Ignoring his dramatics, she plucked the playbill from him. “What are we watching?”
Oliver stared at his now empty hand. “Did you just snatch that?”
Ignoring him again, she perused the programme. “Oh. Shakespeare.”
“You did. You snatched it. From my hand.”
“Honestly, you would think nobody in the theatre community at large had an ounce of creativity or originality. And they call it the creative arts.”
“From. My. Hand.”
She levelled him a stare. “Are you going to be tiresome about this?”
“Maybe.”
“Fine.” She shoved the playbill at him.
“And now you shove things at me. What did I do to deserve this treatment?”
“You invited me and my parents to the Roxwaithe theatre box. You have no one to blame but yourself.”
“’Tis true. It is my tragedy. And even worse Lord and Lady Demartine were subsequently invited to the Duke of Marylebone’s box, abandoning me to your tender mercies.”
“Woe is you.”
He nodded gravely. “Woe is indeed me.”
Mirth bubbled over and she grinned. Tapping the playbill against his leg, he grinned in return as he leant back in his chair. The fabric of his breaches stretched over his thighs, outlining powerful muscles. Unable to help herself, she stared, her mouth drying as she traced the length of his thigh, the turn of his hip, the narrow waist concealed by his appropriately sombre waistcoat. The hair gathered behind his neck revealed the strong lines of his face. His nose was bold, perhaps a little too much, but it perfectly balanced his strong jaw accentuated by his beard. His full lips—kissing lips, she’d always thought—were pursed thoughtfully, and she’d like nothing so much as to soothe his furrowed brow and then run her fingers over those kissing lips to ascertain for herself if they were was soft as she remembered....
Damnation.
Tearing her gaze from him, she closed her eyes. She had promised herself she wouldn’t look at him so. She had promised herself she would treat him as she would Harry or George or Michael, but he was not her brother, and she’d never been able to look from him.
Oliver exhaled heavily.
Opening her eyes, she regarded his left ear. “What is it?”
He shrugged.
“Oliver. You have your concerned look. What are you concerned about?”
“Stephen,” he finally said. “He has decided he wishes to join Alexandra in studying the spiritual.”
Shock stole her tongue. “What?”
“I know.” He rubbed his neck.
“But he’s never shown an interest.”
“I know.”
“Never, Oliver.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“Why would he say such a thing?”
“I don’t know. Why does Stephen do anything?”
Her mind raced. “There must be a reason. Stephen is always purposeful.”
“No, he’s not.”
Oh, good Lord. “Oliver,” she said pleasantly. “You are an idiot.”
His eyebrows shot up. “No one speaks to me as you do.”
“That’s because you’ve somehow convinced everyone you are fearsome.”
“I am fearsome.”
She snorted.
“Fine. How am I being idiotic?”
“You wear blinders where your brother is concerned, and you do not regard him with the same lens as the rest of us. To you, he is your little brother, your remaining brother, and you view him as if he were still a child. You are aware he is almost thirty-one?”
A scowl settled on his features. “I am well aware of my brother’s age.”
“Good. Because you act as if you are not.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Oliver, he is allowed to be aimless.”
His jaw tensed.
She sighed. “Oliver, your path was set for you from the moment of your birth. You always knew what lay ahead and what responsibilities it would hold. For the rest of us, it is confusing, and even a little terrifying, to consider what life might hold for us.”
Eyes downcast, he said, “Do you feel this way?”
“Sometimes. I am supposed to marry, and marry well. I always thought—” Her cheeks heated. She really didn’t need to remind him she always thought she’d marry him. “I know the path of my life, but it is now changed and I am not certain precisely where it will lead. That can be daunting. Alexandra has gone to Bentley Close,” she said, changing the subject suddenly. “Do you think Stephen has gone with her?”
“No, he is still in London—You’re funning me, aren’t you?” he asked resignedly.
“Maybe just a little.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Alexandra has gone to Bentley Close? I suppose she will end up at Waithe Hall.”
“Most likely. She is determined, you know.”
“I know.”
“She left a day ago. Mama and Papa believe her to be visiting relatives.” She gave him a stern look. “You are not to tell them differently.”
“I won’t.”
Surprise filled her. “Really?”
“You have asked me not to.”
“I thought you told my father everything. I thought it was almost a religion with you.”
His lips twisted, but he didn’t deny it. “You should know, though, your father is not fooled. He believes she is at Bentley Close, investigating ghosts and such.”
She exhaled. “I knew it was doomed to failure.”
“She came to see me,” he continued. “She wanted to know about reports of lights at Waithe.”
“Lights?”
“The villagers reported lights in the windows of the east wing late at night, no doubt the work of spirits. There was that housekeeper, the one who searched for the lost keys. Maxim and your sister always used to” His smile faded as an old pain shadowed his eyes. “It hits me at odd times, and never when I expect.” He looked at her. “Do you remember him?”
Wishing she could heal his hurt, she reached out, placing her hand on his forearm. “Yes, but I never knew him well. He was always Alexandra’s.”
