‘But you did not.’ Lydia stared at him, her face crumpled; she knew she was not like Anne or Henrietta, who could keep their faces composed under even the most extreme provocation. Tears were already beginning to fall—she could feel them, sliding down her cheeks. ‘You did not.’
‘But I do not wish to go. I am being constrained.’ Andrew moved forward; Lydia reared back. ‘My God, please let me—’
‘No.’ Lydia stared, her tears falling to the grass. ‘I will not.’
She stood abruptly, fiercely tugging her gown back into a shape that suggested respectability. Avoiding Andrew’s outstretched hands, her lip curling in disgusted fury, she turned away from him as she spoke.
‘Do not speak to me. Do not look at me. Ignore me completely, until you sail.’ She wiped away her tears, watching them fall from her fingers to the grass. ‘Even better—treat me as you normally do. This way, absolutely nothing has happened.’
‘Lydia.’ The anguish in Andrew’s voice almost made her knees buckle. ‘Everything has happened. If you let me explain, I can—’
‘No.’ Lydia began walking away, stumbling in her haste to get away from him. ‘You cannot.’
What could he possibly explain? What would change the dreadful, sordid reality of things; that he would be leaving England for months, long months, and had not told her of this? That he had allowed her to risk scandal, perhaps even ruin, with no intention of giving their union any kind of permanency?
He wasn’t following her. Forever the damned gentlemen; Lydia almost wished he would run after her, just so she could throw a truly cutting insult at his stupid, treacherous, handsome face.
Head held high, sneer firmly on her lips, she stalked back into the gardens. The afternoon remained resolutely unchanged; Lydia blinked, briefly unable to believe that the well-ordered landscape around her had not cracked to pieces. There was no sign of Susan—she would still be searching the gardens, looking for Andrew.
Well. Lydia would not be looking for Andrew any longer; following him, talking to him, wanting him. She would be forgetting, with great strength and deliberate patience, every particle of their year of association… and ignoring the savage twist in her heart whenever she thought about forgetting it.
A pale figure stood at the edge of the kitchen garden; it was Anne, dear Anne, and Lydia felt like weeping all over again. ‘Lydia! We have a terribly exciting visitor!’
‘Yes.’ Lydia smiled, as pale and flat as a fish on a slab. ‘I’m so terribly excited.’
Lord Richard Westlake, with his unruly black hair and louche, expansive smile, gave off the inescapable air of a jungle cat forced into a cravat. Lydia stared at him in fascinated horror as the soup course gave way to the fish, wondering if she had ever hated a stranger quite so fiercely before.
Well. She had hated Andrew—but she hadn’t, not really, not at all, and it had taken the arrival of Westlake to demonstrably prove it. The chaotic, firework-crackle of energy she had always felt in Andrew’s presence bore no relation to the coal-black, eviscerating misery that rose up in her as she listened to Westlake talk.
Now she hated the two of them, of course; Andrew and Westlake both. Lydia sat bitterly in her dullest evening gown, genteelly gripping her fork, heartily wishing the direst possible punishment on the man who sat two seats to the left of her. She had seen him enter the dining room, looking haggard and white—but she wasn’t going to look at him. Not once. Not even if she were forced at knife-point.
Andrew cleared his throat. Lydia immediately turned her head, staring directly into Andrew’s shadowed eyes for a full, agonising second, before turning back to her plate in a storm of violent sadness.
‘A little wine, dear?’ Anne looked at her with a slightly concerned face. ‘Or do you have a headache after your afternoon in the gardens?’
‘Perhaps a slight headache.’ Lydia attempted to smile, horribly aware of how different her body felt after her afternoon with Andrew. She could still feel his fingers; feel his mouth on her, merciless, and a part of her still craved it. ‘I am being so very dull.’
She said it with even more venom than normal. She was being dull; she should be throwing glasses, or wailing in the library, or forgetting that any of it had ever happened—just as Andrew was no doubt doing. Why, she should be treating dinner with Lord Westlake as little more than an amusing diversion, just like Agnes and Henrietta who seemed utterly engrossed in whatever coarse story the man was currently telling.
It was hell. Lydia had never eaten dinner in hell before. She looked around at the shining silverware, the flickering candlelight, none of it meaning anything at all now that Andrew Balfour would be sailing out of her life.
