by Darcy Burke
Mrs. Lloyd-Jones tipped her head to the side. “Mr. Locke? I thought you’d set your cap for Mr. Goodwin.”
Lydia worked to keep the conversation on its necessary path. “It’s difficult not to be interested in a charming gentleman who asks you to dance. But surely you must agree Mr. Locke is rather dashing. One only wonders where he’s been hiding.”
“Mr. Locke is quite handsome and terribly charming.” Lady Trevett leaned forward, her eyes intent. “How is it Lady Margaret knows he is Lord Lockwood’s son?” She quickly added, “I’m not questioning the veracity, of course. Everyone knows your aunt only speaks the truth.” Lady Trevett was smart enough to know not to cast even a smidgeon of doubt against one of Society’s most feared matrons.
Lydia cast a quick glance at Mrs. Lloyd-Jones. As a friend of Lady Lockwood’s she could likely vouch for Aunt Margaret’s declaration. However, when she said nothing, Lydia gave the answer she’d rehearsed. “My dear aunt could never reveal her source in this intimate matter, but she was familiar with the Lockwood family.”
Settling back, Lady Trevett tapped her finger against her lip. “Ah, yes, I seem to recall . . . ”
Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s butler appeared in the doorway. “Lord Lockwood, my lady.”
Every head turned at once, and the resulting gasps were audible.
Lydia had reached for her cup, but was glad she hadn’t picked it up. She likely would have dropped it. The sound of breaking china echoed her thoughts and drew everyone’s attention to Miss Vining, who stared open-mouthed at the door, her teacup in pieces at her feet. Suddenly Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s suppressed smile made sense—she’d known his arrival was imminent.
Lord Lockwood’s intimidating figure filled the doorway. Lydia’s heart hammered as she looked up at him. He was, without question, the most broad-shouldered man she’d ever seen. And quite tall, with dark hair, and of course that vicious scar running down the left side of his face.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” His deep tone filled the drawing room as he stepped over the threshold. He offered a serene smile, which drew her to stare at his scar again. Did it pain him? How had it happened? Did he hate it very much?
Lydia shook herself from her fancy and caught sight of Lady Trevett’s horrified expression. Goodness, couldn’t the woman rein in her reaction? He wasn’t ghastly to behold. Oh, but perhaps that wasn’t the cause of her distress. It was simply his scandalous presence.
Mrs. Lloyd-Jones stood abruptly. She grinned and because Lydia knew her, she knew the welcoming expression was genuine—just as everyone else’s shock was equally real. “My dear boy, do come in. I’m honored by your attendance. Indeed, I shall be the envy of every woman in Town.” She gestured to the lot of them seated about the room. “All of us will be.
“Lord Lockwood,” she said with a knowing smile, “I believe you’ve already met my dear friend Lady Lydia Prewitt.”
He moved slowly closer, and the advance seemed somehow predatory. She attributed such nonsense to his size and ignored the way the drawing room suddenly felt quite small. And warm. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lady Lydia.” He bowed and Lydia wished she’d offered her hand. What would it feel like to have a man such as him touch her? He was vice and scandal incarnate. Delicious. Oh confound it, there was that word again!
She smoothed her skirt as if she could gentle the thudding of her heart. “The pleasure is mine, my lord.”
“Would you care for tea?” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones asked as she sank back down onto the settee.
“Yes, thank you. No cream, and just a bit of sugar.” He looked around at the shocked faces of the other women. “I hope it’s all right I’ve invaded your drawing room.” He turned his attention to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones.
Mrs. Lloyd-Jones poured his tea and stirred in a trifle of sugar. “You are more than welcome. Please, sit.” She gestured to the rather feminine-looking, pale yellow-cushioned gilt chair situated very near Lydia.
He lowered himself to the edge of the seat, looking as if he feared he would break the piece. Perhaps he would. He was huge. Wild. Unlike any other gentleman Lydia had ever met. But then he wasn’t a gentleman, even if he had given evidence to the contrary—holding gates open for her and her maid, bowing elegantly before her.
Mrs. Lloyd-Jones finished with the tea. “Lydia, be a dear and give Lord Lockwood his teacup.”