He exhaled. “I know. It was impossible to separate them. Your mother used to try, but it was always doomed to failure. They would inevitably find their way back to each other.” The corner of his lip lifted.
What memory did he see to cause that small smile? “I wish he were here, Oliver. I wish you, Stephen and Maxim were with one another, and you were just as annoyed with Maxim’s choices as you are with Stephen’s.”
His smile grew. “Back on that, are we?”
“We were never going to not discuss it,” she said archly. He needed distraction, and she was more than willing to provide it.
“What, then, is the solution?”
“There is no solution.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“Stephen is a man grown. You really ought to treat him as such. You cannot fix this for him. It is something that is his to discover.”
“But—”
“Oliver. You cannot fix this for him.”
Exhaling, he nodded, his gaze drifting to her hand. Of a sudden, she realised she’d never let him go. There was an intimacy to their pose, one she had no claim to, but one she’d always desperately wanted.
His eyes met hers, dark and unreadable. Breath locked in her chest, she wanted nothing more than to move closer to him, to feel those strong arms around her, to feel the hardness of his chest beneath her fingers as she leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers, once, twice, before he cracked and kissed her, truly kissed her, licking at her lips, his tongue invading her, his hands tightening on her back as he drew her closer....
“Lady Lydia.”
Cheeks aflame, she jerked back. The Duke of Meacham stood at the door to the Roxwaithe box, his gaze shifting between her and Oliver. Quickly she stood, dipping into a curtsey while Oliver also rose, more slowly, his bow considerably more forced.
Arran
ging a smile on her face, Lydia rose from her curtsey. “Your grace.”
“Lady Lydia. The earl, your father, gave me direction to you. I did not expect to find you alone. With Lord Roxwaithe.” His gaze again shifted between them.
“It is my box,” Oliver said.
“Yes, of course,” Lord Meacham said smoothly. “Lady Lydia, would you grant me the honour of escorting you to the refreshments at intermission? I hoped to continue our discussion on aqueducts in antiquity.”
“Do you have something of particular to discuss?” she asked.
“I discovered a book my dealer tells me is quite rare, and I should like to gain your opinion on both it and its contents.”
Her lips quirked. The duke had discovered her interest quickly and sought to take advantage. How enterprising of him. “I should like that very much, your grace.”
“Lady Lydia, you know you have leave to refer me by name.”
Beside her, Oliver stiffened.
“Yes. Thank you. Meacham.” She resisted the urge to glance at Oliver.
“I’m sure the earl won’t mind losing your company for a time. Will you, Roxwaithe?” Meacham’s smile took on an edge.
Eyes hard, Oliver worked his jaw. What he had to be annoyed about, she had no idea. “Of course not,” he said.
“Excellent. I shall return at intermission.” Meacham bent low over her hand, his lips the barest whisper through the fine leather of her glove. “Until then, my lady,” he murmured and, with a final smile, he exited the box.
After Lord Meacham left, Lydia arranged her skirts, fiddled with her gloves, and generally did not look at Oliver. Her neck felt hot, as did her cheeks, and a strange churn had begun in her belly. Good Lord, this was ridiculous. She had no reason to feel guilty. Oliver was merely her friend. He did not want her. He had made that quite, quite clear. She had a right to flirt with other men, to meet them at intermission and talk of shared interests, and if she chose to find a secluded corner with Meacham, Oliver had no cause to complain. She had no reason to feel guilty.
Taking a breath, she said brightly, “How do you think this production will butcher Shakespeare?”
Oliver remained silent, his hard gaze trained straight ahead.
“Maybe it will surprise us and, I don’t know, actually be intriguing? After all, most of society is here. Surely they will attempt something that approaches entertainment.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“Although horrendous can be entertainment in itself.” Still no response. “Oliver, what is wrong?”
“Nothing,” he ground out.
“If it is nothing, why won’t you talk with me?”
“I do not feel like conversing.”
“That is peculiar, seeing not ten minutes ago, you very much felt like conversing. Why do you not now?”
“Because, Lydia.”
“That is not a reason.”
He shrugged.
The silence between them filled with tension. She folded the fabric of her dress through her fingers, working her jaw as a vast wave of nothing emanated from him.
Finally, she’d had enough. “I am going to sit with my parents. Give the duke my direction at intermission.”
“Don’t you mean Meacham?” he said snidely.
Giving him a hard glare, she swept from the box. Her annoyance remained with her as she settled herself in Marylebone’s box with her parents. She hoped Oliver enjoyed watching the play by himself. She hoped he had all manner of fun seated alone in his box, watching as this troupe mangled Shakespeare horribly. And when Meacham came to escort her to the refreshments, she was going to laugh and be merry and not give a damn what Oliver Farlisle, the Earl of Roxwaithe, had to say about it.
Chapter Nine
Lydia attacked the easel, her brow creased as she stabbed with her brush. From where he stood, Oliver couldn’t see much of what she was painting, but it looked like an array of variously shaped green blobs with the occasional brown blob thrown in for contrast. If one squinted, one could concede her painting vaguely resembled the plants surrounding them in the conservatory. If one squinted.
