by Darcy Burke
“When Annie is of age, Emily has agreed to be her sponsor if she wants a season in London.”
“We’ll see.” That seemed half a world away. Annie had almost died. A season sounded like a shortcut to scandal, but it would be Annie’s choice when she was old enough to make it.
There was a silence, broken only by the tap of biscuits onto the plate as she placed them. When she was finished, Lydia stood back and regarded Markshall. She couldn’t believe she’d once thought him the pinnacle of manliness. He might be rich, but Alfred Lowe, a schoolteacher and a gentleman, was in every way superior to Lord Markshall.
“I’m sorry,” Markshall looked as if he could hear her thoughts and agreed. “Not for Annie, as she’s a delight. But for everything I should have done better.”
His words drifted over her. Alfred was so much more than either her old dreams, or Markshall with this money and sudden concern. Now she had the means. In the drawer in front of her, nestled in a book about a brave, handsome, and purely fictional military man, was the method.
“It’s over now.” She picked up the plate and thrust it at him. “Take the biscuits.”
Chapter 14
Alfred watched Lydia as she looked out of the window at the departing backs of the unexpected visitors. Her expression was conflicted and thoughtful. She’d bolted the door after them, as though superstitious that they’d return and sneak back in if she didn’t.
He was glad they had gone. For every moment he’d suppressed his primal impulse to chase this man away from Lydia and everything else he loved. Now they were alone again.
Lydia headed for the stairs, then turned, her eyes apprehensive. “Will you stay for a while?”
“Yes.” He watched as relief seeped into her. “I’ll bring up some food in a moment.”
She nodded and their gazes tangled before she smiled and hurried upstairs, skirts swishing.
In the kitchen the bread, cheddar cheese, chutney, and a quarter of mint humbugs he’d brought were on the sideboard, along with the printed package Emily’s biscuits had been wrapped in. He picked it up and examined the ornate lettering. A pang went through him. Everything he brought was in plain paper or newspaper, not with elaborate covering that spoke of wealth. Even the chutney he’d brought, a delicious sweet and vinegary pickle with onion, apple, and cabbage, was marked only with a hand-written label stating ‘chutney’ and the previous year’s date when it had been made, 1874. It was provincial to the point of lower-class.
An earl, she’d said. She’d thought an earl would marry her. An aristocrat whose wife would buy a sweet treat of biscuits with their wrapping so pretty it was a present in itself for a child like Annie.
A rich blond man with the same pale blue eyes as Annie, who Lydia was afraid of. He didn’t let this thought come to its logical conclusion.
He pulled out the two little plates and made cheese and chutney sandwiches, two on one plate and one on the other. On the fire he warmed a little broth for Annie and put it in a cup. Then he carried the modest dinner upstairs, one plate balanced on his wrist.
“You should eat,” he said, encompassing both Elizabeth and Lydia. With a murmured thank you, Lydia accepted the first plate. He gave Elizabeth the other plate then sat on the edge of Annie’s bed to feed her the broth.
It was gratifying to provide for these women he cared for. Next to him, he felt Lydia’s gaze on him as she ate. Lydia and Elizabeth made some small talk about the excellence of the cheese and the variable weather. Lydia continued holding the plate in her hands after she’d finished, stroking her thumb over the smooth ceramic edge. She’d left the second sandwich uneaten, waiting for him. Annie was more reluctant, the excitement of the unexpected visitors having apparently tired her out beyond even finishing her broth.
“Here.” Lydia touched Alfred’s shoulder and offered him the second sandwich. “I’ll persuade Annie to finish.”
With a mother’s authority, Lydia made Annie finish her broth in the same time it took Alfred to consume his sandwich. It was so calm and domestic, a tranquil pool unless you looked into the turbulent water beneath the surface.
“Could you help me take these down?” Lydia asked Alfred when Annie had finished eating and the superiority of the chutney had been praised more than it probably deserved. She indicated the plates and cup he’d brought up on his own.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth hide a smirk.
“Of course.” He’d take any pretense for conversation.
