A Lady Like No Other

by Claudia Stone

  “Have you ever seen a beast as petrifying Lady Lydia?” Hogarth asked nervously, aware that his prey had lost interest. “Have you ever looked a terrifying creature in the eye like I have?”

  Gabriel watched curiously as Lydia’s face took on a faraway look and her violet eyes turned troubled.

  “I once saw a wolf,” she said softly, so softly that Gabriel had to strain to hear her. “When I was a child in Connemara. It was so beautiful, too beautiful to be terrifying.”

  One of the men in the group gave a snort of derision as she trailed off, lost, it seemed, in thought.

  “There are no wolves anywhere in this great kingdom,” the young man said, none too discreetly rolling his eyes at Lydia’s story. “They were hunted out years ago, even in that God-awful backwater you grew call home.”

  Gabriel felt his palm itch, as it longed to form itself into a fist to punch the obnoxious young buck square in the jaw, but surprisingly Hogarth came to his rescue.

  “I believe you Lady Lydia,” the ruddy faced Hogarth said chivalrously to the object of his affections, spittle flecking his chin as he spoke. “If I saw that wolf again, I would shoot it dead right there on the spot, just like I shot my stag. Then I would give you its head as a prize.”

  Gabriel refrained from laughing, he rather thought that Hogarth had missed the tone of Lydia’s story, but then again most young men missed the point where Lydia was concerned.

  “I wasn’t aware that you were fond of men who hunt Lady Beaufort,” Gabriel interjected smoothly. Tired of being only a witness to the games he slid to stand beside her whilst nodding cheerfully to the young men who circled her. The crowd of young bloods viewed his entrance glumly. More competition.

  “I’m not,” Lydia responded flatly, oblivious to Hogarth’s crestfallen face as his heroic tale was easily dismissed and his position usurped by a man with a much higher rank than him.

  “Well, do tell, because I’m sure all your young suitors are dying to know,” Gabriel continued mischievously, tremendously enjoying partaking in Lydia’s favourite hobby of suitor bashing. “How do you like your men?”

  “I like my men like I like my coffee, my Lord,” Lydia responded gamely, her eyes now twinkling happily as she linked her arm through his; “Ground up and served in boiling water for my breakfast. Could you please escort me back to my Aunt? I find all this talk of beheading animals most tiring.”

  With an airy wave to a much-chastened Hogarth and co., Lydia allowed the Marquess to lead her along the periphery of the ballroom, her shoulders shaking with mirth.

  “Thank you, Lucifer,” she said, once they had gained a safe distance from Hogarth and his friends. “For saving me from the dregs of society, I fail to understand how men have acquired all the world’s power, when nine tenths of them appear to be idiots.”

  “Well, the other tenth of us possess a far superior intellect,” Gabriel said with a show of false modesty that he knew would annoy her. “Not to mention that we’re tall, strong, handsome…”

  Just as he knew she would, Lydia rolled her eyes at his teasing.

  “Your verbosity my Lord,” she said dryly, her eyes narrowing, “Has only ever been exceeded by your idiocy, and we both know that that’s no small feat.”

  Gabriel chuckled appreciatively at her words, which though sharp were spoken with warmth. Lady Beaufort was the only woman, bar his sister, with enough disdain for his title to tease him, and when she was in light-hearted spirits he found her prickly humour endearing.

  “Touché,” he said with a gallant smile, “I shall either have to work on being less idiotic or less long winded. Common sense says that if I stopped talking, people would think me less of an idiot, but as the saying goes about common sense; it’s not that common.”

  She smiled at his words, for they both knew that very few people thought him an idiot – and even if they did, none would dare to tell him to his face. The Marquess was quick with a pistol, when the occasion to be so arose. Together they paused at the edge of the crowd, and as Gabriel watched Lydia watching the glittering Lords and Ladies mingle, he felt like he could read her thoughts. Every emotion and quirk of her lips as she glanced this way and that was recognizable to him because, he realized with a start, he knew her better than he had ever known any woman. And still he liked her. Usually Gabriel became bored after a certain amount of time spent with the same woman. The lightskirts of the demimonde, the beautiful young widows, the actresses and opera singers - all the women he had shared a bed with - had never held the appeal that Lydia had. He knew her completely, and still he wanted more.

