“Aren’t you speaking prematurely? Lord Marcus has agreed to nothing at this point.”
“That will change soon enough. I promise you I will end this great sham at last. I refuse to wait one moment longer on a man who doesn’t want me, regardless of his recent and remarkable protestations to the contrary.”
“Do you intend to seek another husband then?”
“I have little choice now. Had I been married, my home might have passed on through me to my son, but since I am in such an unsettled state, all passes instead to Cousin James. I need a home of my own, and I desire children. My wishes should be simple enough to satisfy. Though I once dreamed of a love match, I only now hope for a man who treats me with kindness, courtesy, and a modicum of respect—none of which have I ever seen from Lord Russell.”
Mariah took her cousin’s hand. “You would settle for so little, Lyddie, when you deserve so much?”
Lydia acknowledged her cousin’s concern with a brief squeeze. “I have moved beyond romantic fantasy, Mariah. One must be pragmatic at my age. I would be content with at least the respect of my husband. Given that, affection is sure to follow.”
“Have you already someone else in mind?”
Lydia gave a brief half-smile. “The new vicar, Reverend Thomas Capshaw, seems a very good man, does he not?”
Mariah laughed outright. “You, a vicar’s wife?”
Lydia looked injured. “And why not?”
“I just think you would find it dreadfully stifling. You are by far too liberal-minded and free-spoken is all. Uncle Timothy gave you more license than is usually permitted a woman and I doubt the Reverend Capshaw would be quite so generous-spirited.”
Lydia considered her cousin. “Perhaps you are right, Mariah, but he still seems my best prospect at present. While I have a respectable dowry, I lack your title and properties to attract any higher suitors.”
“At least you don’t have to fear fortune hunters.”
“Poor dear, to be accursed with a title of your own, a large estate and a monstrous fortune,” Lydia teased.
“But it is a curse, don’t you see? When I wed, I want it to be for my person not for my purse. ‘Tis why I prefer the obscurity of the country.”
“But you have no prospects at all buried at Morehaven as you are. And that is precisely why you shall accompany me to London.”
* * * * *
My Dear Lord Russell,
In appreciation of your desire to conduct our business in person, I accept your invitation to visit your dearest mother, Lady Russell. My cousin Lady Mariah Morehaven will accompany me.
Yours,
Miss Lydia Albinia Trent
While Lydia did her best to suppress her awe, she had never traveled in such a well-sprung and elegantly appointed equipage. Moreover, the crested coach and six had virtually flown over the post roads, making the sixty-mile journey from Cotesfield Hall to London in less than six hours.
Russell House, a three-story brick manse, was one of the more prominent residences of Bloomsbury Square, dating to the last century, when the Russell family had begun to develop their extensive London holdings. Only Bedford House itself, sitting as proudly as a ducal cornet at the north-center of the square, surpassed it in splendor.
A small army of velvet-liveried footmen met the coach when it clattered to a halt on the cobbles under the portico. While two assisted the ladies to alight, the rest attended to the extensive baggage. Another servant briskly ascended the stairs to announce the arrival to Lady Russell who wafted down the staircase to greet her guests.
“My dear, dear child! Look at you, a woman grown.” Bussing Lydia’s cheeks in the Continental manner, she turned to Mariah. “How lovely to meet you at last, Baroness Morehaven.”
The young woman curtseyed with a becoming blush. “Just Mariah, please, my lady.”
“Then you must also address me as Philomena. You must be exhausted after your journey. Would you care for refreshment or would you prefer a brief respite before supper?”
Looking from her cousin to her hostess, who appeared brimming with expectation, Mariah answered with a smile. “You both have much to catch up on. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a short rest.”
“Absolutely, my dear. The rooms are prepared and the servants will anon tend to the unpacking. Pray consider my home your own. Dobbs will escort you.” A wave of her hand executed the command. “An exceedingly tactful miss is your cousin,” Lady Russell remarked to Lydia.
“I only wish it ran in my side of the family.” Lydia laughed.