Lydia picked up the cup and saucer and transferred them to Lord Lockwood. His fingers brushed against hers. Though they were both gloved, her imagination threatened to run away with itself from the slight contact—had he intended to touch her?
“Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s blend is excellent.” Lydia mentally chastised herself for the inane comment. Lockwood likely didn’t give a fig about tea!
Lord Lockwood’s gaze was intent, and when it was combined with that ferocious scar, he looked utterly imposing, like some warrior of old. Thankfully, he shifted his heady regard to their hostess. “I must apologize that it’s taken me so long to accept your kind invitation.”
“Not at all, my dear. Though, forgive me for saying, your presence is most remarkable,” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones said.
Miss Vining gasped again, and Lydia didn’t suppose it was due to the footman who was cleaning up the mess of her broken teacup. Mrs. Lloyd-Jones threw her sister an exasperated glance. “Bridget, pull yourself together. We’re being visited by Lord Lockwood, not Lucifer.”
Lord Lockwood cradled his teacup in his massive hands, making him seem even more masculine, if that were possible. “I’m certain there are those—perhaps even in this room—who would argue there is no distinction.” He lowered his voice and gave Mrs. Lloyd-Jones and Lydia a provocative stare. “And I wouldn’t blame them.”
Since Mrs. Lloyd-Jones had seen fit to address his attendance, Lydia saw no reason not to pursue the topic. “Why have you come today, Lord Lockwood? Is your presence here anything to do with the arrival of Mr. Locke in town?” Her heart fluttered as she waited for his response. Was it possible to offend a man who likened himself to Satan?
He returned her interest with a frank perusal. Lydia’s flesh heated, but she blamed it on the boldness of her query.
“I’ve yet to make the acquaintance of Mr. Locke,” he said. “Perhaps you can introduce me?” He sipped his tea while his eyes continued to bore into hers.
“This is hardly a suitable conversation,” Mrs. Yarrow said, giving Lydia an insistent glare. Perhaps it wasn’t polite to question a man about his rumored bastard half brother, but it wasn’t as if they all weren’t curious!
“It’s quite all right,” Lord Lockwood said, casting a knowing glance about the circle of ladies. “I’m aware of the rumors regarding Mr. Locke and myself.”
Mrs. Yarrow’s eyes widened and she blinked rapidly as her cheeks colored.
Lydia could feel the tension swirling about the room. Every single woman there wanted to ask him if Mr. Locke was indeed his bastard brother. Every woman but Lydia. She knew the truth, and not because Aunt Margaret had declared it. She knew it because Lord Lockwood’s eyes told her so.
“How is your mother?” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones asked, effectively dissipating the current of anxiety. “Her last letter said you were visiting.”
He busied himself with his teacup, keeping his eyes averted from everyone. “She’s well, thank you.” He looked up again and though he didn’t reveal the slightest bit of discomfort, Lydia had the sense his mother wasn’t as well as he claimed.
Mrs. Lloyd-Jones smiled with genuine warmth. Clearly she was an intimate friend of Lady Lockwood’s, just as Aunt Margaret had said. “I look forward to when she returns to town. She mentioned that would be soon.”
Lord Lockwood took another sip of tea. “Perhaps.”
Lady Trevett set her teacup down with a clatter. “Well, I’m afraid I must go.” She stood, smoothing the folds of her skirt with a flick of her wrist.
Lord Lockwood got to his feet. “I hope I haven’t driven you away.”
Lady Trevett pursed her lips
and said nothing for a moment, as if she were trying to determine the best course of action. At length she turned to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones. “As always, thank you for tea.” Then she looked—quite expectantly, as if she were trying to communicate with her eyes—to Lydia. “I’d be happy to drop you at home, dear.”
There was no way Lydia was going to miss the opportunity to speak with Lord Lockwood. She tipped her head to the side and offered her a warm, grateful smile. “I appreciate your solicitude, Lady Trevett, but I do believe I’ll stay a bit longer.”
Lady Trevett’s eyes widened briefly and then she moved closer to Lydia. “You mustn’t stay,” she hissed quietly. “To be in Lord Lockwood’s presence could be detrimental to your reputation!”