The cottage was familiar now. He knew his way around it even though it was dark enough to need a candle, the sun long since having set. There was just the soft rustle of Lydia’s skirts as they descended to the kitchen.
A kiss. Maybe she would instigate another kiss. His incorrigible heart beat with a steadfast rhythm. Perhaps she’d decided, over a cheese and pickle sandwich, that she would marry him after all.
Instead, she sat down at the kitchen table and bit her lip. He sat opposite her and waited. She’d engineered this, he’d allow her the space she needed.
“Do you want me to tell you about Oscar?” she asked, eventually. The words were reluctant, as if preempting a scolding.
He shrugged. “Only if you want to tell me.”
She regarded him and her eyes seemed to penetrate, reading through his layers. “You know.”
He rubbed the stubble on his jawline as he considered what to say. He could pretend to misunderstand, but that would be disingenuous.
“I know.” He knew Lydia had been in love with this man. And it was as obvious as the sun on a fine day that Oscar Clawson was the lord who’d fathered Annie.
“Was it you who told him? About Annie’s illness,” she added impatiently when his expression must have revealed confusion.
“Me? I’d never seen the man before today.” Why was she accusing him thus?
She looked doubtful. “Then who? You were the only one who knew Annie was ill. I had no visitors all day. He confessed that he sent Elizabeth.”
“Oh.” Bile filled his throat. It had been this sort-of love-rival who had sent the nurse who had eased Lydia’s toil through Annie’s illness. “The day I brought the Doctor and the doll?”
She nodded.
He cast his mind back, but it wasn’t needed. The answer popped into place with the neatness of a ball and cup toy. “Sir Thomas. It would explain why he seems to have excessive money for the Children’s Society, given its funds. He asked me to send a telegram for him that day, just after I told him about Annie. And when I saw him a few days ago he went straight afterward to send a telegram…” This was uncomfortable. “I may have exaggerated Annie’s situation a little.”
Lydia pulled her brows together quizzically.
“He may have got the impression that Annie was at death’s door. Because we were not supposed to be courting publicly. I didn’t want him to speculate about my visits.”
She groaned. “This is my fault. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind.” They were ensconced together now, just the two of them. Nothing else mattered.
“You’re not...” She seemed to search around for the correct word.
“Jealous?” That this well-dressed man had come to the house of his love, had initiated her into love making, neglected her, and left her. “No. Not unless you still love him.” He held his breath.
She gave a bark of cynical laughter. “No.”
He let out the breath. She didn’t love her former beau. But that didn’t mean he didn’t still stand between them, as she’d said herself. “He’s still alive. Still your lawful husband. Or rather, Captain Taylor is.” Without a death certificate, he would always stand between them. And the trust her former love had destroyed was a broken bridge across a gorge, hanging with the severed ends unsalvageable. “I can’t see him again.”
“You’re cross. I understand that.” She peeked at him from under lowered eyelashes.
“With you? Never. With him?” He couldn’t say he wasn’t angry with
that man. “Yes. I am furious with him for stealing your hope, your belief in yourself, and your trust in men who love you.”
She appeared unconvinced.
Convincing her would take more than words. He stood.
Her expression fell. “Oh, yes, you’d better go,” she mumbled. “Thank you for staying as long as you did.”
“Lydia.”
“It’s getting late. Don’t feel you need to come back—”
“Lydia,” he said again.
She stopped talking but didn’t raise her gaze from the stained tabletop.
“I want to hold you.”
She went still.
He extended his hand to her. “Just to hold you. In ease. Please.”
Tentatively her chin rose. “Are you sure?” There was guarded optimism in her eyes, like she was fearful he would withdraw at any moment.
“Yes.”
Her cheeks pinked. She put her hand in his and he grasped his fingers tight around hers.
