Lydia flushed. He was pleasant enough and clearly used to the formalities that were expected of a gentleman. “I- I don’t remember, sir,” she fibbed somewhat hesitantly.
“Come, Miss Annesley, you make an even prettier picture now than you did then.”
Lydia flushed even more at his boldness, and drew herself up to her full height of five feet two in an effort to regain her composure. “You are forward, Mr. Sheridan,” she returned sharply. “If you will excuse me, I would like to continue with my walk.”
“Allow me to accompany you. The park is too hazardous a place for a young lady like yourself to be walking alone.”
Lydia drew a sharp breath, her cheeks aflame. “That is not necessary, sir. My escort and my brougham are already waiting for me outside the gate!”
“Then allow me to walk with you to see you safely there.”
Lydia frowned and turned back towards the direction of the gate as he placed his hand lightly at her elbow. This was a terrible situation! How bold the young man was! And whatever would her aunt say if she should hear of this?
Lydia took a another deep breath and glanced quickly up at him as they walked. “Please, Mr. Sheridan, don’t interrupt your business on my account.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “My business was over the moment I saw you, Miss Annesley,” he replied gallantly. “When I saw that you were alone, my sole intention was to escort you.”
It was such a pointed remark that Lydia began to realise, too late, perhaps, how foolish she had been to venture alone in the park like this.
And, as they walked together, her attempts at conversation were very stilted indeed. She asked him of his horse, his leisure pursuits, his background. And it was during this discourse that she quickly discovered that he preferred to do most of the talking - which was perhaps as well. She learned, too, from where he had acquired his slight brogue.
He told her of his father’s home in County Clare, Ireland and of his land there. And how fond his maternal grandfather, Lucas Stretton, was of them both.
Yet, even as he spoke, Lydia found herself growing more tense than ever. It soon became very clear to her that Aunt Elizabeth wouldn’t approve of this casual meeting at all!
Not only for its impropriety, but for the fact that this bold young man was none other than the grandson of Lucas Stretton! Elizabeth Annesley’s greatest rival!
As he continued his story, Lydia found herself sinking into an even more intolerable situation!
Relief flooded through her as they reached the gates and her eyes darted first this way and that, searching for Blanchard but, to her dismay, he was nowhere in sight!
Where the pony and carriage should have stood was a man. A man, tall and erect, holding the reins of a magnificent bay; and a man Lydia recognised at once!
With her heart thudding against her ribs she stood frozen as the man took a few steps towards them. Instinctively, she found herself backing away, looking round for a means of escape but there was none.
He approached slowly, staring at them both in a baffled rage as he raised his hat and bowed slightly to her. Before she could respond, however, she heard Charles Sheridan’s angry snarl.
“You!”
“Yes, Charlie, me!”
“Why are you following me?”
“I am not.” He turned his dark eyes back to Lydia. “Forgive me, Miss Annesley. It is not my custom to intrude upon a seemingly pleasant conversation.”
Lydia felt her anger rise sharply. There was no doubt of his veiled insinuation. “You are not intruding, sir,” she remarked pointedly. “Mr. Sheridan was kindly escorting me to my carriage.”
The tall, dark man gazed around insolently before turning back to her. He was smiling but there was no warmth in the smile. And when he spoke again, his tone was edged with a heavy sarcasm. “Your carriage, ma’am? But I can see no carriage. Perhaps you will allow me to call a cab?”
Lydia looked around wildly. Wherever was Blanchard?
“That’s enough, Caleb!” Charles Sheridan remonstrated savagely, an uncomfortable flush deepening his good-looking face.
Caleb Vyne’s eyes were hard as he turned to his half-brother and said with deceptive calmness, “With you, Charlie, it’s never enough! Now, why don’t you fetch your horse from where you left him in the thicket and ride off home like a good boy.”
Lydia froze, expecting an outburst from Charlie Sheridan at the high-handed order from the dark-haired man, but none came.