“Never say so, child. You are very much like your mother who had your same charming and refreshing lack of guile. Now, we do have much to catch up on. Perhaps we should take tea in my private chambers?”
Lady Russell was aghast. “You mean to tell me you have not laid eyes on Marcus for six years?”
“Indeed so. He only came once after our betrothal to pay his respects to my father. Although to be fair, they did maintain an ongoing, if somewhat sporadic, correspondence. I have heard nothing more from him before these last few months.”
The elder woman patted her hand. “Then it’s no surprise you would feel as you do. But now you are here, Marcus shall soon make amends.”
“I’m afraid you misapprehend my purpose, Philomena. Though it pains me for your sake to say so, I no longer have any wish to marry Marcus. I have come to London only to request an end to our betrothal.”
“But my dear, you act in such haste!”
“Six years is hardly haste, ma’am,” Lydia remarked wryly.
“You should hear him out before coming to such an irrevocable decision. In truth, I take much blame upon myself for not prodding Marcus. Yet he was so single-minded to establish himself with the diplomatic service that I feared pressuring him to marry would only have caused resentment.”
“No doubt!” Lydia agreed. “He expressed as much the night of our engagement, but I was moonstruck. Marcus has never shown me more than polite indifference. I now realize that is not enough for me. In truth, I would almost rather he despised me than merely tolerated my existence.”
Lady Russell puckered her brow. “You would have a future husband despise you? How extraordinary!”
“Indeed, my lady! For antipathy is at least a form of passion! Even negative emotion can sometimes be turned around, but what can be done when no feeling exists at all? I will not wed a man only to live as indifferently as strangers.”
“My dear, given sufficient time…”
Lydia sighed. “For nearly six years I clung to that foolish hope, but time appears to have only been my enemy. He truly doesn’t want me. He never did.”
“But my dear, you do not know men,” Lady Russell consoled. “They are undeniably obtuse. The daft creatures never know what they want until it’s placed under their noses.” She smiled and clasped the young woman’s hand with a conspiratorial look. “You have now come to town, Lydia. Ergo, he will want you.”
“I fear it is not so simple as that. My feelings toward him are no longer engaged.”
“Is that truly so?” Lady Russell broke into a dubious smile. Although Lydia had spoken with conviction, she failed to meet the elder woman’s astute gaze. “Then my dear, it must be my son’s onus to reengage them.”
Lydia opened her mouth protest but Lady Russell had already risen to her feet with a brisk shake of her voluminous skirts. “Now then, let us get you settled in your rooms. Your betrothed shall be joining us later for supper.”
* * * * *
Certain that Lady Russell would waste no time, Marcus had fully anticipated his mother’s urgent message. Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist spending an hour or two at his club first, though he knew it an idle and childish protest against the inevitable.
“Ah, my youngest son condescends to visit his neglected mother at last,” Lady Russell scolded while tilting her head for the kiss Marcus planted on her cheek.
“Visit? I was under the distinct impression you’d iss
ued a summons. Ouch!” he exclaimed as the smart flick of her fan connected with his wrist.
“Don’t be cheeky.” Ignoring his scowl, Lady Russell simply patted the seat on the silk-damask sofa. “Sit with me, Marcus. We must talk.”
“You mean, you must talk and I must listen,” he amended with a sardonic curve of his lips.
“Quite so, dearest,” she said. Marcus had no sooner flipped his coat skirts to sit before Lady Russell turned to fully face her son. “Marcus, you are a fool.”
Having long been his mother’s favorite, the remark came as something of a shock. “An auspicious beginning,” he remarked dryly. “And dismaying to my illusion that the world at large considers me a man of parts.”
“Wicked boy.” She pursed her lips. “You know very well I’m speaking of Lydia. Your betrothal was perfectly arranged years ago to the ideal girl. It confounds me how you have managed to botch it all up!”
“While I confess I’ve been remiss—”
“Remiss! The girl has not laid eyes on you but once since your betrothal party! You’ve been positively nonexistent! How could you be so careless and insensitive?”
