Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2)

by Cassandra Dean

  “And what will that accomplish?”

  He still regarded her warily. “I don’t know, but Lady Demartine will fix it. She’s good at fixing disasters.”

  Her heart cracked. “This is a disaster?”

  “No. No, of course not. Lydia….” Licking his lips, he ran his hand over his head, fingers snagging in the loose strands. She had pulled those strands free. When they were behaving disastrously.

  “I see.” Numbness coated her. “You should go to Roxegate. I will find my mother.”

  “Lydia—”

  “No,” she said sharply.

  Jaw working, he stared at her.

  Suddenly, she was tired. So tired. Presenting her back, she said, “Please button me.”

  Silently, he did as she bade and they were silent as they righted themselves.

  “I will go first,” she said.

  “Lydia.…”

  Ignoring him, she left the orangery. Turning a corner, she leant against a wall and sagged. How could she argue in the face of such belief? She had never wavered, and yet still he disbelieved her, thought her silly and young and unable to make a decision. How could he think such of her?

  Wrapping her arms about her middle, she pressed hard. It hurt so much he didn’t know her, he didn’t trust her. How could she want someone who didn’t trust her, trust she knew her own mind and had the courage of her convictions?

  Exhaling, she rubbed her brows. This wasn’t going to be solved now. Now, she had to re-enter the ballroom and pretend all was well. Pushing away from the wall, she started down the hall only to stop in surprise.

  Ahead, arguing in low tones, were Seraphina Waller-Mitchell and Stephen Farlisle.

  They were close, barely half a foot apart, and Seraphina looked…distraught. Never had Lydia seen such an expression on the other woman’s face before. She didn’t even know Seraphina could display any emotion bar smug superiority. Stephen wore anger and a faint air of disappointment. He spoke urgently, and then he made to leave. Seraphina captured his arm but he shook her off and, with a final look, left.

  Lydia didn’t know what to do. The only way back to the ballroom was to pass by Seraphina. The other woman looked miserable, her hands cradling her elbows as she stared at the floor.

  There was nothing for it. She would have to pass her.

  Seraphina looked up as Lydia approached and her expression changed, becoming the mocking smirk society knew. “Well, well, if it isn’t Lydia Torrence. Whatever are you doing here, Lydia Torrence?” Her tone held its usual mocking edge, but underlying it was a thread of tears.

  Lydia squared her shoulders. “Are you crying?”

  Seraphina started, and then her chin raised mulishly. “Why are you wandering the halls, or perhaps I can guess? However, I don’t really need to. I know it has to do with Lord Roxwaithe.”

  Unease slithered down her spine. “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know you were in the orangery. I know you were…close.”

  The face. Oliver’s conviction they were seen. “Do you?”

  “It would be unfortunate if that knowledge were to become more widely known.”

  Something inside her broke. First Oliver’s obstinacy and now Seraphina Waller-Mitchell’s spite. “You know what, Seraphina? I don’t care. Tell my family. Tell everyone. Do you think I care what other people think? Do you think I care what you think?”

  Slowly the smirk faded from Seraphina’s expression. “You don’t?”

  Lydia kept Seraphina’s gaze, refused to give her surcease.

  The other woman swallowed. “Why don’t you?”

  “Because....” Leaning close, she lowered her tone, so Seraphina knew just how much she meant it. “I don’t like you.”

  Stricken, Seraphina Waller-Mitchell stared at her. Lydia walked off, not caring how Seraphina would react next. She didn’t care. She had her family and, damnation, she had Oliver. He was buffle-headed and wrong, but she’d be damned if he destroyed them because of some fool-headed notion.

  Stopping, she took a shuddering breath. She’d just stood up to Seraphina Waller-Mitchell. She’d just looked her direct in the eye and told her she didn’t like her. Well. Wasn’t this a red-letter evening.

  Clasping her hands together, she closed her eyes. The problem of Oliver’s disbelief would be solved. She would come up with a plan and she would make it work. She loved him too much not to and, damnation, she knew he loved her in return. She would make him see, even if it took her forever. So determined, she started again toward the ballroom.

  Tomorrow. She would know what to do tomorrow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Oliver stared at the paper in his hand. The report on the Roxwaithe shipping concern had blurred into an unrecognisable splotch of ink on paper. A light breeze ran over his skin from the open window, sounds of everyday life drifting in, and he was vaguely aware of Rajitha scratching away at his desk. It was a day, an ordinary day.

  “Rajitha,” he said suddenly.

  The secretary looked up, uncharacteristically displaying his surprise.

  “I have no need of you this afternoon,” Oliver said. “You may take your leave.”

  “My lord?” his secretary queried, clearly confused by the unusual dismissal.

  “Thank you, Rajitha.”

  The secretary opened his mouth as if to argue but instead, without a word, he packed his desk, gathering papers, inkwell and pen. With a final bow, he departed.

  Left alone, Oliver gave up any pretence at work. Leaning back in his chair, he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Christ. What was he going to do? This...whatever it was with Lydia, he hadn’t meant for it to go so far. Seeing an opportunity, he’d selfishly taken what he wanted without out any thought to consequence or how he ruined her options. He was an idiot and a fool, and it didn’t matter it was the happiest he’d ever been, he should have been stronger for her. He should have resisted, but he’d been resisting for so long. He’d been weary so he’d broken, and now he’d broken them.

  The study door banged open. His brother stormed in, his expression tight with fury. “What did you do?”