Instead, and to her utter amazement, Charles Sheridan paused angrily for a few brief moments, as if in two minds what to do, then he shrugged carelessly. He attended Lydia with a curt bow and swung away without a word.
She turned two unbelieving green eyes to look up at the man still standing beside her, wondering what power he held to make others obey him so meekly, and without question. He was still smiling that cold smile and, as he moved further towards her, Lydia found herself backing away.
He laughed softly. “Don’t worry, Miss Annesley, I will not harm you. But I would like to know how you came to lose your carriage.”
She countered his question with another, turning on him imperiously. “How do you know my name?”
She spoke with such apparent fury that he laughed again and cast an insolent eye over her.
And, in spite of herself - and her dilemma - Lydia felt herself drawn towards him. He was the most attractive man she had seen in her entire life.
“Oh, come, Miss Annesley,” he chuckled, shaking his dark head, “surely, you can’t believe that we in Upwych are so blind that we would not notice such an enchanting girl amongst us?”
His sarcasm was now bordering on insolence and Lydia threw back her head. “If you wish to behave in so impertinent a manner, sir, then I suggest you reserve it for more suitable company.”
Caleb Vyne bit his lip in mock apology and Lydia side-stepped away. She began to walk in the direction of the hotel, thoroughly out of sorts, her precious hours of freedom soured by these two annoying young men.
She heard him behind her. The clip of his bay’s hoofs and the firm sound of his boots giving him away.
“I believe you are walking in the wrong direction, ma’am,” came his amused observation. “If you will permit me--”
Lydia almost stamped her foot, then swung round. She didn’t know what to do. She was, indeed, most hopelessly lost.
She tried to retrieve her pride by fixing him with a cold, green stare, focussing her gaze on the fine bone structure and the dark crop of strong curly hair. He seemed to tower above her in a most unnerving way but, now, to her surprise, Lydia thought she saw a hint of earnestness in his dark eyes.
“Sir, your behaviour is intolerable!” she snapped. “If this is an example of Upwych manners, then I fear I should not have left London!”
He moved closer, his body shielding her from the piercing wind. “I am sorry that you feel that way, ma’am,” he said quietly, yet in a manner that commanded instant silence. “But I can assure you that the manners of Upwych are usually beyond reproach.”
“Then why do you follow me?”
“For your protection. And for the fact that I think I know where your coachman may be.”
“Where?”
“If you promise not to move from this spot,” he said affably, “then I will fetch him.”
Lydia nodded and, as he disappeared through a narrow passage close by, she stood impatiently chafing her fingers and stamping her small boots in an effort to keep warm.
Within moments he returned. “Just as I thought, Miss Annesley. He is on his way.”
And, with a tremble of relief, even as the man spoke, Blanchard and the brougham trotted round the bend of the road.
As Caleb Vyne helped her to her seat, his hands felt warm and strong. Once she was settled he turned sternly to the hapless coachman. “If I was in charge at Upwych, I’d dock your wages for disappearing like that! Now, take your mistress home and make sure you don’t make a mess of tha
t!”
“Yes, Mr. Vyne. Begging your pardon, miss,” uttered Blanchard miserably and Lydia found she could not let the coachman take the wrath of this man without her defence. After all, it had been her fault in the first place, giving him the slip the way she had.
“There’s no need to scold Blanchard, sir,” she called out in a clear steady voice. “I dismissed him when I decided to walk in the park.”
The dark young man bowed, throwing her a surprised look. “Just so!” Then turning back to Blanchard he commented stiffly, “You’re lucky to have such a generous mistress, Blanchard. Let us hope she remains so.”
“Drive on, Blanchard,” Lydia instructed, keeping her voice low, but before the coachman moved the carriage away, the man caught hold of the rein.
“I hope we meet again, Miss Annesley,” he murmured, adding softly, “but perhaps in less awkward circumstances.”
Lydia didn’t reply. She sat very still in the brougham as it carried her along the High Street and in the direction of Annesley House. Once she knew she was out of his sight, Lydia allowed herself to relax. So his name was Vyne! Caleb Vyne!
