Harriet laughed lightly, and Alex noted that his sister was thoroughly enjoying the company of Miss Charring.
It seemed the lady had a positive effect on everyone.
“We were educated by English tutors, Miss Charring,” Harriet explained. “My older brother and Alex had a professor from Oxford teach them for years. And I had a governess from London.”
“How exciting for them to have gotten the chance to live and work in Aldonia,” Lydia replied with a sigh.
Mrs. Charring had tried in vain to rein in her daughter’s enthusiasm. He had a feeling that that happened a lot.
“You must visit our country, Miss Charring,” he said smoothly when there came a miraculous lull in the questioning. “No amount of description can compare to seeing its beauty with your own eyes.”
Lydia smiled up at him, her guard down.
And Alex felt an odd sort of thump in his chest at her look of unbridled wistfulness.
“Oh, I should love to,” she breathed, her sky-blue eyes sparkling. “I should love to see a great many places.”
“Well, why don’t you?” he asked.
Mrs. Charring suddenly made a choking sound, and she hastily put down her wine glass.
“Please, Mr. Farago,” she said, her smile looking a little strained. “Do not put ideas in her head. She would hie off at a moment’s notice.”
Lydia’s smile faded, and Alex frowned. He liked to see her smile. And he didn’t care to question why he wanted it back again.
“And that’s bad?” he questioned carefully.
These English were sticklers for rules, he knew.
And though being a member of the Aldonian royal family didn’t exactly lend itself to freedom, he and Harriet could at least travel when they wanted to.
“No, it’s not bad,” Prudence Charring explained. “And when she’s married, she and her husband can take the grand tour for as long as they choose. But while she remains single, she must remain here.”
Alex kept his face impassive, but he was shocked by the sudden and visceral jealousy that coursed through him at the idea of Lydia being married to some faceless man. Kissing him. Being in his arms. Making love to him…
What in the hell was wrong with him?
“Well then, let us hope you marry soon, Miss Charring. For it would be a great shame if you missed out on seeing the beauty in the world.”
Lydia smiled tightly, and he wondered at the sudden tension in her.
But after a cursory nod in acknowledgement of his words, she turned to her mother and enquired after Huntsforth’s health.
The spark had gone from her. She wasn’t as animated as before.
Did the idea of marrying upset her? Not appeal to her?
And why the hell did that make him feel so agitated?
Well, there was no time to indulge in such nonsensical thoughts.
Alex paid close attention to what Mrs. Charring was saying about Huntsforth, fighting the surge of guilt as she described the older man’s ailments.
Alex had yet to see him.
But he would make a point of spending time with him tomorrow and somehow finding a way to make up for the years of his absence.
Impatient with the maudlin feelings brought on by his guilt, Alex did his best to shake it off.
However, it seemed it wasn’t as easy as he would like to escape such feelings, for the conversation had turned from Huntsforth’s health to his deplorable nephew.
“Lydia, we’ve been through this.” Mrs. Charring’s tone held both exasperation and weariness.
“Yes, we have,” Lydia answered stubbornly, her chin lifted, her eyes flashing.
And Alex was taken aback by a sudden surge of lust slamming into him.
It was rather disconcerting, wanting a woman who so openly despised him.
Though she didn’t know it was he that she despised.
“But I hardly think it is unreasonable to point out how detestable it is for his nephew to stay away, wait for him to meet his maker, and then swoop in to get what he can.”
“Lydia, please.” Mrs. Charring sounded desperate.
Alex looked up and caught Harriet’s worried gaze.
His sister looked as uncomfortable as he felt.
He really should just come clean about the whole thing.
After all, he hadn’t even known that it was his inheritance.
He hadn’t known that Huntsforth had left anything to him, so it was hardly his fault. And he was here now.
Although, he had never bothered to find out either. Had never even written a letter…
He studied Lydia now, resplendent in pink silk.
She was beautiful.
Her eyes pools of blue that he could drown in… her hair shining and shot through with sinful red, highlighted by the flickering candlelight… her cheeks flushed and smooth…
He’d been so close to kissing her, and she’d been close to letting him.
He couldn’t tell her now. Not until he’d had a chance to explore whatever this feeling was.
He would tell her, of course.
Just not right now…
“Harriet, you look tired. No doubt the journey is catching up on you. Perhaps an early night?”
The ladies all blinked at him, surprised at his abrupt change of subject.
His words, he knew, would bring an early end to the evening. But he needed to speak to Harriet before his sister felt a need to confess. And he definitely needed to end this current conversation, given how uncomfortable it made him about his subterfuge.
Harriet frowned at him but he kept his face clear, willing her to understand.
Mercifully, she did.
“Yes, I am rather tired.” She smiled apologetically to the Charring ladies. “Would you mind terribly if I were to retire for the evening.”
“Of course not, my dear.” Mrs. Charring smiled kindly. “You must be exhausted.”
Lydia smiled rather weakly but didn’t speak.