‘Lord Westlake.’ She had a most unhelpful urge to know everything, every painful particular, even if it caused her immense harm to hear it. ‘You have come to steal away our most frequent visitor at Longwater, Where precisely do you intend to take him?’
Lord Westlake, to his credit either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the barbed edge in Lydia’s tone. With an expansive smile that managed to make the very air seem dangerous—and made Henrietta, to Lydia’s surprise, make a noise that was oddly close to a sigh—he leaned back in his chair, mulling over his words.
‘Well, Miss Hereford, I would certainly tell a pack of lies if I were among strangers. But Henry and Andrew know me too well for that.’ He looked archly at Henry, who smiled. ‘It’s hardly a death-defying jaunt. Long, certainly, and the climate is confoundedly different from our own dear clouds, but the islands themselves are absolute jewels. An enterprising Dutch chap named them the Neerhoven Isles before I managed to get there—dashed unimaginative name.’ His smile widened. ‘Islands should be named for women.’
The was a small but definite clink of china as Henrietta’s fork slipped. Lydia, wondering why her sister had suddenly become so clumsy, couldn’t resist asking more questions that she knew would hurt her very soul.
‘I assume Lord Balfour is being stowed away to paint island flowers.’ She sipped from her water-glass, trying to compose a sentence that didn’t sound shrill or bitter. ‘Not that I wish to cast aspersions on our guest’s artistic capacity, but… are there no other artists a little more accustomed to high seas and tropical climes?’
Lord Westlake’s bark of a laugh made her flinch. ‘A fine question, ma’am. Yes, the Neerhoven Isles are an absolute treasure-trove of plants and trees—we will take back as many as we can for the private gardens, including Longwater, and paint whatever we cannot carry. And it’s true that Lord Balfour doesn’t exactly fit the portrait of a seafaring adventurer.’ He nodded sardonically at Andrew; Lydia avoided looking at the earl’s reaction. ‘Fortunately, Lord Balfour has a quality that other flower-painting gentlemen lack—he is honour-bound not to refuse my request.’ He shrugged, taking a sip of his wine. ‘He’s been waiting for my summons for at least ten years. Haven’t you, Balfour?’
Andrew was silent. Lydia wanted to require further, worrying that she would appear indelicate—but Anne, a loving hand on her husband’s shoulder, seemed as curious as she.
‘My goodness!’ She leaned forward. ‘Honour-bound? That speaks to intrigue.’
‘Hardly intrigue. If anything, it’s rather noble—the most noble thing I’ve ever done.’ Lord Westlake smiled, as if recalling pleasant memories. ‘Quite by chance, during a particularly heated game of whist in an establishment that cannot be named in such illustrious company without causing offence, an enterprising young chap accused our Lord Balfour of cheating. Lord Balfour took offence to this, of course—I’ve never known a man less likely to cheat at cards—but wasn’t expecting his accuser to be so quick with a blade.’
Lydia couldn’t restrain a gasp; fortunately the rest of the table shared her shock. Lord Westlake, clearly enjoying the scandalised looks, carried on.
‘Lord Balfour thinks too well of people to anticipate knife-play. I don’t think well of anyone at all, so I managed to distract the fellow with a hard punch. I,
to all intents and purposes, saved the young Lord Balfour’s life… and ever since then, to his great annoyance, Lord Balfour has owed me a favour. A single voyage, and the use of his talents—a little thing, in return for saving a life.’ He looked at Andrew. ‘Isn’t that true, Balfour? You’re awfully quiet.’
Andrew remained stonily, implacably silent. Lydia, sitting mutely at the table as her sisters professed astonishment, felt a sick swoop of misery threaten to engulf her.
This was no pleasure trip, then; no carefree voyage that Andrew had happily planned, all the while pitilessly seducing her. Yes, he had not told her of the risk—but then, had she ever given him the opportunity to explain fully?
He had behaved badly, but not nearly as badly as she had previously assumed. Lydia, torn between shame and compassion, realised that she had misjudged the situation to an atrocious extent.
Unable to bear it any longer, she stood. Curtseying apologetically to Anne as the men rose, Lydia put a hand to her forehead.
