“Why isn’t he ready?” she’d asked plaintively. “He’s had years.”
“We do not all wake up at the same time, my love.” Her mother had smoothed a curl behind Lydia’s ear. “You are yet young, Lydia, and you’ve seen little of the world. You may have chosen him, but perhaps you should make sure he is your choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have not been to Paris for an age. I will take you. We will shop for your wardrobe and we will attend Parisian society. Perhaps someone will catch your eye.”
“No one will catch my eye,” she’d said stubbornly.
“Perhaps not, but would you not rather know for sure?”
Exhaling, Lydia rested her forehead on her arms folded on the balustrade. The next day, she’d gone to his study. It had taken every scrap of courage she’d possessed, but she’d resolved to act as if nothing had happened. She could wait. She’d been patient for eighteen years, she could wait a few months more until he came to realise she was a woman grown. However, his study had been locked. She’d stood there dumbly and she’d tried the handle again and it still wouldn’t turn. In a daze, she’d returned home. Four days later, she’d been on a ship bound for Paris.
Lydia had done her best to allow someone to catch her eye. She’d been merry and she’d flirted, she’d kissed others and managed to garner a marriage proposal or three. She’d thrown herself into gaiety, pretending she was carefree and her heart had not been claimed before she’d even known what it meant.
Cursing under her breath, she tried to recapture the calm the night afforded her. Damn him. Damn him for destroying her peace. Why could she not rid herself of this? Everyone claimed it was a silly crush. Everyone said she would forget him, that she would fall in love a dozen times before settling on a man to wed. Her friends fell in love with alarming frequency, and each ball offered a new suitor. Why was it she couldn’t do the same?
But then...no one else had ever caught her eye.
Using the heels of her hands, she wiped her eyes and, pinching her cheeks, she forced a smile as she left the balcony.
The ball still whirled, even more people adding to its crush. She pushed through the crowd, smiling and laughing and greeting those she knew.
“There you are!” In a cloud of frills and perfume, Lady Violet Crafers appeared at her side. “Lord Seebohm has been asking after you, and Mr Harris was determined to claim his dance.”
“I apologise I was not present.” She’d missed Violet while she was away. Violet could, and had, filled reams of paper with every on dit she came across, but it wasn’t the same as watching her friend wildly gesticulate as she reported the latest gossip.
Violet’s smile turned sly. “I saw Lord Matthew Whitton follow you.”
“Did you?” she said diffidently, knowing it would drive her friend wild.
Violet whacked her with her fan. “Do not give me that. He followed you. What happened?”
Lydia smiled mysteriously.
Violet whacked her with her fan again, her dark curls bobbing. “I knew it! You are a wicked bad woman, Lydia.”
“Perhaps, but I am also a woman who knows how Lord Matthew kisses,” she said archly.
Violet sucked in her breath. “And?” she asked breathlessly.
“I shouldn’t repeat the experience.” She deliberately didn’t think of the events that followed.
Violet’s face fell. “That is disappointing. I always thought he would be good at it.”
Lydia shrugged.
“Oh well.” Violet smiled sunnily. “Shall we see what refreshments are yet available?”
As they walked from the ballroom and to the refreshment room, Violet chatted steadily, reporting every piece of gossip she’d heard over the last few days. Lydia listened, glad of the distraction. She would not let Oliver ruin her evening. She was here to have fun and by god, fun she would have.
Violet slowed as they approached the refreshments. “Oh,” she said in consternation.
“What is it?” Lydia followed her line of sight. Standing at the refreshments, sipping from a crystal glass, stood Seraphina Waller-Mitchell. “Oh.”
Violet’s lips turned down. “I do not wish to deal with her this evening.”
No one in their right mind wished to deal with Seraphina Waller-Mitchell. Seraphina looked down her nose at everyone, whether they were princess or scullery maid or any permutation in between. They were all plebeians to her, and unworthy of her time.
