“Come. Sit here beside me.”
Lydia gave her maid an exasperated look, to which Jenny did not respond, of course. Any maid worth her salt knew when to keep quiet. With a sigh, Lydia did as her aunt requested.
“Now, tell me what bothers you.”
The smile that formed on Lydia’s lips could not have been stifled if she had tried. Helen could always sense when Lydia was in need of a willing ear to listen and had no problem being the one to lend that ear. Yet, how she disliked putting such burdens the woman.
“As it is, I believe Lord Egerton is decently handsome,” she said, choosing her words carefully, though she knew she was stretching the truth considerably. The man was snobbish, rude, and boring, all qualities that made him appalling despite the chiseled features many women would find attractive. However, Lydia had never been interested in physical beauty but rather found a person’s wit and sensibilities to be much more attractive than a fine, muscular leg. “However, it was not he with whom I had wanted to converse.”
“And who was it, then?” Helen asked, giving Lydia’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Was it Lord Bainsworth?”
Lydia shook her head. The second son of Baron Bainsworth had his eye on Miss Eve Chandler, a debutante with large, blue eyes and blond hair. No, Baron Bainsworth held little interest to Lydia; the boy was just eighteen and much too young in her opinion. He and Miss Chandler would make a pleasant-looking couple indeed.
“Surely not Lord Douglas, the son of the late Viscount Tripply?” the woman said with a gasp.
“No,” Lydia replied, though the last made her giggle. ‘Lord Douglas’ was but a child of five, so Lydia knew her aunt only spoke the boy’s name in an attempt to assuage the situation, which it did if only temporarily. Then she sighed. “It was the Duke of Bennington with whom I was hoping to make a better acquaintance this year.”
This caused Helen’s brows to rise significantly. “The man who wrote that horrible sentiment on his card last year?”
Lydia threw her hands in the air in frustration. “The one!” She stood and began to pace. “I do not understand myself sometimes, Helen! The man hurt me deeply, but I cannot stop thinking of how handsome he is or how well he wears his coat!”
Helen shook her head. “Men can be that way,” she said with a sympathetic sigh. “But you must move foreword and be ready to find the perfect gentleman. If the Duke does not have an interest in you, you know as well as I that another will be more than willing to be by your side.”
“But I do not believe that man to be Lord Egerton,” Lydia said as she returned to her place on the bench. In all honesty, she did not believe any such man existed, but saying so would only lead to an argument, in which she had no desire to participate. “He is boring and rude, and I do not like him.” She knew she was brooding as badly as a child, but it was all she could stomach at the moment. Just the thought of seeing the Duke sent her mind into strong turmoil.
“Lydia,” Helen said in that soft, calming voice that always brought Lydia back to reality, “you do not have to allow the man to court you, but you should at least listen to him. He has made a great effort in order to call on you.”
“I know,” Lydia replied with a sigh. She walked over to the vanity table and stared at her reflection, attempting to see it through the eyes of a man who confused her more than anything ever had before. “That is what bothers me. Why would a man call upon a woman who looks like a donkey?” Saying the words brought a tear to her eye, and her aunt rushed over and pulled Lydia into her arms. There, Lydia wept.
“Oh, my sweet child,” Helen cooed. “One man’s cruel words do not make them so. You are young and beautiful and will be finer than the Queen’s jewels on the day of your wedding. Mark my words.”
Lydia pulled from the embrace and sniffled. “But I am a wallflower,” she said, still hating the word but knowing it was the best way to describe her. Even plain did not characterize her sufficiently, for plain at least suggested that, with added paints and fine clothing, she could be transformed into something more. But a wallflower? Such a vivid representation depicted what a woman was like inside as well as out, and that could not be transformed in the same manner, if at all.
Then she remembered the rumor she had overheard. “Ah, but I left out the best part,” she said as she spun around in anger and proceeded to tell Helen about what she had overheard the women say at the party.