He stood when the ladies did, the only sound the scraping of their chairs.
There were a few awkward goodnights with Lydia looking steadily more miserable, and he couldn’t help but wonder at the cause of it.
He hadn’t meant to insult or upset either of their hosts, and he felt terrible for having done so, if indeed she was upset.
But he desired some distance to think about how to tactfully untangle this web of deceit he’d weaved.
Bidding one final goodnight, he swept his sister from the room, determined to keep her on his side. At least until he figured out how the hell to get out of this mess.
THE SILENCE THAT the Faragos left behind was deafening.
Her mother, Lydia knew, would be furious.
No doubt there was a sermon of epic proportions on its way.
As soon as the sound of footsteps faded, Lydia began the countdown in her head.
Five… four… three… two…
“How could you?” Mama hissed. “Lydia, you simply cannot behave in this manner.”
Lydia sighed.
She’d asked for it, really.
“I know. I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough.”
Mama seemed genuinely upset, and Lydia felt a pang of guilt.
She knew that her mother found social situations stressful as it was. And she’d gone and added to it by being too outspoken.
Lydia sighed as she stood and moved to Mama’s side of the table, taking the empty seat beside her.
“I truly am sorry, Mama. I shall hold my tongue. I promise.”
Mama nodded but remained silent, worrying at her lip.
“If it’s any solace, I do not think the Faragos disagree with me,” she continued. “Didn’t you see Mr. Farago’s expression? He looked very severe when we spoke of Huntsforth’s nephew. I ‘d warrant that he and his sister find such actions as deplorable as we do.”
“Perhaps,” Mama conceded. “And he did look rather upset. But, well, it just isn’t done, to
discuss such delicate matters in company.”
Her mother had always been a stickler for Society rules. And though Lydia found most of them rather ridiculous, she didn’t want to upset her mother, not when she was already worrying about Huntsforth’s declining health.
“How about if I promise to forget all about the odious nephew and concentrate on helping to make our guests as comfortable as possible?” she asked with a cajoling smile.
Finally, Mama seemed to relax. “That would be wonderful, dearest,” she responded.
“Then that’s what I shall do,” Lydia said firmly.
She didn’t admit to Mama that she’d rather ignore the mysterious Mr. Farago than spend any more time with him.
And such thinking was unfair in any case.
It wasn’t the poor man’s fault that Lydia couldn’t control her feelings around him.
THE NEXT MORNING, Lydia rose with a much more positive mindset.
The day was crisp and bright.
Fresh snow had fallen in the night and blanketed the estate in its white, clean beauty.
Yesterday, her behaviour had been truly bizarre.
Today, she would be sophisticated and everything that was proper.
There was plenty to keep her occupied in any case.
She wanted to see Huntsforth, then she would set out to find yet more holly and ivy, perhaps even some mistletoe, with which to decorate the house.
She was absolutely determined to make the place as festive and cheery as possible so that when Huntsforth felt better, he would be able to enjoy the season.
There was a cup of chocolate by her bedside, and her serviceable dimity gown was laid out, so her maid had obviously been in and gone.
Lydia was glad of it. She didn’t want anyone fussing at her hair or dress today. She wanted to get out into the fresh air and clear her mind of the awfully distracting dreams she’d had last night, featuring a particularly handsome stranger.
Sipping the rapidly cooling chocolate, she thought about her plans for the day.
In all honesty, she should make an effort to entertain Mr. Farago and Harriet.
But she felt as though she needed some time to herself if only to prepare for the impact of seeing him again.
The last thing she needed was to start dashing around the place challenging him to races again.
Her cheeks heated as she remembered her odd behaviour from the night before.
Never before had anyone had such an effect on her.
It was most disconcerting.
Lydia quickly dressed and pinned her hair into a simple chignon.
She rushed downstairs and straight to the breakfast room.
It was mercifully empty, so she didn’t have to watch her manners and could eat breakfast with all haste and then get outside.
Lydia had always been outdoorsy, much to Mama’s despair and Father’s delight.
After donning her heavy winter cloak, Lydia fetched a wicker basket and a pair of shears and made her way outside.
The air was freezing, and the winter sunlight glinted off the white snow, almost blinding Lydia as she stood taking in the scene. But it didn’t bother her. Nothing, to Lydia’s mind, was as beautiful as a fresh snow.
She swiftly made her way to the edge of the formal gardens, where she knew the holly grew in abandonment.
It was so quiet at this time of day. Peaceful, undisturbed…
“Good morning, Lydia.”
Lydia let out a scream of fright as the voice sounded behind her.
She spun around to face her unexpected companion, nearly falling over in the process.
A pair of strong hands reached out and clasped her around the arms, steadying her on her feet.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she bit out, glaring into the handsome face of Alex Farago. “You scared me half to death.”
“My deepest apologies,” he said with a bow that didn’t seem all that contrite to Lydia’s mind. “I didn’t know you would be concentrating so hard on a holly bush.”