She tapped her fingertips together within the confines of her muff. There was something about him that disturbed her very much. And it wasn’t only the fact that he was clearly close - albeit, hostilely so - to a family member of her aunt’s most implacable enemy.
Caleb Vyne, on the other hand, had not moved. He remained very still until the small carriage had taken Lydia completely out of his sight.
Then he mounted his horse, turned it and galloped off, thinking what a damned attractive girl Lydia Annesley was. She reminded him of a bright burst of colour; an exquisite flower that had unexpectedly bloomed, filling his lonely day with joy and hope.
But then his handsome face darkened. This was something else he would have to sort out with Charlie!
CHAPTER 3
On the day of her eighteenth birthday, Elizabeth Annesley presented Lydia with Sophie, a roan mare, and, as the greyness of winter advanced into a February of alternating frost and rain, Lydia found riding pure joy. She discovered mile upon mile of open countryside and, once she’d mastered the intricacies of controlling the high-spirited young mare, she began to revel in her unaccustomed freedom.
In Upwych, Lydia enjoyed the opportunities that she had never had in London, her sole regret being that Aunt Elizabeth still insisted that the reluctant Blanchard accompany her.
And, on these cold winter days, Lydia would ride hard and swift, making sure that the hapless coachman was at least a mile behind.
On these rides Lydia thought of many things. Of how lucky she was to be in such a wonderful place; of her kindly aunt, and all that she had given her; and of the responsibilities that would soon be placed upon her at the Upwych works.
But, most of all, Lydia thought of Caleb Vyne.
He edged into her thoughts now as she gazed out across the winter landscape and she braced herself, firmly closing her mind’s eye to his disturbing face.
Last night’s storm had blown itself out and a pale, watery sun was lighting the brown, slumbering earth, softening its cold armour of ice for the few, brief hours of a winter’s day. It was enchanting! And, drinking in its wild, naked beauty, Lydia wondered, momentarily, why she should feel so edgy and strung-up.
Reining in the roan she turned, looking back at poor old Blanchard as he struggled to make up ground and Lydia, regretting her impulsive gallop, felt more than a little sorry for him.
Without realising how hard she’d ridden, she had strayed far from the pathway and the small copse she found herself in was dense, but well-sheltered from the bitter December wind.
Lydia dismounted, picking up a small stone and twirling it around in her gloved hand for a few moments before tossing it over the stark hedgerows. She looked around approvingly.
In spring, this place would be filled with snowdrops and primroses, perhaps even, colourful patches of celandine. It was a peaceful spot; beautiful and secret, and she must come back here at some future date. Perhaps a day when she could be entirely alone?
Lost in her imagination, she thought again of Caleb Vyne and how, as a small, dark-haired boy, he might have come here to play. As his handsome face drifted around in her thoughts, Lydia frowned, pondering glumly.
He puzzled her. Why were he and Charles Sheridan so much at odds? And what on earth was it that should cause Charles to show such a submissive attitude towards him? What hold did Vyne have upon him? And what had happened to cause such bitterness between the two men? Lydia gave a small, wry smile. Such enmity seemed a pity when they were both so handsome!
She stepped back, shading her eyes to watch Blanchard’s plodding approach, yet still the questions intrigued her and, inwardly, she vowed to find out why. Vyne’s tall, taut frame was as strong as a bull, but Charles Sheridan, big as he was, would surely be no match against such strength. And whatever their antipathy, Lydia was convinced that Charles was the more likely victim.
Of the two, he seemed far more approachable, far more amusing. His candid blue eyes held such an open look - a noticeable receptiveness that one found hard to dislike. But the other, Vyne, carried upon himself a brooding sourness, and it was a sourness that was already twisting the man’s handsome features.
Still pondering as she remounted, Lydia scolded herself. Unless it affected the Upwych works, it was really none of her business. And, anyway, it was probably something she would never know!