She had, however, decided Lydia was worth her time. At some stage, Lydia had incurred her wrath and she had dedicated herself to singling Lydia out at every occasion. Lydia had no idea why. Seraphina was six years her elder and thus Lydia should have been beneath her notice, yet ever since her debut, Seraphina had gone out of her way to make comment on her choice of gown, how she styled her hair, her dancing companion, the way she held her head. Seraphina had an opinion on it all, and all of it snide.
Tonight, Seraphina stood with a punch glass in her hand, her chin arrogantly high as she surveyed the room. Her henchwomen, Maria Spencer and Elizabeth Harcourt, flanked her, the three of them ready to attack whoever was foolish enough to stray near them.
Lydia squared her shoulders. “Come,” she said to Violet.
Violet wet her lips. “Do we have to?”
“Do not worry. I will protect you.”
A little green, Violet followed as Lydia strode for the refreshment table.
Seraphina Waller-Mitchell smiled at them. “Lady Lydia. Lady Violet. Such a delight to see you. And in such...gowns.”
How Seraphina Waller-Mitchell turned a smile into an insult was truly a work of art. “And you, Lady Seraphina.” Lydia forced herself to say no more, instead picking up a plate and helping herself to a sandwich triangle.
Seraphina watched her with interest while Maria Spencer and Elizabeth Harcourt glared, obviously waiting for Seraphina’s direction.
Lydia ignored them, piling sandwich after sandwich onto her plate. She refused to be intimidated, she absolutely refused. The back of her neck prickled, and she ignored the coldness slithering down her spine.
“How are Lord Henry’s wedding preparations proceeding?” Seraphina asked suddenly.
“Well,” she replied cautiously.
“I am so pleased to hear that.”
She wasn’t going to ask. This was how Seraphina drew you in. She made a statement and then—
Seraphina smiled thinly. “I knew there was nothing to the rumours.”
Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t—
“What rumours?” Violet asked, and immediately looked to be castigating herself for responding.
“You’ve not heard the rumours?” Seraphina asked, her tone arch. Maria Spencer exchanged a knowing look with Elizabeth Harcourt, who simply smirked.
Lydia grit her teeth. This was what Seraphina did, she reminded herself. She cast doubt with baseless rumour.
Seraphina’s expression brimmed with false sympathy. “I am certain there is nothing in them, absolutely certain.”
“There is nothing wrong with Harry and Tessa,” Violet burst out.
Silently, Lydia regarded Seraphina.
The other woman met her gaze, the corners of her lips lifting slightly. “No. Of course not. Nothing at all.”
Maria and Elizabeth watched breathlessly while Lydia held Seraphina’s gaze, refusing to yield to the woman.
“I’ll bid you good evening, Lady Seraphina. I do hope you enjoy the ball,” Lydia finally said, as calmly as she could manage.
“I shall, Lady Lydia. You may rely upon it.” Seraphina said with a smile that would slice one so precisely, one wouldn’t realise one bled until five paces away.
Taking Violet’s elbow, Lydia led them away. Her skin thrummed, and she wanted quite illogically to smash something.
“Oh, I wish I could just slap that smirk off her face,” Violet seethed.
“I know,” she replied. “But we can’t. She’s horrible, Violet. Don’t think
on her any longer.”
“It’s a lie, you know.”
“I know.”
“Whatever she’s heard, it’s a lie.”
“Most likely she’s fishing, or attempting to stir contrary where there is none. I shouldn’t think on it, Violet.”
“No.”
But they both knew they would. “In any event,” Lydia said, “Harry would tell us if there was a worry.”
Violet gave her a look. “Lydia,” she said. “Harry is a man.”
“True,” she conceded. “Tessa would tell us. Rumours are not facts, Violet. We should not treat them as if they were.”
Violet exhaled. “She just makes me so mad.”
She rubbed her friend’s arm comfortingly. “Let us enjoy the rest of the ball. We shan’t let her taint our evening.”
“Agreed.” Violet determinedly popped a sandwich in her mouth.
“Who shall we allow to dance with us, do you think?”