At first, Helen shook her head as if what she heard was unbelievable, but by the time Lydia finished with her story, her face was livid, and she lifted a fist into the air. “If I find out who started such lies, I’ll give him such a punch!” Then she lowered her fist and shook her head. “I think I understand why these rumors about you were started.”
“You do?” Lydia asked, mortified that this trusted woman had not revealed this information sooner.
“Yes, and for a few years now.”
Lydia was taken aback. “Well, tell me!” she demanded. “I must fix what is wrong.”
“I’m afraid it cannot be fixed,” Helen said as she took Lydia’s hand in hers. “For your beauty is permanent.”
Lydia gave her aunt a confused look. “My beauty?”
Helen picked up a pin from the table and pulled back a strand of hair that had fallen loose. “It is quite simple, really,” she said as she forced Lydia to sit once more. Jenny had slipped out of the room at some point, which was her custom when she knew Lydia required privacy. She was a good lady’s maid. “You are beautiful, much more so than other women of the ton.”
Lydia smiled. How she wished what the woman said was true, but she recognized her aunt’s attempt to console her. It was not the first time Helen had used kind words to uplift her.
“Do not doubt me,” Helen said as if she could hear Lydia’s thoughts. “You know me well enough to know that I tell no lies.”
“That might be true, but you are also kind; therefore, you tend to speak words that will soothe me.”
“Come with me.”
Lydia followed the woman to the window.
“Can you not see that they are jealous?” she asked. “Out there lies the city of London, and in it is a gentleman who seeks your hand, and eventually your heart. The other women know this and plot late into the night in an attempt to stop it from happening so they can be the winner of his hand. They know they have no way to do so in any other fashion, so they create lies in order to remove you from the game.”
Lydia’s mind thought of the women who would do such a thing. She could imagine them sitting around drinking tea and scheming to destroy her. “Perhaps what you say is true,” she said doubtfully.
Helen snorted. “I know I am right,” she said. “But they will not win, will they? No, you shall prevail, and they will cry for their failed plans.”
“Yes,” Lydia said, turning and facing her aunt with a courageous smile. “You are right. I will prevail, and by the end of this season, I shall be courted by the finest man in all of London!”
***
With her father gone on business for the day, Lydia waited patiently in the drawing room with Mrs. Ridge. The old woman sat rocking back and forth in her chair, a clear sign that she would soon fall asleep as she often did at this time of day. In the silence, Lydia considered the words Helen had shared with her. The other women could be jealous of her. Perhaps she was not a wallflower as she had thought, and maybe she did not have the face of a donkey, for Lord Egerton had asked to call on her today. Why else would a man do such a thing?
The more consideration she gave the situation, the more her confidence grew, and Lydia found herself ready to speak with this man. She was bright and intelligent, and she would show Lord Egerton just how entertaining she could be.
As if reading her mind, the door opened, and Wallace announced the Marquess before leading the man into the room.
“Ah, Miss Fortescue,” Lord Egerton said as he took her gloved hand into his and kissed it. “Thank you for allowing me to call on you. There is much we
must discuss.”
“Oh.” For some reason, Lydia found her mind empty of words, she was that unaccustomed to receiving male callers. Had she not just told herself she would prove her communication skills to this man? And yet the only response she could muster was, ‘oh’?
Shaking her head to clear out the emptiness, she said, “Please, sit, My Lord.”
The man did as she bade, and Lydia pulled the bell-cord to signify the need for tea to be served. Then she returned to the couch, balancing on the edge in order to keep her back straight.
“Your father is not here?” Lord Egerton asked.
Lydia shook her head. “No, he had business to which he had to attend. He will not be returning until late this evening.”
The Marquess smiled and then his eyes went wide when they fell on Mrs. Ridge. Her head was slumped over and the old woman’s snore had a slight whistle to it.
“This is typically when she naps,” Lydia explained, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Please, forgive us if she comes across as bored.”
Lord Egerton smiled. “It is fine,” he said. Then he lowered his voice. “I must tell you something important.”
