Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2)

by Cassandra Dean

  “It is because I come to you with the study of the spiritual, isn’t it? If it were an investment or a charity, you would have no concern.”

  “That is not true, Stephen. You”

  “These funds are mine. They have been invested on my behalf. I am entitled to them.”

  God damn, his brother could be— Letting out a controlled breath, Oliver counted to ten. “I am the trustee and I would be remiss in my duty if I did not question what you will do with these funds. You have announced this interest out of the blue and you give no basis for the release of funds. You have not given any evidence you have done even a cursory exam.”

  Sullenness soured his brother’s expression. “You are being unreasonable.”

  Oliver’s temper snapped. “It is unfortunate, then, that you must seek the permission of an unreasonable man. Demonstrate when you first displayed this interest.”

  “As I’ve said. Always. I cannot remember when it began.”

  “Then what am I to think, brother? Or is this like the time you wanted to run Excott Manor?”

  Stephen looked to the side, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

  “Or when you wished to oversee the shipping concern. Or when you studied botany. Or when you thought a life of academia would suit. You tried all these things, and none of them suited. There is nothing about this latest endeavour that makes me believe it will be any different. You have approached me with an idea, not a proposal. I have nothing against ideas, Stephen, but substance is required. Reports. Evidence. Christ, the reason you are even interested. You have offered none of these.”

  Staring to the side, Stephen’s jaw tensed. “Then, there is nothing more to say.”

  “There is more. Bring me the evidence. A plan. Show these funds will not be wasted. I do not wish to keep you from pursuing your interests, but there has to be some basis.”

  Stephen’s lips twisted. “And there it is. You believe me frivolous.”

  Oliver cursed. “Stephen….”

  “I shall bother you no longer. Good afternoon, Roxwaithe.”

  “Brother, do not—” But Stephen had already left, wrenching the door shut behind him.

  Oliver sank back into his chair. Bloody hell. Bloody goddamned hell. Every bloody time a discussion ended in a war between them. He did not know when this animosity had started, but it grew worse each year. Stephen would be sullen and defensive, Oliver would respond with highhandedness, and so the cycle continued.

  He palmed the knot of his hair at his nape. Why could Stephen not see he only had his best interests at heart? Stephen had run through the inheritance their mother had left them, and he did change his interest as one would change waistcoats. Oliver was looking out for his brother, ensuring his happiness. Why couldn’t Stephen see that?

  His gaze centred on her chair, the books stacked high beside it. He missed her. If she were here, if she still sat in that chair, he would have paced and pulled at his hair and she— A smile tugged at him. He could just see her sitting there, rolling her eyes at his dramatics and arguing him into a good mood.

  His smile faded. He had acted poorly at the Fanning ball; he didn’t need her to tell him that. This distance between them had to end. He would rather she were in his life than suffer the lack of her. He could keep his opinions on her amorous pursuits to himself. She wished to win herself a husband and he would not stand in her way. He was only grateful her sights were no longer set on him and they could resume their friendship. Those young men would court her and flatter her, and she would turn her smiles and attention to them. She would turn her love to them.

  Brows drawn, he stared at the report before him. Lydia. Her attention on the man she would marry. Her smile for him. Her counsel for him. Her love for him.

  Exhaling, Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. And that was good. That was right.

  Chapter Six

  Casting her gaze about the room, Lydia tapped her fan against her thigh. Most spines contained scrawled names, though in all honesty she wasn’t looking forward to the commencement of the dancing. This assembly was like the dozens of others she had attended this year alone, but she felt off tonight and would have much preferred to be alone in her room. However, she had a social obligation, to her mother, her father, and her family, to attend every social gathering and be merry. Ugh. She would be merry. Even if it killed her.

  “Isn’t this amazing?” Violet gushed beside her, also looking out on the crowded ballroom. Her enthusiasm shone, her foot tapping in time with the music from the ensemble.

  “Yes. Of course.” Good Lord, she would fool no one if she spoke in such a flat tone.