“What was left for me to do, Mama? You had already quite taken the burden of finding a wife off my shoulders.”
“So this is just a petty rebellion against me?” Her mouth formed a well-practiced moue. “I had only your best interests at heart, Marcus. You are my youngest son with no fortune to speak of, and no properties to inherit. I found you a suitable girl from good family with a respectable dowry.”
“Placing my future happiness all in your own capable hands.”
She looked injured. “You were never under duress.”
He groaned. “I know, Mama. And I agreed to it, didn’t I?”
“Nevertheless, after I sowed the garden, you failed to tend it.”
“You already know I am resolved to make amends. ‘Tis why I have brought her here.”
“You seem to think this will be easily fixed, but I begin to doubt your success. How do you expect to go on with Lydia, to win her over?”
“Win? Why should I have to win what is already mine?”
“Was yours—for the losing. By sheer negligence you have alienated her affections, and now must work to win them back.”
Marcus laughed outright. “I daresay that shan’t be much of a challenge.”
“Don’t be so damned cocksure, Marcus! You take too much for granted, but I suppose I am to blame in having made life far too easy for you.”
“You can’t help yourself, Mama. You’ve always doted on me.” Marcus flashed a devilish grin.
“And you’re abominable for all my efforts!”
“Don’t fret, Mama. All shall be smoothed over anon. I’ll humble myself and charm her. She’ll be beside herself with all the attention I flourish upon her.”
“Marcus. You don’t understand. The girl has character.”
“Character?” Marcus winced. “Is it as bad as all that? Why is it all girls with no claim to pulchritude positively brim with character?”
Lady Russell stared at him for a moment. “You are monstrous!” Marcus warily watched the fan, but she flipped it open only to cool herself. “In no way does Lydia want for looks. She is an exceedingly handsome girl.”
“Of course she is.” His expression belied his words.
“I doubt she’ll have you now anyway. And it serves you right.” The ubiquitous fan snapped shut in emphasis.
Marcus gave a condescending smirk. “Mama, she’ll be eating out of my hand before the night is over.”
* * * * *
“No, no.” Mariah waved away the floral-sprigged, sacque gown. “That print is too matronly and the neckline far too demure. You should wear the canary silk mantua instead. It sets you off to best advantage. You must make a statement, Lydia.”
Lydia protested. “But the canary is cut scandalously low. What manner of statement would that make? That I long for him to ogle my breasts?”
“Precisely.” Mariah winked.
“Why on earth would I want that?”
Mariah gave an impish grin. “I think it would be perfect justice to make him pine for what he has lost.”
“Don’t be scandalous!” Lydia chided. “I shan’t wear the canary. I thought to save it for a special occasion.”
“You would not call your first true dinner with your affianced a special occasion?”
“Correction, Mariah. My former affianced. And I really don’t know why you are troubling yourself so over my wardrobe selection. It’s not as if I wish to impress the man.”
“But why not? You must wear your best; flirt with every other man at the table, and save that haughty chin tilt of yours especially for Marcus. Make him suffer.”
Remembering her humiliation at her betrothal party, she considered her cousin’s suggestion. “You’re right, Mariah. I must dress to devastate. I’ll wear the canary and I’ll add the stomacher with the seed pearls and the Mechlin lace.”
“You will be a vision, Lyddie! And remember, no matter how he should beg or cajole you to change your mind, you must not be moved.”
* * * * *
Marcus glanced up at the grand staircase for the umpteenth time. “Bloody hell! Is she intentionally making me wait just to draw out the awkwardness?”
“It would serve you right after six years waiting on her side,” Nicholas drawled.
Marcus scowled and beckoned the footman for a refill. He already met the evening ahead with dread, certain it would stretch out painfully, interminably. Although fortified with several glasses of Madeira—that magical blend of wine and distilled alcohol that normally shifted him quickly into a happy haze—he found his irritation only increasing by the minute.
