“He’s not coming,” Mary had said, reading her face.
“He is left for the country,” Lydia said dully. “As he said he would be.” She tossed the envelope back onto the tray; she did not want to keep such news for a keepsake, and his signature did not arouse her the way his touch did. Her attraction to Sutton was entirely limited to the way his physical presence aroused her, she knew. There would be no love letters stashed away in her linen drawer in this marriage.
If a marriage even happened. He could not stay an extra day, even, for her? After all that had gone on between them, the fiery looks they had exchanged, the promises he had spoken, the promiscuity he had encouraged, allowing her to press her body against his in the public paths of Hyde Park, the curricle bouncing them together while her skin tingled and her body sang — he could not stay an extra day to finish what he had started?
“Gone to look at a horse,” Mary said, shaking her head. “What a devil.”
“When will men stop with their wretched horses?” Lydia snapped, waving the startled footman away. “I am sick to death of watching them worry about hooves and fetlocks and whatever else goes wrong with horses. The beasts get us from one place to another. I cannot see what else recommends them. And yet every man in this town prefers horses to courtship.”
“You were eager enough to go to Tivington and learn to ride,” Mary commented acidly. “When that poor Fawkes boy was in your sights.”
Lydia looked up, eyes feverishly bright. Yes, Mr. Fawkes would be there, and that would be terribly awkward — but this was her chance. All she needed was a few more days to gain a proposal, and then this exhausting lifestyle would be over. She would be free — as free as any married woman could hope to be. And Lord Sutton wasn’t the only one with an invitation to the Archwood’s country home. “Tivington, Mary! I shall tell Mama at once — she will have to let me go now.” And Lydia had raced from the room, all shimmering blue silk and excitement, to knock at her mother’s dressing-room door and wait meekly to be told she could enter.
But Lady Katherine was not at all impressed. She listened, a lofty expression on her face that said she was not pleased with her daughters’ inability to secure a proposal, despite the fact that she and the gentleman had only been acquainted for a few days. “I shall have to think about it,” she declared when Lydia was finished pouring out her proposal to be sent to Tivington at once. “Sutton has shown himself to be very flighty by not visiting for two days, after that performance at Lady Hastings’ and two drives in a row. He gave every indication of a man ready to press his suit and then did not. And I do not want you buried in the country with a man who will not make up his mind when you could be here charming the next one in line.”
Lydia thought of going through the efforts of capturing another willing, and eligible, bachelor and nearly groaned aloud. Sutton had been so easy — she’d had to do nothing but encourage his suit. None of the giggling and gazing across the room and wheedling with chaperones for introductions… he had simply appeared at her side and gave every impression of a man who had already made up his mind.
Most other gentlemen were not so bold, or in such a rush to be wed. They had to be charmed, enchanted, strung along, artfully managed. It was tiresome play-acting, pretending to be fascinated by a man she did not care whit for, and she had not the heart for it. And what if they did not make her feel the way Sutton did? It was needless to mention that she wasn’t going to fall in love with anyone. At least with Sutton, her entire body seemed to hum in his presence. It seemed doubtful she’d be so lucky with the next one in the queue.
And so here she was at Lady Morven’s, creamy skin glowing in the golden light of a thousand thousand candles, looking the aforementioned very best, and not one pair of eyes was trained upon her. No one came up to speak with her. Her old friends were about their old ways, bunched up in brilliantly colored groups of skirts and fans and feathers, giggling and whispering and glancing around the vast room with eyes ready for scandal, but no one invited her to join them.
She knew why. It was because she was alone now. For four days Society had been looking her way again. Lord Sutton had been drawn away from the enchanting Miss Brixton by Miss Dean, after all. And then proceeded to take her driving in the park twice in two days. Was Miss Dean more interesting than they had given her credit for? Had she recovered from whatever sulks she had been taking for the past few months? Eyebrows were raised. Interest was piqued. Miss Dean was once again a topic of lively discussion. Who knew — she might be the next Lady Sutton, and everyone knew that the Sutton ball-room had the most divine dance-floor in London.