  Without losing her smile, Violet made a face. “Don’t be sullen, Lydia. You shan’t attract a suitor if you are sullen.”

  “I shall,” she said. Merrily. Even if it killed her. “It will just be those of a particular bent.”

  “Those of a particular bent are the most interesting. Perhaps this strategy should be adopted by all us debutantes.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Violet’s breath exploded. “Honestly, Lydia, you are no fun tonight. I made what was clearly a superior jest and you completely ignore it. Whatever is the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Her friend looked unconvinced. “Seriously, there is nothing the matter, Violet. Surely there is something more interesting for us to talk about than my potential suitors.”

  “I suppose we could discuss the latest on dit.”

  “Yes. Let us do that. Tell me all of the latest on dit. I have been on the Continent, you know.”

  “You’ve been home for months, Lydia.”

  “Nevertheless, all my gossip is of the Continent. Spill, Violet. I can see you are fair to bursting.”

  “Well....” Violet leant closer. “Did you hear about Brianna Thompson?”

  “What about Brianna Thompson?”

  “She was found in a compromising position with Marcus Dormer.”

  “Define compromising.”

  “They were embracing and her bodice was undone.”

  “Violet,” she said in exasperation. The likelihood of that happening was zero. Marcus Dormer was as proper as they came, and the mere thought of him in a compromising position was absurd.

  “It was shocking by all accounts, absolutely shocking.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “I heard they were standing next to each other, chatting calmly about the weather.”

  Violet pouted. “You are no fun. How can we gossip if you insist on being factual?”

  Unconcerned, Lydia lifted a shoulder as she idly surveyed the crowd.

  Violet’s pout faded. “Don’t look,” she said.

  “Why?” She followed Violet’s gaze. Oh.

  Oliver had entered the ballroom. He was almost painfully handsome, dressed in a sober coat and breeches, his hair fastened tightly in a knot at the base of his head.

  Heart pounding in her chest, she jerked her gaze away.

  “I told you not to look,” Violet said.

  Scowling, she said, “When, in the history of ever, has a person not looked?”

  “Fair point. Lydia, don’t look, the Earl of Roxwaithe is here,” she said lamely. Sighing, she cocked her head. “Why do you like him, anyway? He is old.”

  “He is not old. He is older. There is a difference.”

  “Old. Older.” Violet waved a hand. “In any case, he’s only passably attractive. He has all that hair.”

  “He’s allowed to have hair.” She loved his hair. Many was the time she’d stare at it, at the way he’d mess up the neatly gathered strands his valet had arranged in an approximation of a queue. She’d look at those loosely gathered strands and want—so much—to run her fingers through them….

  “And a beard. A beard, Lydia! He’s a veritable bear of a man. So common.” Violet shuddered delicately.

  Lydia regarded her friend suspiciously. “Are you funning me?”

  “I? Fun you? Why I should never! Lydia Torrence, I do not know where you get your ideas fr
om.”

  “You are funning me,” she said in resignation, setting Violet off into peals of laughter.

  Sobering, Violet offered, “He does have a lot of hair.”

  Lifting her chin, she refused to answer.

  Of a sudden, Violet’s grin vanished. “He’s coming over,” she said flatly.

  All at once, a myriad of emotions assaulted Lydia—excitement, apprehension, anger. Deliberately, she kept her gaze from him, debating the best way to react. She would not allow him to berate her again. She would be polite and distant, and she would not think him the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

  Pasting a wide smile on her face, she looked up—only to find the Duke of Meacham before them. A mix of disappointment and relief filled her. Disappointment it wasn’t Oliver. Relief it wasn’t Oliver.

  “Lady Violet, Lady Lydia.” Lord Meacham bowed deeply over each of their hands. Lord Meacham was, by anyone’s standards in contention for the most beautiful man one had ever beheld. Dark brown hair waved back from a wide forehead boasting thick, winged brows over deep blue eyes. His nose was bold, balanced by high cheekbones, a strong jaw and full lips. His physique was athletic and his clothing perfectly flattered his form, fashionable and just this side of daring. He was very much fun to look at.