  “Would you care to dance?”

  Gabriel could not say where the reckless urge to ask Lydia if he could hold her in his arms came from. Perhaps it was the warmth of the summer night, or the melancholy softness that still lingered in her eyes, but seemingly like a bolt from the blue, the only thing the Marquess desired was to dance with his friend. An urge that left him with an overwhelming sense of vulnerability. He did not often wear his heart on his sleeve, and Lydia was like a nervous horse, ready to bolt at any provocation. Not that he was comparing her to a farm animal, of course, but for months he had fought - nay wrestled - with his attraction to her. Afraid that by revealing it, he would cross some invisible line that she had drawn, and that the bit of Lydia’s affection that he did hold, would be lost to him forever.

  “I don’t ever care to dance, Lord Sutherland, you know that,” Lydia replied nervously avoiding his eye; everybody knew that she never stood up at a ball and she had declined the Marquess’ request before. The only two men that she never refused were her cousins, the Duke of Blackmore, and his brother Edward, and even then, it was painfully clear that she only danced out of duress and familial obligation.

  “Of course, you don’t” Gabriel replied smoothly, hoping that the strange stab of disappointment which he felt at her refusal was not showing on his face. “It slipped my mind that you pride yourself on being the most disagreeable creature in all of London.”

  “More disagreeable than Hogarth’s stag?” Lydia asked lightly, her expression unusually nervous for a woman who was always so cool and collected.

  “Yes, but don’t say that to Hogarth or you might find yourself shot dead, with your head mounted as a prize upon his wall,” Gabe replied quickly, linking his arm back through hers and leading her to where the Dowager Duchess was seated. “And though I find you thoroughly disagreeable, I much prefer you with your head attached to your neck.”

  Lydia gave a weak laugh, apparently as aware as he of the change of atmosphere between them, and that his words, though teasing, were forced and barely concealed his wounded pride. She took out the small, silver-cased portrait of Byron that she kept in her reticule and glanced at it, apparently for courage, for when she closed it she was able to look him in the eye again. Gabriel deposited Lydia chivalrously into the care of her aunt, all the while thinking that he would like to smash the portrait of the pompous poet who held her heart, before bowing and making a quick exit, lest his glum humour was noted.

  The sky which had still been light when he arrived was now dark, and he walked slowly, unable to think of a tune to hum. As he walked he regretted the impulse to ask Lydia to dance with him, he had clearly stepped over that invisible line that she had drawn in her mind. It hurt all the more, because after asking, the Marquess had realized that there were a lot more things he wished to do with Lady Lydia Beaufort, besides dancing. But like the wolf in her tale she was too wild and beautiful to be made do anything she did not desire. A thought that made him most melancholy. Most melancholy indeed.

  Chapter Two

  Lydia arrived back to the Mayfair home that she shared with her Aunt, at a few minutes past three in the afternoon. Her beleaguered maid Marguerite was in tow, and as usual the French girl was complaining loudly about the torture she suffered at Lydia’s hands. They had spent nearly five hours of the morning traipsing through the Green Park, ostensibly so that Lydia could practice her s
ketching - which was woeful - but, so that the Lady Beaufort would not be at home if anyone came to call.

  “Ohh,” Marguerite huffed, kicking off her slippers and staring at her feet in annoyance. “My lady ees so very cruel to make me walk for such a long time. And all so she could paint some k-uhs.”

  The Green Park, unlike the splendid Hyde Park was - once one passed the lake - merely a few fields crossed with paths for walking. Deer ran wild and cattle grazed happily in the long grass, and it was as close an experience to the countryside as London could offer. Unfortunately, the Parisian born and bred Marguerite detested the countryside, nature, and cows. Or k-uhs as she so charmingly called them. The ladies had been forced to abandon their artistic endeavours when a red and white Hereford beast had taken a fancy to the flowers that trimmed Marguerite’s bonnet and the maid had fled shrieking. Much grumbling had taken place on the short walk home, and in truth Lydia was glad to be rid of her maid’s company. Five hours with Marguerite was five hours too many.