A reluctant smile tilted her friend’s lips. “Only the most handsome and the most intelligent.”
“Both? That will narrow the field considerably.” Lydia’s gaze wandered over the throng. Oliver was not among them. Most likely he was in the card room with his friend Wainwright. It was how he usually spent his time at a ball and—
She closed her eyes, annoyed at herself. Taking a breath, she forced a smile and, with Violet at her side, she entered the fray.
Chapter Three
Oliver stared down at his cards but, for the life of him, he could not concentrate. His mind was on a balcony and the pale face of a woman he hadn’t truly spoken with in nearly two years.
“I say, are you well, man?” Cards held loosely in his hand, Wainwright regarded him with furrowed brow.
“I’m fine,” he said, even as he again saw the hurt on Lydia’s face.
“I think Wainwright’s correct.” Her own cards ignored, Lady Wainwright peered at Oliver. “You do appear decidedly peaked.”
“I promise I’m fine.” Shifting in his seat, he concentrated on the cards in his hand.
“Don’t tease him, Lady Wainwright,” Wainwright said. “He has managed to emerge once again into society, much like a newly born chick hatching and blinking eyes at a bright and terrible world. We shouldn’t discourage him.”
Lady Wainwright nodded gravely. “It is true. We should encourage his brave venture into the unknown.”
“It must be confusing, being amongst other people,” Wainwright continued. “Why, look how he retreats to those he knows rather than enjoy the charms of strangers in his midst.”
“Yes, it is odd. For two years, we have noted his presence at only the occasional society outing, and even then I do not recall seeing him at a ball for well over a year. Yet, in the past three months, he has attended musicals and dinner parties and, yes, even balls. What, pray tell, could have changed?”
“I have no notion, my dear. Shall we ask him?”
“Yes, let us ask him.” They both turned overly expectant expressions to him.
Exhaling, Oliver scowled at his cards. Wainwright was barely concealing his glee, his light blue eyes alight. His lady held the same expression, her own cornflower blue gaze trained with false innocence upon him. He’d known Wainwright since his first year at Eton and, as his closest friend, Wainwright’s favourite sport was to needle Oliver, though to be fair Oliver’s favourite sport was to needle his friend back. When his friend had wooed and wed the girl would become Lady Wainwright, he’d thought perhaps marriage would put a halt to their sport. Instead, Lady Wainwright had valiantly entered the playing field and now he had two people who delighted in needling him. “Are you done?” he asked.
“I don’t know. My dear, are we done?” Wainwright asked his lady.
“I’m unsure, Wainwright. He has not yet answered our question.”
“You didn’t ask a question, you issued a statement,” Oliver pointed out, but when had logic ever stopped Wainwright and his lady?
“True, true. How very remiss of us.” Lady Wainwright propped her chin in her hand. “What has changed?”
Christ. One would have thought he would have learnt by now. He cast a desperate look at Wainwright, but his friend merely grinned maniacally. “I simply felt the need for society.”
“How odd. Society. And yet he has not felt the need for How long was it again, dear?”
“Two years,” Wainwright answered, an unholy gleam to his eye.
“Two whole years. My. One might suppose something in particular has prompted this re-emergence. Is it something in particular, Roxwaithe?”
Oliver cast his gaze toward the refreshment room. “Has not Miss Hurcombe taken an age? Perhaps she requires assistance.”
“My sister is capable of returning from the refreshments by herself.” Lady Wainwright’s lips twitched. “Do tell us what has changed, Roxwaithe.”
“I told you. I had a strange need for society, which I am now regretting.”
Wainwright propped his elbow on the back of his chair. “My dear, do you think he means us?” he said to his wife.
“I rather think he does,” she responded brightly.
“I rue the day I met you,” Oliver told Wainwright.
“Alas, we were but young lads then, and Eton held enough horrors that we are forever bound to one another. We will stop now, though,” Wainwright said magnanimously, waving his hand in the air.
“Thank you ever so,” Oliver said.