  “Duke,” Violet said, her tone decidedly chilly.

  Lydia glanced at her friend. Arms crossed, Violet wore a scowl as she glared at Lord Meacham. Usually, Violet was swayed by a pretty face but, apparently, not Lord Meacham’s pretty face.

  An unholy gleam lit his painfully blue gaze as the duke absorbed her ire, lending him a saturnine air that, somehow, made him even more attractive.

  “How are you this evening, my lord?” Lydia said, ignoring Violet and whatever was occurring between her and the duke.

  Lord Meacham’s gaze settled back upon her, and his smile turned genuine rather than taunting. “I am well, Lady Lydia, and better now for seeing you. May I have the honour of the next dance?”

  Violet snorted. Lydia raised a brow at her friend, who had merely scowled back at her. “You may,” she said, somewhat enjoying her friend’s ire. “You may even have the first one.”

  “Excellent. Shall we?” He held out his arm.

  With a smile, she placed her hand on his forearm.

  “I’ll just wait here, shall I?” Violet said sourly.

  Lydia smirked at her as Lord Meacham led her to the dancing. The first strains of music sounded as they took their places.

  She had met Lord Meacham the year previous at a ball in Vienna and had struck up a flirtation. It had never moved past an occasional dance and delightful conversation but she had liked him very well. It did not hurt in the slightest that he was beautiful. Overly so, if she were being honest. She much preferred a less god-like man, one who seemed touchable. One with rough edges and long hair and a beard….

  “How are you finding the ball, Lady Lydia?” Lord Meacham asked.

  Blinking, she brought her thoughts back to the dance. “It is tedious, your grace.”

  He chuckled. “I always did appreciate your directness.”

  “I am only occasionally direct. Tonight, it appears, is one of those occasions.” As they linked hands, she smiled to take the sting from her words.

  “I would hope you always felt you could be direct with me, Lady Lydia. I find there is nothing more attractive than a lady who speaks her mind,” he said, guiding her to execute the next step.

  Arching a brow, she said, “Your grace, are you telling me what you believe or what you think I want to hear?”

  His smile dazzled. “Can it not be both?”

  Well, that made her laugh. Still chuckling, she shook her head as they continued the dance.

  They spoke of their families, and the time between their last meet and tonight, and compared their journeys from Vienna to London. He was witty and amusing, and before she knew it, the dance was done. Bowing as the final strains sounded, he asked, “May I call on you tomorrow?”

  “I would like that.”

  His smile was warm. “Excellent.”

  The ballroom had thinned out a little after the last dance, the announcement of refreshments proving an irresistible draw. Delivering her back to Violet, Lord Meacham said, “There. Returned to you safely.”

  Violet sniffed.

  That unholy gleam lit his eyes once more. “I should be delighted if you, too, would honour me with a dance, Lady Violet.”

  “I...can think of no good reason to refuse.” The smile she gave was sickly and, as she took his arm, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor, she cast a desperate look at Lydia.

  Lydia crossed her eyes in response. Smiling as her friend’s scowl was lost in the throng, she idly took up surveying the crowd once more.

  “Lady Lydia.”

  Every muscle in her body tensed. Swallowing, she raised her gaze to meet Oliver’s.

  Somehow, he had come upon her without her notice. Up close, the impact of him hit her hard. His grey eyes under dark brows. The bold nose almost too big for his face with the bump on the bridge from the time it had been broken. The golden brown hair pulled back from his high forehead and the darker hair on his jaw.

  “May I have this dance?” he asked, holding out his arm.

  “I—” Damnation, where was her tongue? Staring at his arm, she didn’t know what to do. Finally, slowly, she curled her fingers about his forearm. Beneath the cloth of his coat and her gloves, his arm was solid and firm, and she knew it to be corded with muscle. In the privacy of his study, he’d often rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows and she’d stared at the muscles flexing as he wrote or shuffled paper, at the light sprinkling of dark hair over pale skin, and how she’d wanted to touch and trace.

