of residence was now in doubt. Consequently, people she had considered both friends and acquaintances had not known what to do about her. Whether they should still include her in that friendship or wait to decide until her uncertain future had been settled.
Lydia had keenly felt the distance they kept from her during that time of uncertainty, so that in the end, she had preferred to keep herself and Charlotte busy at home so as not to feel that restraint even more deeply than she had.
Until Gideon Rhodes, once informed he had a ward, had invited her and Charlotte to live with him in his home in Cornwall.
For that alone, Lydia had been prepared to like the Duke of Esher.
Nor had she cared for the sudden influx of visits she then received from those so-called Society friends who really only wished to learn exactly what her position now was, so that they in turn could gossip about it with their other friends. All, without fail, had warned her of the duke’s reputation of having murdered his wife.
Lydia had no idea whether or not that was true, but since meeting Esher earlier today, she had realized he was far from being the monster Society called him. That perhaps his only sin had been a refusal to defend himself in the face of such overriding prejudice toward him.
Lydia found his manner stern but not cruel.
Admittedly, he rarely—if ever?—smiled. She had certainly seen no evidence of it since her arrival. But that could be because circumstances had made it so that he had found very little to smile about these past ten years.
Nor did she, as she had told him, find his looks in the least hideous. Indeed, she believed the scars upon his face and throat prevented him from being too handsome.
After knowing Gideon for such a short time, she already felt something, some inexplicable draw inside her toward this handsome and deeply wounded man.
A partiality, she had no doubt, if he were to know of it, Gideon would neither want nor welcome.
Another thing she already knew about him, even on such a short acquaintance: Gideon did not need nor want anything from anyone.
Not their approval.
Not their pity.
Or their liking.
Certainly, he did not want those things from any woman.
Which was as well in Lydia’s case, because she had no idea what the myriad emotions she now felt toward this man actually meant.
Except to know that her thoughts were currently leaping too far ahead of her!
All she knew for certain at this time was that she was as intrigued as she was wary of Gideon.
The two of them were alone together in the middle of the night, in the heat and intimacy of the kitchen, the silence helping to create an oasis of total awareness. As if they were the only two souls on earth and anything was possible.
Lydia allowed herself to relax a little as she at last felt some of the tension easing from beneath her palm resting on Gideon’s shoulder. “I am so sorry they treated you that way when you had already lost your wife and been so badly scarred in the same fire in which she perished,” she told him huskily.
“You have not asked whether or not I killed her.�
�
She frowned. “Nor will I.”
He arched one brow. “Why not?”
She grimaced. “Because if you did kill her, you are hardly likely to confess to it, so I would be forcing you to tell me a lie. If you did not, then no amount of denial on your part would convince someone otherwise if they already believe you to be guilty of the crime.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you one of those people?”
“I am not,” she dismissed.
“I did not love my wife by the time she died,” he stated.
“Did you love her when the two of you married?”
He shook his head. “I thought I did, but I realized within a few weeks after the wedding that I had loved the idea of Harriet rather than the woman herself,” he rasped. “I had believed we would marry, share a life, that we would produce a family and raise those children together. The reality of Harriet, of her having only married me so that she might call herself Duchess and have others defer to her and call her Your Grace, proved to be far from any of my own hopes or dreams for the future,” he added bitterly.
Lydia snorted. “That does not mean you killed her.”
“Some might say, and have, that her inability to provide me with a living heir was finally reason enough for me to want to be rid of her.”
“My own mother died giving birth to my stillborn brother. My father mourned their deaths for the rest of his life. Nor did their loss mean he did not love his living daughter. No,” she continued. “A lack of love and an heir are not reasons to kill someone. If they were, then there would be married men and women being slain all over London every day and night. All over England itself.”
Gideon eyed her speculatively. “You are surprisingly mature for someone your age.”
She smiled. “And you are unsurprisingly condescending for someone of your age.”
For several seconds, the silence in the kitchen was broken only by the loud ticking of the clock on the mantel over the range. Then Lydia heard a sound that, from the expression on Gideon’s face, came as much of a surprise to him as it did to her.
Wayward (Regency Scandal 3) Page 4