But now, alone, without a proposal and with the gentleman in question disappeared to the country months before anyone else would even think of leaving, the gossip was taking a different turn. Lord Sutton had been speaking very intimately to Miss Brixton — what had that naughty Miss Dean done to drag him away and fascinate him so? Whatever had happened, he had got out before it was too late. The little minx had been sinking her claws into him, and he’d been forced to run away to the country to get away from her wiles.
That was what they were thinking. Lydia had no doubts. He had gone away and left her a pariah, just as she had feared. And so now, however improbably she might have thought it just a few days ago, things were actually worse than before she had met him.
She made her way through the maze of potted palms, of orange trees, of towering, frightening orchids, looking for someone to talk to, anyone to talk to, and when she saw the towering upsweep of Jane Holbrook, one of her old friends from before the “disappointment,”, she decided to straighten her shoulders and go join Jane’s little circle of girlfriends. It was disappointing, but it was time to set back into the whirlwind. If Lord Sutton wasn’t going to make it easy for her, then she was just going to have to make the best of things.
She stepped up to Jane and tapped her on the shoulder with her fan. “Jane, how are you tonight?”
The hushed conversation stopped suddenly. Jane spun around, face reddening, and Lydia realized with a sinking feeling, surveying the faces of the ladies with Jane, that they had been talking about her.
Lydia flushed too, and for a moment the once-friends all looked at one another with frank embarrassment. Then Lydia decided that if she was already the subject of gossip, she really had nothing to lose.
“Lord Sutton, eh?” She snapped her fan and held it up to her cheek, as if to shield the rest of the ballroom from her words. “He sent me a note, you know,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I wasn’t precisely dropped, whatever you might have heard.”
Jane pressed her lips together as if she had a sudden desire to laugh. Then they split into a great smile. “Oh, Lydia, I’ve missed you!” she burst out. “Whatever has been wrong? You’ve not had a word to say to any of us in three months!”
Lydia looked around at the clutch of girls, her own little circle of friends, now diminished by one or two since marriage had claimed them away: here was Sarah Parsons, here was Belle Adamson, here was Patricia White. They were all smiling at her, their embarrassment melting away as they realized she was ready to play their games of gossip and flirting once again. And, Lydia supposed, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Maybe she was ready for the life of a popular young heiress once again. It might be vapid and empty and filled with a thousand hypocrisies, but at least she’d have someone to talk to.
“I’m sorry, darlings,” she said chummily, edging into their little circle. “I wasn’t feeling quite the thing. I think I must have been more ill than anyone knew, and went quite beyond my strength. But I’m myself again now, so do tell me all the latest news!”
And twittering like magpies, the girls were off, sharing every bit of gossip they thought Lydia needed in order to be a well-informed young lady of Quality. Proposals, jiltings, stolen kisses — they went through the list of everything a girl could need to know. And if Lydia was the teensiest bit bored with it all, she didn’t let on. This was her life. T
his was the game she’d been born and raised to play, and she had to win it.
Finally the girls ran out of news and came back to her. “And tell us of Lord Sutton,” Sarah Parsons cooed. “Do not keep us in suspense a moment longer!”
“We hear he has spoken of marriage,” Patricia White giggled. She was a red-faced girl with redder hair, which was unfortunate. She had fifty thousand pounds a year, which made up for it. Her father had turned down two proposals this Season. People said he was waiting for a prince.
“Marriage! La, no. We have only been driving, you know. I barely know the man.” Lydia lied. He had mentioned marriage, of course, but then he sent word that he was going away from her for the rest of the Season. To look at a horse. Perhaps she had been boring. Perhaps he was no longer interested. “But I must admit he is most agreeable.”
“To look at, I’m sure!” Sarah slapped Lydia’s arm playfully. “Goodness, what difference could a man’s temper make when he looks like Sutton!”