Mrs. Lloyd-Jones was near enough to hear what she said. “Nonsense. We’re having tea, and you can see that nothing untoward has occurred.”
Lady Trevett pursed her lips and appeared at least somewhat chastened. “Indeed. Well, good afternoon.” She inclined her head to all of the ladies. When her gaze met Lord Lockwood’s, she blinked, gave a small nod, and scurried from the room.
When no one spoke, Miss Vining stood. “Please excuse me, I’m feeling a bit fatigued.” She did look pale, but Lydia supposed it was due to Lord Lockwood’s scandalous presence as opposed to being tired.
Mrs. Lloyd-Jones gave a tiny sigh, audible only to Lydia since she was seated next to her. “Shall I have dinner brought up later?”
“No, I’m sure I’ll recover by then.” She offered a wan smile and quit the drawing room.
With two of their number fleeing Lockwood’s presence, an awkward silence seemed to settle over the room. Never one to allow such social discomforts, Lydia made her move.
She leaned slightly toward their scandalous guest. “Lord Lockwood, would you care to take a stroll in Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s garden?” It was a terribly forward invitation, particularly given his notoriety and Aunt Margaret’s admonishment that she avoid him like the Black Plague, but she simply couldn’t resist the temptation to flirt with him again.
He turned his head, giving her a better view of the scar that ruined the left side of his face. And it did ruin it—she could see he’d been a devastatingly handsome man before. In profile, when she could see just his right side, his features were very attractively arranged: a rugged chin, a full, yet masculine lower lip, strong cheekbones, and those storm-cloud eyes with those impossibly long lashes.
His lips twisted into an ironic smile. “Aren’t you a bold little thing?”
“It’s a character flaw, I’m afraid.”
“On the contrary. I prefer it to mincing. Yes, let us take a turn.” He stood. “Mrs. Lloyd-Jones, I’m going to escort Lady Lydia about the garden for a few minutes. Do you still keep a collection of yellow roses?”
Mrs. Lloyd-Jones beamed. “You remember! I still have the one your parents gave to me when my youngest was born.”
Lord Lockwood’s answering nod was a trifle stiff. He held his hand out for Lydia. “Shall we?”
Lydia allowed him to help her up from the settee. His gloved hand was warm, solid. She imagined the rest of him was equally so and didn’t chide herself for thinking it. But then she never scolded herself about such things. She got enough scolding from Aunt Margaret.
As he guided her through the drawing room, Lydia felt every pair of eyes follow their progress. Likely they would all discuss this interesting turn as soon as they exited the building. A footman held the door for them and they stepped out onto the bricked veranda.
Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s garden was compact, but well appointed. The rose garden was situated in the back right corner. Lord Lockwood took her arm—with his right one, was it to keep his “good side” toward her?—and led her down the stairs and along the path. The day was a bit cool, and Lydia briefly wondered if she ought to have taken her shawl. However, the heat of his touch seemed to infuse her, and she decided she didn’t need it.
He looked down at her and their gazes connected. “I don’t remember the last time I escorted a young lady for a stroll.”
“I don’t remember the last time ‘Lucifer’ was my escort.”
He laughed. “Bold and cheeky, but then I already knew that from the other day.”
She felt remarkably at ease with this social pariah. Again, she wondered how he could be the mad, violent man Aunt Margaret painted him as. “One could also call you bold. Coming here, I mean. You indicated we likely wouldn’t meet again, and yet here you are.”
“Clearly the thought of seeing you has drawn me out.”
Apparently there would be flirting. Lydia tried not to appear as thrilled as she felt. “I find that a bit hard to believe. You haven’t shown your face in Society in at least six years, and now you’ve done it twice this week.”
He glanced at her and she noticed he was still careful to keep his scarred side averted. “Longer than that, actually. Why did you settle on six?”
“Because that’s how long I’ve been out and we’ve never met. Until yesterday.”
They’d reached the rose garden. A few shrubs still sported a bloom or three, but most were heading toward dormancy for the winter months. She left his arm and went to sniff a butter-yellow bud with pale pink edges. When she looked up, she found him staring at her intently. Oh, he was scandalous all right.