  This thought soon changed when she glanced at the silver tray in the entrance hall, which held the cards of all who had called that morning. At the very top of the pile was the familiar, simple calling card of the Marquess of Sutherland. Lydia’s stomach twisted with a feeling she could not identify, as she read Gabriel’s name. Coupled with this was the guilt that her friend might think she had not been “at home” to him when he called; which in societal terms was the polite way of saying “bugger off”. She cast aside her guilt however thinking that, the next time she saw him she would simply regale him with tales of Marguerite’s encounter with the bloodthirsty cow, to show that she had not deliberately snubbed him.

  But what then? Her conscience nagged her scathingly. She could not simply forever drag Marguerite around London every morning, simply so she could avoid any awkward situations with the Marquess, such as last night’s fiasco in Almack’s. The Marquess had left abruptly, his wounded pride most apparent. The memory of Gabriel’s tawny eyes watching her with affection as he asked her to dance left Lydia feeling…she did not know what.

  Nervous?

  Most certainly. But there was something else, a strange longing that she had not realized existed within her, until she had met the Marquess, and which had threatened to smoother her last night when he asked her to dance. Her heart had beat a wild tattoo within her chest, and a voice inside had urged her to say yes, but what then? What if they danced together and everything changed?

  The Marquess had become Lydia’s fastest friend, her greatest confidant and the only man who had the temerity to see past her prickly exterior. She didn’t even mind when he teased her mercilessly. Only a week ago, he had declared the embroidered handkerchief she was working on, as being an artistic representation of the Battle of Waterloo.

  “It’s actually a present for you,” she had reflected sadly, looking down at the blood-stained cloth. Like painting, sketching, and dancing, embroidery was one of the feminine arts that she had never learned as a child. And in a fit of affection for the Marquess she had decided to learn the skill, so she could give Sutherland a birthday present that was a bit more personal than a box of cheroots - which had been her original plan.

  “For me?” the Marquess had looked ridiculously pleased, “You put blood, sweat and tears into making a present for me?”

  “Well, just blood, actually,” Lydia had replied mournfully, holding up the white cloth, which was covered in crimson patches where she had bled on it, for Gabriel’s inspection. The tips of her fingers were red-raw from having pricked them repeatedly with the needle, and the actual letters she had stitched in were barely legible.

  The Marquess had snatched the piece from her hands, to closer inspect her craftsmanship.

  “Gibel,” he’d read aloud, wiping a pretend tear from his eye. “I shall treasure it forever.”

  “Really?” Lydia had asked, trying to hide her childish delight.

  “Yes,” Gabriel replied, solemn as if he was taking an oath. “Though after I’ve given it a good wash first. We’re not big into the occult in St. James’ Square, unlike you heathens here in Mayfair.”

  Lydia heaved a sigh, as she recalled the morning, and the gentle teasing that had passed between them. Since then, the Marquess had behaved differently with her, as though she were made of glass. She thought perhaps that her present had been too personal, and that she had given Gabriel the wrong idea. An idea she herself had entertained, late at night, but quickly dismissed.

  Not that she didn’t think he was handsome. He was extremely attractive. Tall, and boisterous with it, he had a boyish charm that occasionally left her breathless and a little bit giddy. When she compared him to the other men of the ton, or even her neighbour Lady Sotheby’s endless parade of beautifully calved footmen, Gabriel always came out on top.

  And now I have pushed him away, the mournful though invaded her mind, leaving her standing there, anxiously tearing at the corners of the Marquess’ calling card.

  Stop that, she chided herself after a few minutes of fretting, in which the little paper card ended up torn into tiny pieces in her hand. If life had taught her anything it was that nothing was ever as bad as she imagined in her head; one of the pitfalls of having an overactive imagination was that she always convincing herself that the worst was about to occur. And it never did.