“Do you think he is so handsome? I had not noticed,” Lydia smirked, even as she remarked to herself that she was only interested in Sutton when he was actively seeking out her interest — when he was close to her, when he stroked her hand. The mere thought of him was not enough to raise gooseflesh on her arms or set her heart to pounding; she needed his physical presence. “He is a bit of a bull of a man,” she said thoughtfully, picturing him (with a little difficulty) in her mind. “I fear he may grow fat when he is old.”
The girls squealed with laughter.
“How could you?” Belle looked genuinely surprised. They all did. “So tall — those broad shoulders in a blue coat — those eyes — that chin!” Everyone put their hands to their foreheads, as if to swoon. “He is quite the most handsome man in London. And that black hair tied back in a queue. Oh, Lydia, you’re a lucky girl. I’m green with envy.”
Now Lydia showed her surprise. “Do you not think he looks the least bit like a devil when he looks down at you from those black brows? I find him a little unsettling, truth be told. But of course, he is very sweet in character.”
Patricia White eyed Lydia askance. “The devil, Lydia? My dear, if you do not want him, please, give him to me. My father would accept an earl!”
“Your father turned down an earl already,” Sarah reminded her. “He married Vanessa Hart instead.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“Lydia, if you don’t think Sutton quite the most handsome man in Town, who do you fancy instead?”
Lydia shook her head. “I don’t think I fancy anyone. And I didn’t say I didn’t think Sutton handsome.” That was a little piece of gossip she didn’t need flying around town.
“But you don’t like his black hair,” Sarah observed. She was the most keen and calculating of the bunch, perhaps not as capable of betrayal as Alyssa had proven to be, but still the sort of person who heard everything and filed it away carefully. “What color do you wish his hair was?”
“I could not wish him any other way,” Lydia replied primly, and was promptly meant with boos of derision. “Fine! Fine! I wish his hair was…” she thought, and unbidden the image of Peregrin Fawke’s nut-brown locks, falling in waves to his collar, came to mind. A little tremor of longing shook her. “Brown,” she blurted, and then could not stop the blush that stole over her cheeks.
***
“I was happy to see you with your friends tonight,” Lady Katherine said. The carriage was rattling home, taking them back to Mayfair from Lady Morven’s distant park, and Lydia had been half-asleep, her head lolling against the plush squabs of the seat. Now she sat a bit more upright, ready to hear any motes of praise her mother might be willing to fling her.
“It was nice to speak with them again,” she said.
“I hope you will not miss them.”
“Miss them?”
“When you go to Tivington.”
Lydia sat bolt upright, her face draining of color in the dimly lit carriage. “Tivington!”
“I have spoken to your father —” she nudged Lord Richard as if she needed to identify him to Lydia, and the drowsy old gentleman mumbled and pushed her away. “I have spoken to your father,” she went on, ignoring his rudeness, “and he and I have agreed that you should be as much in the company of Lord Sutton as possible. We will let you go for one month, and if at the end of that time you have not secured a proposal, you shall come back to town and we shall set about securing you an invitation to a more lucrative household for the remainder of the summer.”
Lydia’s heart was hammering in her chest. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Tivington, and after tonight, after she had finally resigned herself to doing as her mother wished and rejoining the crowds of young ladies seeking husbands, after she had finally swallowed her distaste and reembarked upon the Marriage Mart, to be given her fondest wish of all — the one she had been told was completely out of the question! It was shocking — and it was gratifying. Perhaps, Lydia reflected rather pettishly, she should listen to her mother’s bidding more often. “Mama, this is really the most splendid news,” she said, but her tone was measure. Was it truly?