Her pulse quickened. His interest meant she could perhaps get what she wanted. “You said you hadn’t made Mr. Locke’s acquaintance, but surely you’ve met your own brother.”
His eyes narrowed. He walked toward her, stopping just two feet away. Not terribly close, but not that far either. Her heart continued to pound. Surely because she was being obnoxiously nosy. She refused to credit any other reason—she certainly wasn’t afraid of him, no matter how intimidating his size or scarred features might be.
“Why are you so certain he’s my brother? I’ve not confirmed it. And I’m not lying when I say I haven’t met Mr. ‘Locke.’”
“You don’t have to confirm it. You mask your emotion well, but I’ve made a habit of studying people.” Thanks to Aunt Margaret. “Your eyes give a very slight twitch when he’s mentioned.”
The left corner of his mouth ticked up, pleating his scar. “How . . . observant. If I’m not careful, you’re going to pry all of my secrets from me, aren’t you?”
The way he asked the question, in that dark, provocative voice, sent frissons of excitement all the way to her toes. She suddenly wanted to know all of his secrets, and not because she wanted to share even one of them. “Will you at least tell me why you came today? You’ve spent so many years as a recluse.”
“Would you believe I came here hoping to see you?”
Lydia could only stare at him as her entire body warmed. He’d left Lockwood House for her? She let out a shaky laugh. “You’re bamming me.”
His gaze was appreciative but held the slightest hint of challenge. “Given your superior powers of observation, surely you can determine whether I am or not.” He gave a little shrug. “Perhaps I simply tired of my own company.”
Now that she knew was untrue. “I don’t believe for a moment you’re tired of any company. You entertain plenty.” Her pulse skipped—had she really just referred to his scandalous vice parties in the light of day in the middle of what should have been an extremely decorous and polite tea?
His lips curved up in a slight smile. “You caught me in a lie, how unsporting of you.”
With every line they traded, she felt giddy, and had to keep herself from grinning. “I could argue it’s unsporting of you to lie in the first place.”
His smile broadened, and her legs grew weak. When was the last time someone had flirted with her like this? Never, ever.
“Well, it’s not as if it’s appropriate for me to discuss the entertainments I host at Lockwood House with a young lady such as yourself. But tell me, what have you heard?” He stared at her in open inquisition, almost daring her to answer. Who could out-scandalize the other?
Lydia refused
to cower beneath the mantle of propriety, not when she’d probably never get another chance to be alone with Lockwood. She moved infinitesimally closer. “Your parties are for a gentleman’s enjoyment. You provide lavish food and drink, deep gaming tables, and women. Lots of women.” She could only imagine what actually occurred, but this was the general understanding of his parties, with an emphasis on the women.
He also inched forward, closing the distance between them to a mere, disreputable foot. “You have the basic gist. I’d invite you to come see for yourself, but I’m afraid I don’t extend invitations to ladies.”
He slowly perused her form as if he were verifying that she was in fact a lady. Her skin heated, and the day suddenly turned balmy. Lockwood was not the typical gentleman she encountered—but there she’d done it again. He was no gentleman.
He abruptly turned and offered her his right arm. “We should return. It’s shocking enough that you asked me for a stroll. We mustn’t do anything further to damage your reputation.”
Disappointment settled over her like a cold, spring rain. She took his arm, realizing their flirtation was over—at least for now. Instead, she tried to do what Aunt Margaret wanted her to and asked, “What will you do when you encounter Mr. Locke?”
“Why, I shall thank him,” he turned his head to the side and brushed a long, masculine finger down the edge of his scar, “for giving me this.”
His own brother had scarred him? There was a frigid edge to his tone, but it was natural that he harbor ill-will toward the person who’d disfigured him. He likely hated his half brother, and it seemed with good reason. Lydia found she hated him too in that moment—which was completely illogical given she’d never even made his acquaintance.
They were very near the house now. “I imagine you must want to exact some measure of revenge,” she said.
He walked her up to the bricked veranda and then speared her with a heated look. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”