  So what if she had refused the Marquess a dance, she had done that before. And the irritating scoundrel was too self-assured to think that she had been deliberately avoiding him. Women were forever throwing themselves in his path - the idea that a lady would go out of her way to avoid him had probably never entered his swollen head. Much cheered by this thought, Lydia picked out the card beneath Sutherland’s and gave a smile of delight as she read the name upon it.

  Mrs. Aurelia Black.

  Aurelia was the second - of only two - friends, that Lydia had made during her stay in London, and she had been staying in Surrey since her marriage to Lydia’s half cousin, Sebastian Black. A small note lay under Mrs. Black’s card, written in perfectly neat handwriting, because everything that Aurelia did was perfect and neat.

  Lydia,

  I am sorry to have missed you today. Sebastian and I will be attending the Nugent’s rout this evening, I hope to see you there, so that we may catch up on all that has happened since the wedding.

  I miss you so, and cannot wait to see you.

  Love,

  Aurelia

  Lydia frowned as she finished reading the short missive. She had envisaged other plans for the evening, plans that she knew the very proper Aurelia would be horrified by, if she but knew. The pull of seeing her friend was stronger than her other needs, however, and Lydia quickly made up her mind to attend the Nugent’s rout.

  “Marguerite?” Lydia ventured nervously, uncertain of the reaction she would receive. Before moving to London, she had never had a lady’s maid, and after four years of dealing with the volatile French girl, she was still not sure exactly why they were considered a necessity. Marguerite carried out every task Lydia asked of her with the air of a suffering martyr, and when she decided that something was beneath her attentions, she became suddenly afflicted with one of her many migraines. It was not unheard of for Marguerite to suffer from five migraines in any given afternoon.

  “Oui?” Marguerite, who was seated on the bottom step of the grand staircase massaging her stockinged foot, cast Lydia a look of displeasure at having been distracted from her own needs.

  “I’m afraid I’ve changed my plans for the evening and I’ll need a dress suitable for a rout.”

  “As you wish mademoiselle,” Marguerite said darkly, with a look that suggested she herself was wishing terrible things upon her mistress. The French girl picked up her slippers and flounced up the stairs, muttering a string of expletives in her native language as she went, which made Lydia smile. Marguerite might be more temperamental than even a princess had a right to be, but it was hard not to feel affection for a person who could out-swear a sail
or. The sound of a door slamming - another of Marguerite’s favourite methods of communication - brought Lydia back to reality. She chewed her lip nervously at the thought of the plans that she had abandoned in favour of seeing Aurelia.

  Carmen, the Gypsy fortune teller who read cards and palms in a small, dingy room off Covent Garden, was probably expecting her to arrive after tea-time, as she usually did every Thursday evening. The mysterious old woman held for Lydia a morbid fascination that she could not shake. Despite feeling wretched after every visit, Lydia kept returning to the old woman’s lair; lured by the promises that Carmen gave about what she would reveal at their next meeting. Carmen had hinted that she could talk to the dead, and at every meeting she whispered to Lydia that there were spirits who wanted to communicate with her. It both thrilled and terrified Lydia, this thought that maybe she could speak with her mother and her sisters.

  The old witch would probably be livid if she didn’t show up at her usual time.

  Though if Carmen could actually tell the future she’d know not to expect you, a voice in Lydia’s head taunted, but she ignored it. She took the small portrait that she kept in her reticule and glanced at it longingly, thinking that she would pay Carmen a call in the morning, and pay her double for any inconvenience caused.

  Chapter Three

  “Marriage suits you old man,” Gabriel said with a smile as he greeted his best friend since the age of eleven, Sebastian.

  Sebastian Black, the bastard half-brother of the Duke of Blackmore grinned back, his happiness evident for all to see. A grin of contentment was permanently in place upon his handsome face, lending lightness to his usual dark, brooding appearance. At his side was his wife Aurelia, who had briefly lived in Sutherland House as his sister Caro’s companion. Like her husband, Aurelia seemed fit to burst with happiness, and if it had been anyone else bar the Blacks, Gabriel was certain that he would have cast up his accounts at such a blatant display of marital bliss.