He watched her in silence for a moment, not wanting to destroy her version of tranquillity. She always painted when she wanted calm, and the fact she was terrible at it did not deter her at all. Tendrils of red-gold hair lay against her neck and curled softly against her shoulders, the rest of it gathered into some complicated braided thing at the crown of her head. The back of her gown dipped between her shoulder blades, a soft vee displaying warm, creamy skin. Her blades moved as she stabbed at the easel and he charted their progress, wondering how the skin would feel beneath a splayed hand as she reached for a kiss rather than a paintbrush—
Shaking himself, he scowled at his distraction. He was here to apologise, not to ogle her without her knowledge. “Are you destroying another sheet of paper?”
She whirled around, her brows drawing as she spied him. For the longest time, they stared at each other.
“You’re dripping paint,” he finally said.
She skewered the paintbrush into a water-filled jar. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”
“I came to see Lord Demartine.” Her expression didn’t change. “And to apologise.”
Her expression softened. Slightly. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Feeling awkward, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I apologise for my behaviour at the theatre. I was boorish.”
“You were.” She studied him a moment. With a sigh, she shook her head. “However, I am creating a masterpiece. You should not disturb genius.” The corner of her lips tilted.
Relief flowed through him. She forgave him. Taking a place behind her, he studied the composition. “Genius?”
“It is not my fault you don’t recognise artistry when it is before you.” Glancing over her shoulder, she arched a brow.
He always forgot how beautiful she was. He knew it on some base level, but to him she was Lydia, her face and form merely one part of her. She had been declared a diamond of the first order, and men fell over themselves to be the one to put a smile on her face, but it was more than her face. It was her. Her wit, her joy, the way she teased. The way she teased him. The counsel she gave. The fact she adored architecture and left hair pins littered everywhere, and when she was with him, he felt...complete.
“Did you really come to see my father?” she asked.
“No,” he admitted.
She beamed, and he smiled in return, helpless not to. “So you merely came to critique genius artwork?”
“This? This is genius?”
“It is the genesis of genius.”
“Of course.” He studied the easel, debating if he should ask about Meacham. He had just apologised, she had accepted, but he didn’t know how solid the foundation of their relationship. Before, he would have asked without thought, but that was before. Just ask, man. “You have been spending time with Lord Meacham,” he blurted.
She regarded her painting as well. “Yes,” she said. “He is courting me.”
“Good. That is good. He is…” He trailed off, uncertain how to continue. What to say? In the end, he said nothing.
She glanced at him. “I should like your opinion. He is courting me, Oliver, with serious intent. I believe he has spoken to Papa.” Her gaze turned imploring. “I need your opinion on the rest of my life.”
Just barely, he held on to his neutral expression. He didn’t want to talk with her about this. He didn’t want to know she would eventually be someone’s fiancée, someone’s wife, however, he had no choice. He had declared himself her friend. He was her friend. He would help her with this. Because they were friends. “Do you like him?”
She stared at the painting. “I think I could like him,” she finally said.
“But you don’t know?” He shouldn’t feel pleasure at the thought.
“I don’t know him well enough to know, though it doesn’t really matter.” Her expression turned bleak. “If not him, it will be som
eone else, someone I’ll dance with once or twice, see at a few events, and then he will ask my father for permission to propose. And I should say yes, because it is the right thing to do. For my family. For me. The thing is, though, I don’t know if I will know him. What if we do not suit? What if we marry, and then five years after we dislike each other, and we live in the same house but have separate lives? I don’t want to have a separate life from my husband, Oliver. I don’t want to hear about mistresses and opera singers and…. I want to have what Mama and Papa have. I want a person I know so well I can always trust him.” Hazel eyes caught his. “Am I naïve?”
“No, Lydia.” His hand twitched. He wanted to cup her face, swipe his thumb over her cheek, rid her of uncertainty and worry. “Of course not.”
She wrapped her arms about herself. “I have never had to think about this before.”
“Why?” he asked.
She looked at him sharply.
Christ. Stupid, idiotic, thoughtless comment. Because she had always thought to marry him.
“What about you?” she asked quickly. “Do you like anyone? You have not courted anyone seriously since.... Was it Elizabeth Grainger?”
He stared at her blankly.
“Lord Palmeroy’s daughter?” she prompted.
“I did not court her.”
“I remember quite clearly you courting her. Everyone thought you did.”
“Well, everyone was wrong.” He barely remembered Elizabeth Grainger. He was fairly sure he’d seen her at a few events, had perhaps even danced with her, and from this society had decided he had been courting her? “I have not given serious thought to anyone.”
“But you have given an unserious thought?”
He didn’t respond.
Her smile died. “Really? Who?”
“It is a thought, nothing more.”
“Who?”
“No one in particular, however, ‘the Roxwaithe name must carry on’.”
She cocked her head. “Is that your father you are quoting?”
“Who else?”
“He is dead, Oliver.”
“And yet I still hear his voice in my head.” He exhaled. “Do not listen to me, I am being maudlin. We should instead focus on this travesty on the easel.”
Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2) Page 8