Leading her from the kitchen into the front room he sat onto the only padded chair, he pulled her slowly to sit across his lap. She yielded, seating herself with her shoulder against his chest. Her weight rested on his left thigh. Via her buttocks. And although he’d promised this was just for an embrace, his cock stirred. He willed it down. He focused on the heaviness of her skirts over his legs, and the smell of her hair, like chamomile and woman. Her breathing was slow and even and he allowed himself a smile of pride. He’d relaxed her. He was holding the woman he loved on his lap, her warm body curved to him.
Bumps and footsteps came from upstairs. Lydia tensed. He ran a reassuring hand over her hip.
“Stay. We’ll hear her on the stairs if she’s coming down.”
On her next outtake of breath she melted back towards him.
He’d have liked to run his hands through her hair, or tilt her face up to his to kiss her lips. But he didn’t. The yearning to imagine her legs parting, her skirts rucking up and her response to his touch was equally quashed.
Her trust in him was a vulnerable little wild field orchid. He dared not allow his lust to subsume them again. She hadn’t said she would trust him and marry him, but this was a step forward. This embrace between them was neither impassioned nor stilted, just pure affection. The need to kiss her was nigh-on insurmountable, but he had to allow her to begin any further intimacy at her own pace.
Outside, the daylight grew dim and the activity of the street slowed.
They remained as they were, breath matched, for a long time. He reveled in her closeness, the simplicity of holding her after a day that had been more than anyone ought to have to deal with. He yearned to help shoulder her burdens and help her forget them in bed with him every night.
“He gave me fifty thousand pounds,” Lydia said suddenly. “I think you should have it to open a school.”
He choked on his own breath. Surprise turned into an inelegant cough.
Lydia sat up to allow him to move, and shifted to the edge of his lap.
“No,” he spluttered out. “Absolutely not.”
“But if we married, you’d have the money, anyway.”
“No.” Did that mean she did want to marry him? Would she allow him to call the banns? “That’s not the point.” He’d wanted a rich wife, but this was all wrong. He needed to be Lydia’s protector. Cherishing was hardly the same thing when it was funded by a man who’d left Lydia practically for dead. This lord had only slunk back because of a whim to meet his daughter.
“I thought you wanted to marry me?” She was still on his lap but had shrunk away.
“I do.” This was all upside down. The concept of accepting money from her ex-lover, even indirectly, repulsed him.
“Well, now I have fifty thousand pounds of dowry,” she said, sounding a little affronted.
There was silence. Not a comfortable silence like earlier, when they’d been in tune. A self-conscious silence. He was speechless. After a pause, Lydia rose, leaving an absence of warmth where they’d touched. Moments later he could hear her rattling pans as she put the kettle on.
He followed her in and regarded her back. She’d done the whole interview with her past lover and his beautiful bride in a simple day dress of serviceable red-brown cotton. It would hurt a woman’s pride, surely. But Lydia’s beauty needed no adornment to draw his eye.
“Shall I leave you for now?” He’d clearly outstayed his welcome for tonight.
“If you like,” she said blandly.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He wouldn’t stop visiting or give up. He couldn’t do that anymore than he could reject his soul.
“If you like.” Her nonchalant tone didn’t fool him, but it still hurt.
He left the cottage and walked slowly back to his lodgings alone.
Chapter 15
Lydia woke to a drop of water and a feeling that something had changed. She was in a bed, not on a chair. Another drop of water came from the ceiling. The roof was still leaking then, and it was raining. A coating of guilt slid across her skin. She rose and went to Annie’s room. The previous night Elizabeth had insisted that Lydia should sleep all night in her own bed. The nurse was convinced Annie was getting better, but Lydia wasn’t so sure.
Annie was sitting up in bed. “Please can I have an angelica fish?”
Lydia stared. Her daughter looked a little tired, but only that. And she was asking for sweets for breakfast. Yesterday she’d asked for sweets in the afternoon when Markshall had visited.
All the events of the previous day rushed over her. Lydia swayed. With an effort, she focused on the present issue.
“What about poached eggs on toast?” That was a sensible, motherly thing to say and would keep her focused on immediate goals. She mustn’t think of the money from Markshall. She mustn’t dwell on Alfred rejecting her now she had wealth. Although of course, Annie only wanted the treats Alfred brought for her. The irony.