  Her breath caught and she couldn’t stop her fingers from digging into the solid flesh.

  “Shall—” His voice cracked. Huskily, he continued, “Shall we?”

  Wordlessly, she nodded. They arranged themselves amongst the dancers and, when the music started, completed the first steps in silence. Keeping her gaze from him, she concentrated on the moves, the air between them tense and awkward.

  “How are you this evening?” he asked.

  “I am fine.” How much longer could this dance possibly be? It only felt like forever, surely.

  “I miss you.”

  The words startled her so, she stumbled.

  He looked chagrined, as if he hadn’t meant to speak, but then his lips firmed and he gave a slight nod. “I miss you,” he repeated, his tone firm.

  Speechless, she stared at him. She had absolutely no idea how to respond.

  “I know there is...awkwardness between us, but I should like us to be friends. I miss your friendship, Lydia.”

  “Do you?” One of the other dancers looked at her, eyebrows raised at the sharpness of her words. With a smile that felt more like a grimace, she ducked her head.

  Raising his hand to flank hers, he took the next step. “There has been some unfortunate behaviour, mine as much—if not more so—than yours.”

  “Unfortunate?” she said, holding on to her smile.

  Red stained his cheeks. “I should have handled it better.”

  She didn’t know what to say. This was completely the wrong place to have this conversation. She couldn’t yell at him, she couldn’t break down, she couldn’t admit her love once more. She couldn’t do any of these things, and he was looking at her with such caring, such sincerity.

  “Lydia.”

  His voice. His deep, smooth, perfect voice. She couldn’t deny him. This had ever been her problem. “Oliver,” she said, and in his name was forgiveness and longing and the fact she had missed him, too. She had missed him so much.

  He closed his eyes briefly, relief palpable in his expression. It meant this much to him, her friendship. Continuing the steps of the dance, he smiled at her and said something, something about how glad he was they were friends again, and it was all so clear. It was all so horribly, horri
bly clear.

  Her friendship.

  Something in her broke. She stumbled, the room lurching.

  “Lydia?” Concern tinged his expression.

  “I am sorry. I am… The heat.”

  His brow cleared. “Of course. Do you require your mother? I am sure Lady Demartine—”

  “No, I need only to return—” Swallowing, she blinked furiously. She hadn’t realised she still held out hope, but of course she did. Of course she did. How could he not love her? How? “Please return me to Violet,” she said hoarsely.

  “Lydia—”

  “Please, Oliver.”

  Nodding, he led her from the dancing. Violet was nowhere to be seen as they approached a quiet space. Oliver looked around them, but she just wanted him to leave. “Thank you for the dance,” she said.

  “Should we not wait—”

  “Thank you,” she interrupted.

  Brows drawn, he nodded slowly. “May I call upon you tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” she said, wrapping her arms about her middle.

  He hesitated. “I should not leave you when you are unwell.”

  “I am fine. It is only the heat. I promise I will be well.” She attempted a smile.

  He did not look convinced. “Lydia....”

  “Perhaps you can bring me a glass of something.”

  He nodded and, with a purpose, he finally left.

  As soon as he disappeared into the crowd, she took a great gasp of air. Oh, it hurt. It hurt so much. Her friendship. Only ever her friendship.

  “Lady Lydia, so lovely to see you.”

  Despair filled her. She closed her eyes, a lump in her throat. Why? Why did this have to happen now? Dread pooling within her, she turned. “Lady Seraphina.”

  Seraphina Waller-Mitchell smiled prettily, her closed fan clasped in her hand. She wore a gown of bright blue, because the rules apparently did not apply to Seraphina Waller-Mitchell. “We did not catch up properly at the Fanning ball. It has been an age since we spoke, surely before you left for the Continent. Remind me again why there was such a rush for you to depart.” She raised a thin dark brow, and the insinuation could not have be clearer.

  “No reason,” Lydia said, wishing herself anywhere but here.