Lydia could not stop her smile from widening. Was he going to ask her to call again? Or perhaps he will ask to court her. That was silly; would it not be a rather sudden request, and she berated herself inwardly. However, she could not stop the images of those other women, their tears of defeat running down their cheeks as Lydia paraded about London, her hand on the man’s arm. That would make them choke on those horrid words they had said about her! She could hear them as clearly as if they were standing before her at this moment.
“Look at her beauty,” they would whisper behind their fans.
“What a privilege she has earned!”
“We have lost.”
Their down-turned faces made her want to laugh with glee. But no, she would not laugh at their failure, for she would wish them well…as they lingered in corners in hopes another man would set eyes upon them.
“Miss Fortescue?”
Lydia returned her thoughts to the conversation at hand. “Yes?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“No,” Lydia replied and then looked at Mrs. Ridge, hoping to use the fact he was speaking in a near-whisper as an excuse as to why she had not heard. “Do not worry, she cannot hear you.”
“Are you sure?”
Lydia smiled and raised her voice. “Mrs. Ridge, Lord Egerton and I are going out to the park alone, and I shall return at midnight.” The old woman continued to snore, and Lydia returned her gaze to the Marquess. “You see? Nothing at all to worry us.”
Lord Egerton gave a small laugh. Perhaps he was a bit handsome, even if he was snobbish.
“Now, what would you like to ask me?” she said, ready for his offer of courtship.
“I bring a message from His Grace, William Montgomery, Duke of Bennington.”
The elevated feeling Lydia felt now dropped significantly.
“He asks why you have not replied to his correspondence from last year.”
“His ‘correspondence’?” she asked in astonishment. The man clearly had the manners of a hog!
“Yes,” Lord Egerton replied. “He suggests that you reply with a poem in return.”
“A poem,” she said in confusion. “What poem?”
Lord Egerton shrugged. “Apparently, he wrote words of love to you last year and he is afraid you did not receive them well.”
Lydia shook her head in disbelief. “Did not receive them well?” she said, her voice raised. “Is he that much of a rogue and a simpleton to know how I might ‘receive’ his words?”
The man’s eyes opened in shock. “I would not know,” he replied. “I have no idea what words he wrote, though he did ask me that you respond with the same fervor as he.”
Clenching her fists around the fabric of her skirts in order to force herself to remain calm, she rose from the chair, Lord Egerton jumping from his in response. “I think his ways are childish,” she said in reply. “And I would not entertain him in that notion. Now, thank you for calling.”
“It was my honor,” the man said with a bow, though his eyes remained wide in confusion. “Are you sure you will not respond? He thought you might not want to.” Then her heart caught in her throat as the man leaned in and whispered in her ear. “I must admit that you are beautiful and not the wallflower he tells me you are.”
Her heart accelerated as the man turned to leave. Mrs. Ridge woke just at that moment.
“What is going on?” the old woman asked. “Did I fall asleep?”
“Not at all,” Lord Egerton said. “I was just telling Miss Fortescue that I must leave. Thank you for your kindness. Both of you.” Then he lowered his voice and leaned in, “I would write back to him.”
With a deep bow to both women, Lord Egerton left the room. Lydia stared after him. He had called her beautiful, the first man, besides her father, of course, to ever do so. Yet, even so, she felt nothing for the man beyond the same contempt she had felt before. He might have said the words, but for some reason, she did not believe them.
As for the Duke, she did have a care, or rather she did care to write him a letter. In that letter, she would write with honesty and, therefore, return his sentiments in kind!
Chapter Five
The rain that pelted against the windows echoed the pounding William had in his head, the draft running through the house matching the cool tone of the letter he had received from Miss Fortescue earlier that day. The anger in which the woman wrote coupled by the way she had spoken to him at the party meant only one thing. She wanted nothing to do with him.
He had never considered himself unattractive in any sense of the word, and he thought his smell was fine. However, according to her letter, he failed in both, and more.
Sighing, he returned the letter to his desk and glanced over to see Clancy stuffing another biscuit in his mouth. The man was always eating, and his large stomach seemed to grow by the day. Beside him sat Barnard, his usual glass of wine in his hand as he gave William a crooked smile.