“I’m unwell.” Annie frowned and fidgeted, looking quite well. “If I have eggs can I have a boiled sweet afterwards?”
Lydia laughed. “Yes. Very well.” She and Elizabeth shared a wry look. It seemed the unflappable nurse had been correct.
A week after the call from Oscar, Alfred decided it was the day. He’d arrived a little earlier than usual, and the sunshine felt auspicious. Annie improved each time he visited. At the front door Alfred surreptitiously passed Lydia the little chocolate bar he’d brought, and their hands brushed. His heart throbbed as their gazes met. “How is Annie today?”
“You can ask her yourself,” Lydia declared, nodding toward the front room. Her indication was careless, but her translucent blue eyes were full of hope. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Annie was sitting on the little sofa with a woolen blanket over her regardless of the warm spring day. Elizabeth was sitting with Annie, reading as ever. Alfred felt his mouth stretch into a grin.
“Mr. Lowe!” She reached for him as he entered the room.
“Hello, little one.” He gave her the little bag of toffees with a wink.
Her face lit up when she opened the bag. “Thank you, Papa,” she said shyly and offered one to Elizabeth and they started a conversation about which were the best sweets.
Annie’s improved complexion was set off by a blanket he’d not seen before. Could it be new? Before he could dwell on this point, Lydia returned. He moved to be near her and her loveliness in profile snagged him anew. Her nose was aquiline, forehead high, and mouth wide. Kissable. Oh-so kissable. His fingers burned to pick the object from his pocket and beg her to be his to kiss.
“She wants to go for a walk tomorrow,” Lydia confided, watching Annie.
“Why not? Fresh air is healthy for children.” And women, he didn’t add. “I need your help,” he said instead. “I’m going to see Sir Thomas about something, and I need you to come with me.”
“What do you need me for?”
“Nothing that will hurt you.” He winked. “We’re going on a truth hunt.”
“Hmm.” Lydia paused. “Elizabeth, can you manage for a couple of hours?”
Elizabeth looked up, finished chewing her toffee, and nodded reassuringly. “We’ll be fine.”
“What about you, Annie? Do you want me to stay with you?”
Annie rolled her eyes. “You’ll be back, won’t you mother? I’ll be quite alright. There’s no need to fuss.”
“She must be feeling better,” Lydia muttered. “I’ll fetch my shawl and reticule.”
They walked to Sir Thomas’ house in companionable hush for the most part. They’d settled into an easy, if more distant than he’d like, routine since the visit that had upended everything.
Sir Thomas received them with the distracted cordiality of the rich and influential when the liveried footman showed them into the parlor.
“Ah, thank you, Simon, that’ll be all.” Sir Thomas arose from his chair to greet them. “Mr. Lowe.” He shook his hand. “And Mrs. Taylor.” He seemed to surprise her by shaking her hand too. No unsolicited kiss or affected bow. “You know my daughter, Caroline, of course. Or Miss Streeting as I’m sure you’ll insist on calling her.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Mr. Lowe said, smiling warmly.
“Indeed.” Miss Streeting bobbed a polite curtsey. “I’ve been away at school in Paris and in London for the season and haven’t met many of the newer community.” Turning to Lydia she clasped her hand in a warm gesture. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Taylor.”
Miss Streeting was probably in her early twenties, her hair pulled back into a tight knot on the back of her head. Her dress, with its sleek silhouette and small bustle, was different to what Alfred saw routinely. High fashion from Paris, he assumed. The color, a dusky pink, set off her black-brown skin perfectly. A brooch in the shape of a spider gleamed where it held her fitchu.
“We’d like to talk to you about the rents,” Alfred began.
Sir Thomas looked benignly confused. “I see. I’m afraid to tell you that I rather let the land manager, Mr. Johnson, deal with those. I have far too much work managing business day-to-day. The estate barely breaks-even most years, so doesn’t justify my time.”