Lady Wainwright stood. “Actually, Cynthia has been an age. I should go see what is keeping her.” Passing a brief caress over her husband’s shoulder, she abandoned them for the refreshments room.
Oliver watched her go before turning back to his cards only to catch Wainwright regarding him closely. “What?”
“There is truth in our jests, you know. You rarely attend balls anymore, bar these last three months.”
“You rarely attend either.”
“Ah, but we have children and an estate in Penrith.”
“I have an estate in Northumberland.”
“You are never there, whereas we spend most of the year in Penrith. In fact, we return next week.”
“You will? You did not tell me.”
“It is hard to tell a person anything when one does not see them.”
“We saw each other at the Garland’s musical two weeks ago.”
“‘Saw each other’ being the operative. You lurked in a corner and scowled at orchestra. We did not speak.”
“Fine, it must have been….” Oliver racked his brain. Belatedly, he remembered the Oritons’ dinner party a month ago. Had it really been that long?
Wainwright smirked.
Oliver exhaled. “I concede, it has been a while. When next week will you depart?”
“Tuesday. Lady Wainwright has a commitment that presents us from leaving before then.” Wainwright’s brow lifted. “We know why, anyway.”
“Know what?”
“Why you are here. Lydia Torrence is looking decidedly well this evening.”
Heat rose from his neck and, of a sudden, his cards were of intense interest.
“It is strange how she has returned from the Continent to enter London society and now you are a regular feature at balls and musicals and such,” Wainwright continued. “Only last week, Lady Wainwright and I saw you at the theatre. The theatre, Roxwaithe. And yet, you do not approach her. What happened? There was a time when you could not speak but to mention her.”
His head whipped up. “Pardon?”
“Every second word was an observation of Lydia Torrence’s. Lady Wainwright was convinced you would offer for her as soon as she made her bow.”
He stared at his friend in disbelief. “She is fourteen years younger than me.”
“So?”
“She is a child.”
Wainwright opened his mouth to respond only to look past him. “She doesn’t look like a child,” he said.
Brows drawn, he followed Wainwright’s gaze. Lydia had ente
red the room, glorious in a gown of soft green and pale gold, and the low-cut bodice made it obvious to all that she was not a child. Not in the slightest. The group of young men surrounding her led her to a card table, fawning over her as she took her seat.
During the year and more she’d been away, she’d grown fully into her looks, becoming a woman for all he protested otherwise. Her upswept red-gold hair rioted around features that fulfilled the promise of beauty, a straight nose and high cheekbones framing a mouth with a thin upper lip and a full lower one. She’d done something to them and they were redder than he remembered, glistening in the candlelight and making him want to slick them with his own tongue.
Christ, what was he thinking? Hastily, he averted his gaze.
“A child, is she?” Wainwright asked.
Oliver didn’t respond.
“She is nineteen, is she not?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty. Then, I would hypothesise that she is not, as you say, a child.”
“She is still too young.”
Wainwright studied him. “If you say so.”
“Besides, she is as a sister to me,” Oliver felt compelled to add. “She and Lady Alexandra both. All the Torrences are as family, and Lord Demartine has always assisted me greatly with the management of the Roxwaithe estate. Perhaps that is why I spoke of her often.”
“Perhaps.”
“I enjoyed her company when she was growing, but she is in society now. She had that year on the Continent, which I can only think was for the best. Look how popular she has become.”
“A veritable Incomparable.”
“Yes. I imagine Lord Demartine is inundated with request for permission to court her.” The words tasted bitter. “I saw her on the balcony with Whitton,” he said abruptly.
For a moment, all was silent. He refused to look at Wainwright, refused to see what might be in Wainwright’s gaze. “Did you?”
“I yelled at her. I have not spoken with her for an age and I—” His voice cracked. Swallowing, he again saw her pale face, the anger, the hurt. “I yelled at her,” he repeated softly.
“What were they doing?” Wainwright asked. “She and Whitton?”
“They— He—” Bile rose in his throat.
Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2) Page 4