When his eyes next darted to the top of the stairs, two colorful, silk-clad figures were descending arm in arm. His attention shifted to the taller of the pair with a jolt. Under the candlelight, auburn highlights glinted in her chestnut hair. Though a fan sheltered the lower part of her face, he glimpsed clear, wide-set blue eyes under delicately arched brows. His tactile gaze tracked lower, noting the fine column of her neck meeting shapely shoulders. His gaze lingered longer than gentlemanly along the tops of milky-white breasts—exquisite breasts really—displayed to full advantage in her low-cut gown. His cock stirred with decided interest.
“Who is she?” Nicholas read his thoughts.
“Lydia’s cousin, Lady Morehaven, I presume.” Marcus resisted the powerful urge to raise his quizzing glass, but his eyes still devoured her. “Damn but that one’s a veritable Venus Rising.”
His stare lingered with fascination on the soft white mounds of her breasts. He wondered at their softness, how their supple weight would balance in his hands…how they would taste in his mouth. He had become quite a connoisseur of them actually—women’s breasts—as well as boasting of a certain expertise of other…more functional and fascinating female parts. Over the past few years, he’d sampled many women of beauty, intellect, and style that only the Continent seemed to breed. One of the chief perquisites of the Foreign Service was consummate access such voluptuous delights often paid by their governments to entertain foreign diplomats. By consequence, blushing English roses like Lydia no longer held any appeal.
At great reluctance, he shook himself out of his dark fantasy to force his attention back to his betrothed. “Ah, Lydia, just as bland as I recall.” Lord Russell took a final swallow from his glass, handed it to a footman and advanced toward the stairs with indifference, thinking everything about Lydia still appeared some middling shade—neither tall nor short, hair neither light nor dark, and eyes neither blue nor gray.
The two women were halfway down the stairs whispering when the taller of the pair looked fleeting over her fan at Marcus. Her brows met, she averted her gaze and faltered. Was it panic he had seen flash across her face? The brief notion gave him pause. His gaze shifted from one woman to the other with a discomposing uncertainty.
It couldn’t possib
ly be.
Lydia glanced over her fan into the deep, dark, depths of her girlhood fantasies and faltered. “Lud, he is magnificent!” she whispered half to herself. “I can’t believe I had nearly forgotten him.” She thought she’d successfully banished her feeling, but upon seeing him again, his appeal was magnified tenfold, causing her stomach to do flips.
Marcus was no longer the young man she remembered, but a mature and urbane gentleman of fashion. He was elegantly dressed in an evening coat of midnight-blue velvet trimmed in silver, with satin breeches and a silver-embroidered waistcoat. Cascades of lace spilled at his throat and from his cuffs almost to his fingertips, which held the requisite, ornamental snuffbox.
“A magnificent cad, you mean. He’s positively gaping at your bosom, Lyddie!” Mariah said in a scandalized whisper. “I swear he’s undressing you with his eyes!”
Lydia’s lip twitched. “How lurid you sound. I really must censure your reading material.”
“There can be no doubt you have his attention now,” Mariah giggled.
“Then it’s too bad my breasts can’t speak. Hush now!” she said. “We’re almost close enough he’ll hear us.”
Though she tried to hide it, the idea that she’d captured Marcus’ attention made Lydia’s rebellious pulse quicken. He had shattered her hopes and broken her heart with callous indifference, yet she realized with dismay that the cad still affected her.
She’d fantasized about this meeting for weeks and how she would greet him with practiced hauteur, but now that the actual moment had arrived, her heart rose to her throat.
Marcus met them at the bottom of the stairs, with a courtly show of leg and a flourishing bow. Rising, he looked from Lydia to Mariah with a slight frown wrinkling his brow.
Reading his perplexity, Lydia halted. “Lud,” she breathed between lips frozen in a smile.
Mariah nudged her ribs with a bony elbow. “What is it, Lyddie?”
“He doesn’t even know me.”
“You can’t mean it!” Mariah said.
“It’s true,” she hissed. “Just note the marks of his uncertainty—the subtle arch of his brow, the twitch in his jaw, and how his gaze tracks back and forth between us.”
A Breach of Promise Page 3