‘Forgive me dear, it—I really cannot bear it.’ She knew she was wincing; Anne looked at her sympathetically. ‘May I be excused?’
‘Of course.’ Anne nodded. ‘It must be agony.’
Yes. Lydia kept her face turned away from Andrew as she walked away from the table. Agony is the exact word for it.
After several hours of lying wanly in her room, feeling utterly sick of the world and everyone in it, Lydia decided that wise counsel was what she needed. Wrapping herself in every shawl she could find, she slipped into Agnes’s room as the sun began to set in earnest.
‘So…’ She lingered on the end of the word, watching her sister neatly embroider a small white flower onto one of her shawls. Their lack of greeting was normal, accepted by them both; Lydia had never needed Agnes to begin a conversation, and vice versa. ‘The Earl of Conbarr.’
Agnes paused, her needle hovering above the cloth. She turned to Lydia, her expression a question in itself.
‘Yes, I know.’ With a hearty sigh, Lydia threw herself onto the window-seat as evening light fell over the Longwater estate. ‘I hardly ever say anything nice about him.’ She paused, biting her lip, looking at her sister as shame rose in her breast. ‘I believe I have been rather horrible about him. Needlessly so.’
Agnes gently placed her embroidery in her lap. Folding her hands, leaning forward, she delicately raised an eyebrow.
‘I suppose I should have known, really. Looking at him as often as I did, and as ferociously as I did.’ Lydia shook her head, briefly pressing a hand to her forehead. ‘Henrietta was perfectly right to tease me about it. I imagine you think so, too.’
Agnes shrugged. She opened her mouth, but Lydia had already begun to speak again.
‘I hardly know what to think, Agnes. I certainly do not know how to conduct myself—I barely managed to behave properly at dinnertime, with that awful man there.’ She bit her lip; despite her best efforts, tears were coming. ‘I believed I thought that he would always be there to—to provoke, or tease, or otherwise vex. And now it appears that he will not.’
Agnes put her embroidery down, as if readying herself to speak. Lydia, unsure as to if she wanted a talkative conversation partner, hurried to speak over her.
‘I suppose you are going to tell me to forget him, yes? To sit happily here while he endures all kinds of peril, never thinking of him, never weeping for him.’ She sniffed; Agnes offered up a handkerchief, but she batted it away. ‘But I do not think I can. I honestly cannot.’
Agnes slowly nodded, as if in reply. The sisters sat in silence for some moments, the air thick with unspoken words, before Lydia straightened up.
‘I suppose I will have to go to him.’ Agnes’s eyes widened; Lydia realised what she had just said. ‘Not—not at night. But tomorrow morning, absolutely—he is meant to be sailing in three days.’ She wiped away a tear, staring hopelessly at Agnes’s expression. ‘I must… I must know. I must understand. I—must tell him.’
Agnes paused, as if waiting for Lydia to finish her sentence. Only when no more words came did she stand, opening her arms, inviting her sister into a tight, all-encompassing hug.
‘Thank you.’ Lydia whispered the words tearfully against her younger sister’s shoulder. ‘I… I will go to him. In the morning.’
Agnes merely cupped Lydia’s face with her warm, capable hand, looking at her with infinite compassion as Lydia turned away.
Yes. Lydia began walking, holding her head far higher than before. Now was not the time to be histrionic—to shout, or to throw things. She would wait, trying her best to sleep, until sun-up; only then would she go to him, outside or inside, and listen to his explanations. His regret.
Above all, she would not beg him not to leave. She could not, under any circumstances, do that.
Agnes, watching her sister leave the room, returned slowly to her seat. She sat down with a soft sigh, embroidery quite forgotten, thoughts reaching an uneasy clarity as the sun sank lower.
How had she missed all of this? Lydia seemed quite infatuated; now that Agnes cast her mind back to the dinner table, it appeared that the Earl of Conbarr was similarly taken. This, then, was the cause of all the needless tension that had crackled between them both over the preceding weeks; the various stings and barbs traded, the longing looks. And now, with the Earl set to leave for far-off lands, her sister would be left heartbroken.
Both she and Henrietta had failed in their sisterly duties. Henrietta could be forgiven; she seemed to be living in the library at the moment, surrounded by books about ancient languages. But she, Agnes, who avoided the library if it could possibly be helped… well. There was only one reason for her absent-mindedness.