She wasn’t. In point of fact, she’d been thinking of him. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Well,” she said with a sniff, bending to retrieve her fallen basket, “it is a task which requires concentration.”
He raised a disbelieving brow.
“Of course,” he agreed, and she knew he was humouring her.
She could tell by the ghost of a smile hovering at his lips.
Lydia gave up and laughed despite herself. She could never remain in ill spirits for long.
“If you must know, I was wool-gathering,” she admitted, turning her back and continuing to clip holly to place in the basket.
“Wool-gathering?” he asked, sounding disconcertingly near.
“It means — ah — thinking about something else,” she said, feeling suddenly inexplicably nervous. And excited, too, which was confusing. “Daydreaming.”
“Ah…” He sounded closer still, and Lydia caught her breath.
She could practically feel his body heat.
“And what, may I ask, were you daydreaming about?”
“A lady should never divulge her secrets, sir,” she said, hearing the tremble in her voice.
“There’s that should again,” he said, and this time Lydia felt his breath tickle her neck.
Good Lord!
If she were to turn around now, she would be close enough for her lips to press against his.
Now where had that thought come from?
“Bend the rule, just a little,” he coaxed, his voice turning her legs to jelly. “Tell me what you were thinking about.”
Lydia wondered what he would do if she were to tell him the truth. If she were to admit that he had been occupying her thoughts and her dreams since the second he’d arrived yesterday.
But that would be highly appropriate, she knew. Not to mention as mad as her behaviour the evening before.
So, she scrambled for something to say.
“I was thinking of Huntsforth,” she said quickly. “I do hope he’s well enough to join in the festivities next week.”
She felt Alex move away from her and had to will herself not to feel bereft.
“He doesn’t seem terribly well,” Alex said.
And his worried tone gave Lydia the courage to turn around and face him.
A frown marred his brow, and that lovely jaw of his was clenched.
“You saw him?” she asked.
“Just now,” he confirmed. “He was sleeping. Harriet is sitting with him in case he wakes.”
Suddenly Lydia felt sorry for Alex and his sister.
She had unfortunately seen the old man’s health decline for years, but for the Faragos to travel all the way to England, to be met with the decline of their old family friend… well, it must be difficult.
Instinctively, she reached out and clasped his hand.
“I’m sure that your being here will help to rouse his spirits,” she said with a smile.
Alex squeezed her hand gently before letting it go, and all of a sudden, Lydia felt that excited nervousness again.
“So,” she said with a smile. “How good are your holly-cutting skills?”
Alex grinned in response, and Lydia felt her toes curl.
This was getting ridiculous.
“I have many skills, Lydia. But I’m not sure cutting holly is one of them.”
She felt as though the temperature had just soared.
“Well, here’s your chance to rectify that,” she said as she held out the shears to him.
He studied them for a moment as though she were handing him a loaded pistol.
Finally, he reached out and tentatively took them.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Farago?” she teased. “Aren’t you used to getting your hands dirty?”
His dark eyes flew up to clash with hers, and for a moment, he wore the strangest expression on his face.
As though she had accused him of something terrible, and he had done it.<
br />
“If you’d rather not—” She reached out to take the shears back.
His expression cleared, and that disconcertingly distracting grin was back.
“I’ll have you know I’m a very quick learner,” he said.
She couldn’t hold back her answering grin, and so they set to work, she laughingly barking instruction and he cutting the holly, all the while bemoaning his station as a slave.
After they’d filled the basket, Lydia declared their work finished, and he relinquished the shears with an exaggerated sigh, one hand behind his back.
“You are a hard task-woman, Lydia,” he said with mock severity.
She should remind him not to use her Christian name, but at that moment, she didn’t really want to.
She liked hearing her name on his lips, and she liked this affinity that had built between them over the last hour or so.
“You are far too spoilt and underworked, sir,” she responded with a grin. “A little hard work never did anyone any harm.”
“Surely even you found my work this morning acceptable?” he asked with a glint in his eye.
Lydia was immediately suspicious.
“Yes, it was acceptable,” she confirmed warily.
“And hard work deserves a reward, does it not?”
Her suspicion grew as did an odd sense of anticipation. “I suppose it does,” she answered softly.
His answering smile made her heart speed.
With a look of triumph, he whipped his hand from behind his back and produced a sprig of holly.
Lydia looked at it in confusion.
“I believe in England you have a certain tradition around mistletoe.”
At this point, her heart was galloping and was likely to shoot right out of her chest.
“We do,” she croaked. “But that is holly.”
“It is,” he agreed as he stepped closer and closer. “In my country, we have the same tradition…” He held the sprig over his head with one hand. “…but with holly.”
“You do?” She raised a brow at his innocent expression. He was about as innocent as the devil himself.
“We do,” he confirmed, seeming very serious about the whole thing.
“What a strange coincidence, that there should be no mistletoe available, yet your tradition requires holly, which we have in abundance.”
The Hidden Prince Page 4