So thrusting it out of her mind, she turned Sophie’s head back towards Blanchard. It was time to return to Annesley house for lunch.
But, whether it was her business or not, the question remained. Relentlessly, the two men came back into her mind as she made her way home. And it occurred to Lydia that the more she thought of the quarrel, the less it made sense.
But then she smiled another secret smile. It seemed no matter how hard she tried, Caleb Vyne just wouldn’t leave her thoughts. It was funny how a woman could be attracted to the worst of men.
Hadn’t the same thing happened to her mother when she’d met Fortey? Hadn’t her stepfather enamoured her mama with his dark good looks and false words of love? Was the dark and brooding Mr. Vyne another such man? Secretly, in her heart of hearts, Lydia Annesley hoped not.
“You’re looking very thoughtful, Liddy,” observed her aunt, glancing up from her letters as her niece came into the morning room.
“Am I, aunt?” asked Lydia, stooping to kiss the top of the lady’s silver head, adding somewhat apologetically. “It’s nothing... Perhaps I was thinking that I ran Blanchard more than I should have today.”
“Did you enjoy your ride?” Elizabeth surveyed the girl approvingly. What a lovely picture Lydia made with her animated heart-shaped face and her cheeks - once so pale - glowing from the clear air of the Upwych hills. Her new green habit and feathered hat suited her, and her chestnut curls were prettily restrained in the nape of her slender neck by a fine black net, giving her an aura of sophistication far beyond her eighteen years.
“Oh, yes, aunt!” Lydia exclaimed. “And, with your permission, I would love to go out again this afternoon while the sun is in such a good humour.”
“You have my permission, child - I have much to do here to keep me occupied.”
“You always have much to do, aunt,” Lydia remonstrated gently. “Very little seems to take you away from your endless papers.”
She smiled fondly as her aunt nodded her agreement, but Lydia’s gentle expression changed swiftly to alarm as she noticed for the first time how pale Elizabeth looked today. “In fact,” she added softly, “I’d say you do far too much.”
Elizabeth Annesley leaned back in her chair, smoothing a pale hand across her brow and gave way to a deep sigh. “I’m tired, child,” she murmured wearily. “I fear I may not yet have recovered from the journey to London.”
“It is surely more than that, dear aunt, and I truly feel you should rest more,” Lydia advised anxiously. “Leave thos
e letters for now. If you tell me what it is you wish to say, I will finish them for you later.”
“No, indeed,” her aunt returned with a dry little laugh. “These are works matters and they need my personal attention.”
“Then let me help.”
“They need not concern you yet.”
“Perhaps, aunt, it is time for my concern. If I’m to know what I have to do --”
But her aunt raised an admonishing hand, “Time enough, Lydia. There’s all the time in the world for you to learn. I will show you when I think the day is come. Until then, enjoy your riding and your girlish dreams. Youth is gone from us soon enough.”
“But, aunt, I can’t indulge in such foolish pleasures while you are taking everything on yourself,” Lydia protested stubbornly, growing more anxious at her aunt’s pallor. “I’ll stay by your side today and make sure you get some rest.”
“Indeed, you will not,” replied Elizabeth, just as stubbornly. “I don’t want you to fuss. I am quite, quite well!”
“I’m not fussing --”
“That will do, Lydia. Now, let’s take luncheon and then you must continue with your ride.”
“But, aunt --”
Elizabeth Annesley would hear no more. And, after lunch, with the promise that she would take a nap, the old lady insisted that Lydia leave her alone and instructed her to take the mare out again.
Reluctantly, Lydia gave in and, after more futile protests, she made her way into the hall. Picking up her gloves from the hall table, she turned them over in her hand. Oh dear! she thought, I can’t possibly wear these again today! They were ruined! Caked with the dried mud of her impetuous playfulness with the stone!
Irritated with herself, Lydia turned for the stairs to change them for another pair but hesitated at the bottom as the sound of furtive giggling caught her attention.
The Price of Beauty Page 4