She looked out at the Longwater gardens, shrouded in warm, honeyed evening light. The flowers were giving up their scent as the sun faded; wild tangles of roses poured forth their sweetness, making her feel giddy with forbidden possibilities.
Isaac was out there, somewhere. She knew he came to watch her; she sat at the same chair every evening, waiting for him with a hunger that surpassed all imagination. Waiting for him to summon up the courage to step into the house, climb the stairs, and claim her.
A foolish fantasy… but oh, how it sustained her. She looked out at the wilderness beyond the lawns, hoping the dark, silent man could read her thoughts.
Come. Please. I am waiting for you.
Richard Westlake—reluctant baron, enthusiastic adventurer, and terror of every rookery from Whitechapel to Marble Arch—had enjoyed the evening immensely. As he weaved his way to his elegantly furnished room, the Longwater gardens gleaming in the light of the full moon, he wondered if he had ever had such an entertaining dinner on dry land.
He hadn’t seen Henry Colborne in an age. Why, the young duke had still been wet behind the ears at their first meeting in a smoke-filled London gaming hell, a nervous Andrew Balfour in tow. Richard, five years older than the two young men and already a seasoned rake, had taken great delight in showing Henry and Andrew every form of depravity worth buying, borrowing or stealing—and had almost felt like a proud father when Henry had surpassed his own efforts, becoming so notorious that a corrective banishment to the Continent had been the only solution. Many years had passed since those halcyon days, but Richard had been keen to see the development in his young student… and there was, of course, Andrew’s debt to be repaid.
For a married man, Henry seemed ludicrously happy. Richard distrusted marriage to his very core, even when the chosen wife was as exemplary as Anne Hereford clearly was. Richard simply couldn’t imagine ever submitting willingly to a permanent loss of freedom, excitement and variety in one’s pleasures, all for a weak, milksop amount of wifely comfort.
But Henry was clearly content, and radiantly so. More importantly, he was Richard’s host for the week. Richard could ape a liking for the bonds of marriage, if it meant staying amongst friends in a place as spectacular as Longwater.
As for Balfour… well, he seemed a little less content. Richa
rd knew that six months in the tropics was somewhat inconvenient, especially for a man as settled in his ways as the Earl of Conbarr, but it was hardly a death sentence. Why, with a voyage as secure and comfortably funded as the one he had managed to procure, it was barely an adventure—it was almost a jaunt, if one set the heat and insects aside. Quite why Andrew had the haggard, hollow-eyed appearance of a man being sent to the gallows, Richard couldn’t possibly imagine.
At least the Hereford sisters were more pleasant. Richard had carefully avoided considering any of them as erotic prospects; he was a rake, but he wasn’t an idiot. Besides, the oldest sister had too much of a tongue in her head, and the youngest appeared to be mute…
… The middle one, though. She was interesting. She had the dark, enigmatic air that had always made Richard’s body stand to attention; her eyes, much deeper in colour than those of her sisters, made her look as if she contained multitudes. Infinite wickedness, infinite excitement—yes, they could all be contained in that self-possessed form. That calculating face.
Realistically, of course, the girl was as dull as ditch-water. Richard reflected on this for a moment of wine-soaked melancholy as he stared at his bed, idly beginning to remove his shirt. Instead of intrigue and seduction, Henrietta Hereford would be good for nothing but weeping, novel-reading, and falling in love with a placid country vicar.
He was so caught up in sadly imagining Miss Hereford’s future, not to mention shorn of his usual defences in the comforting surroundings of Longwater, that a firm kick to the small of his back took him by complete surprise. Richard fell onto the bed, too astonished even to swear, his half-removed shirt imprisoning his arms as he tried unsuccessfully to turn.
‘I wouldn’t move.’ A smooth, recognisable voice came out of the darkness. ‘I have a knife, and a very carefully copied list of ways to make using the knife look like an accident. I have never seriously hurt anyone before, but I imagine I’d be rather good at it.’ Soft hands were at Richard’s wrists, knotting them with some kind of twine before he could think to pull away. ‘I’m good at most things I try.’
Private Passions Page 61