After all, she thought, watching the dark streets roll by, now she was going to find herself in a most uncomfortable position. Two men that she admired would be at Tivington: the one whose touch ignited her senses and whose fortune and title were nearly in her grasp, and the one whose ready smile and laughing brown eyes stirred her soul, but hadn’t a sou to his name. She would have to spend all of her time enchanting Sutton — and evading his touch, lest he trick her into something less honorable than bestowing his name — and all the while avoid Fawkes without causing offense, and without breaking her own heart.
She sighed a little, turning it into a yawn so that her mother would not ask her what was wrong. After all, there was nothing wrong. She had decided to play the game, after all. This was part of the game. She was just going to have to forget about Fawkes. He wasn’t a player.
Words that were easier said than done, of course.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Peregrin was cross.
The day had not started well; he was in a temper already which he could not quite place but which, if he was perfectly honest with himself, he had been nursing ever since Grainne had let slip at dinner night before that she had heard it on good authority that Lord Sutton was going to propose marriage to the Dean girl.
Then William had compounded things by saying that wasn’t possible, since Sutton was leaving with them in the morning for Tivington.
“What? Well that is most unusual,” Peregrin complained. “Why does he not wait a few weeks until the household is set up? That would be more the thing.”
“Oh, we do not stand on ceremony at the Abbey, you know that.” William had carelessly refilled his wine glass without waiting for a footman and leaned back in his chair. “The house will be in an uproar whether we have just arrived or not; you know what it is like with Grainne running the place.”
Grainne had smiled mischievously and inclined her head as if a queen accepting a compliment. Clearly, none of them saw any sort of problem with Lord Sutton’s imposition at all. Sometimes their determination to live the most eccentric life possible was just the tiniest bit annoying, Peregrin thought darkly.
“If Lydia Dean elects to join us, it will be a most interesting summer,” Grainne said then, and Peregrin found that he had to excuse himself.
Now it was a sunny spring morning with a chill in the air, and the roads were still dreadful from the storm two days past. Peregrin was riding a mettlesome gray hunter of Grainne’s, named Trick (not Trickster or Tricky but just Trick, which Peregrin thought a little odd) while Reynard, his blood-horse colt, trailed along a leading-rein beside one of the Archwood grooms, looking annoyed that he had to get his feet wet. Peregrin kept casting concerned glances at the colt, fretting that he might slip and strain a tendon or worse; but the groom who had the horse was no fool and was watching the road carefully, picking his wa
y through the muck.
William was mounted on his liver chestnut hunter, Bald Nick, the one he had brought back from Ireland. (Along with Grainne, Peregrin thought with a wry smile.) They were trotting along well behind the splashing mud of the lead carriage, in which Grainne’s maid was riding alone. Grainne, seated aside on the dark mare she always rode, had cantered on ahead, to chat with an outrider about some mutual equine interest. The day of their leave-taking had dawned so fine, despite the mud, that Grainne wouldn’t hear of being shut up in the carriage. And so they had all flaunted convention, as was their wont, and ordered their horses saddled. Grainne was quite determined to ride all morning, until they stopped for a luncheon at some country inn, and William was only too happy to indulge his wife, as always.
“She’s going to be exhausted when she gets to Tivington, and have all the trouble of preparing the house for a guest who is not ten minutes behind us,” groused Peregrin, looking for something to be angry about.
“Oh, there is nothing to worry about. The housekeeper can fix up another room easy as anything. I said before, we do not stand on ceremony — you have been with us long enough, old friend, that you should know that!” William refused to be baited, watching his wife with that usual winsome admiration as she cantered up the road ahead of them.
“Perhaps not ceremony, but there are certain rules that keep society clicking along comfortably, and I had always thought one of them was not arriving at your host’s home before they had time to make up a room for you. Or order supplies for the kitchens. Or open the damn house up.”
“Would you let it go?” William gave Nick an irritable spur, and the horse danced sideways. “I am not going to listen to you carry on about Sutton. I like him. Grainne likes him. He has an interest in fine horses — what isn’t to like about him, for God’s sake?”
The Honorable Nobody (Heroines on Horseback Book 2) Page 11