“Well, what did she say?” Barnard asked as he hung his leg over the arm of the chair. “Is she willing to speak to you?”
William sighed. “No. In fact, I do believe the woman hates me.”
Barnard swung his leg back over and stalked to the desk. “Rubbish,” he said as he reached for the letter.
However, William grabbed it before Barnard was able to take hold of it, for which he received a pair of raised eyebrows for his troubles.
“It is personal,” William explained as he folded the paper. The embarrassment of its contents would be immeasurable, even if it was a friend who read it. “I am sorry, but I cannot share it with you.”
“Come now,” Barnard said. “Let me see it. Maybe I can help gain missed meaning from the words, something you did not see.”
William studied the man for a moment and then looked at the letter. He supposed allowing his friend to read it would not change what had been written there, and Barnard could then understand the harshness of the woman’s words.
“Let’s see,” the man mumbled as he scanned the letter. “It is addressed to ‘His Grace, William Montgomery, Duke of…Beast?” He gave William an amused smile, to which William could only nod in discomfort. “‘Sir, the words I use in this letter come from the bottom of my heart.’” He paused and looked up at William. “What a kind statement,” he said.
William did not look up but instead waved his hand in agony. “Keep reading.”
Barnard cleared his throat and returned to the letter. “‘When I was but a child, I visited a zoo with all sorts of animals on display. There was a zebra, a marvelous beast that had teeth that remind me of Your Grace.”
William felt his cheeks burn as Clancy snickered.
“‘Last year, while strolling through St. James Park, I came across a group of people who were attempting to determine the source of a foul stench. Immed
iately, I knew it could come from only one source, and that would be Your Grace.” Barnard barked a great laugh at this before continuing. “‘Your eyes remind me of those of a pigeon, and your body possesses the shape of a pig. I say all this, Your Grace, to warn you of danger.’”
“Danger?” Clancy asked, his mouth full of yet another biscuit. “What danger?
“Let me continue,” Barnard said as he shot Clancy a glare. “Where was I? Oh, here.” He pointed to a place on the page. “‘The circus will be at the park next week, and I fear you should not go near that area lest they think they have lost one of the animals they keep on display. I do hope you have a pleasant day, and be sure to watch how closely you get to the circus. Kindly, Lydia Fortescue.’”
Barnard let out a laugh at the same time as Clancy, and William had never been more humiliated in all his life. “Now that you two have had your laugh,” he said as he snatched the paper from Barnard’s hand, “we shall discuss this no more.” He threw the letter back on the desk and walked over to the liquor cart to pour himself a glass of port. “Clearly the woman is mad. Perhaps it would be best if I keep away from her.”
“William,” Barnard said in that infuriatingly calm tone he took when he was about to go into one of his ‘wondrous’ theories, “do you not see what she has done?”
“What?” William demanded. “Ridiculed me? Made me feel the fool? Yes, I have seen it quite clearly, thank you.”
“No,” the Marquess replied. “She is asking you to accompany her to the circus.”
William shot a glare at Barnard and shook his head. “Has everyone gone mad?” he shouted. “She clearly does not care for me, Barnard. Why would she wish me to accompany her to the circus?”
Barnard laughed. “Oh, my friend. You truly are blind. The talk of animals, the stench, even mentioning the circus. Do you not see?” He grabbed the letter and handed it to William. “Women tend to make suggestions to men in deep subtleties. From what I have read in this letter, she is wanting you to take her!”
William took the letter and read it over again. Where was Barnard seeing such nonsense? Then he reread the words again. Was it her intention to not be rude but in fact to simply insinuate her wish to go to the circus? Was this some strange new manner which women used to move around a point without making it? It was customary for the man to invite the woman. If she did indeed wish to go to the circus but, by society’s standards, could not be the one to ask, was this her way of suggesting he should invite her, but poetically? Poetic was a stretch when describing her choice of words, but perhaps she was not gifted in the area of writing.
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