  Oliver’s spine snapped straight. “I’ll thank you to lower your voice.”

  “I shall clarify,” Stephen said tightly. “What did you do to Lydia Torrence?”

  A roaring started in his head, his blood turning cold. “What do you mean? Is she hurt?”

  “Christ, Oliver, what were you thinking?” Stephen continued, oblivious to the panic coursing through him.

  “Stephen. Is. She. Hurt?” he ground out, fear turning his voice to gravel.

  Stephen’s gaze snapped to him. “No. Not physically, however it was a damn near thing. You’re lucky the rumour didn’t spread.”

  She was unhurt. Relief lasted but a moment before dread pooled in his stomach. “What rumour?”

  “That you and Lydia....” The skin of Stephen cheekbones turned ruddy. “That you....”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make me say it.” Exhaling, he said reluctantly, “That you and she were...caught.”

  “Caught?”

  “Bloody hell, man, what do you think I mean? Caught!”

  The flash of lightning. The pale face. Lydia warm in his lap, her lips smiling against his neck. “We were caught?”

  Stephen braced his hands on the back of the chair before Oliver’s desk. “You mean there was something you could have been caught doing?”

  Oliver’s neck burned. Setting his jaw, he stared Stephen down. He wasn’t going to be shamed by his younger brother. “It is none of your concern.”

  “Of course it’s my bloody concern. Lydia is like a sister to me. Do you think you’re the only one with ties to the Torrences?” He ran a hand through his short blond hair. “What were you thinking, Oliver?”

  Clearly, he hadn’t been thinking. He’d seen an opportunity and he’d taken it, even though he knew the risks, even though he knew it was temporary. He’d done it, and he had no e
xcuse.

  Stephen shook his head. “Couldn’t you have just married her first?”

  Oliver’s gaze jerked to his brother. “What?”

  “We wouldn’t be in this mess now. I wouldn’t have had to—” He swallowed, looked away.

  His brother looked miserable. He opened his mouth to ask, but that had never been their relationship. Instead, he said, “I can’t marry her.”

  Stephen passed his hand over his eyes wearily. “Not this again.”

  “I am too old for her.”

  “You know she is in love with you.”

  “She is not. Not really.”

  Stephen looked to the heavens. “Fine. Let us say, for the sake of argument, she is not in love with you. What about you?”

  Crossing his arms, he said, “What about me?”

  “You are hers. You’ve always been hers. You’ve been on hold, waiting for her. Everyone knows it, but for some reason you refuse to acknowledge it. You won’t just bloody admit it.” He exhaled. “I am tired of this, brother. I am tired of being your heir. Just marry Lydia, unite our families officially, and set about the business of disinheriting me. You cannot play with her, Oliver.”

  “I am not playing with her.”

  “No, I know. This is deadly serious.” Exhaling again, his brother rubbed his hand over his face.

  Oliver dug his fingers into his biceps. He thought of Lydia. He thought of her sitting in his study, reading book after book. He thought of her opinions, freely given and the ones he most wanted. He thought of her grin, her laugh, the way she made him laugh. He thought of how she made him feel, how happy she made him. He thought of how happy he seemed to make her.

  “I love her,” he said.

  Stephen snorted. “Everyone knows that.”

  “I love her.” He’d never admitted it. Not to anyone. Not even to himself. “I don’t know what to do.

  Stephen rolled his eyes. “Marry her.”

  He shook his head. “She deserves more.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you think she deserves. She wants you.”

  “She only thinks she does. She’s too young to know what she wants.”

  Stephen laughed shortly. “She’s known what she’s wanted since she was a girl. Why are you so convinced she doesn’t know her own mind?”

  He didn’t look at his brother, staring at the blotter on his desk. The leather was scuffed in the top right hand corner, a mishap when he was a boy. His father had not been pleased.

  Silence stretched, and he filled it with all the reasons why he shouldn’t marry Lydia…and all the reasons he should.

  “I don’t want to study the occult,” Stephen said suddenly.

  Oliver blinked. “Pardon?”

  “I don’t want to study the occult.” Expression mulish, Stephen he couldn’t quite disguise the undercurrent of unease. “I wanted money.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Oliver said.

  “I knew you wouldn’t give me funds outright, not if I told you what they were really for, so....” Jaw set, he shrugged. “I lied.”

  “You lied.”

  “Yes.”

  The clock ticked on the mantle, loud in the silence of the study.

  “Why?” Oliver finally asked.

  “It’s worked before.”

  He took a slow, steadying breath. “I see. So what was your plan to secure funds....” Just like that, he knew. Because Stephen had done it before. “You would feign interest in a plan even an idiot would know was doomed to failure. Once I’d refused to release your funds, you would wait a few weeks and then apply again, this time with much more reasonable request.”

  “And you would agree,” Stephen said.

  Numb, Oliver nodded. “What did you want it for this time?”

  Stephen worked his jaw. “I wanted to start a football team.”

  “A football team.”

  “For workhouse lads. It was to have been a charitable foundation to improve their.... We thought to encourage them to attend the parish school with a certain degree of attendance, have it as a requirement to play in the competition— I wanted to help. I do not have many skills, but I know football and—” A muscle ticked in Stephen’s jaw. “I wanted money for a football team.”

  “So you lied so you could start a charity.

  “Yes, Oliver. I lied to start a charity.”

  Eyeing his brother, he rubbed a hand over his chin. Stephen stared back at him without expression, not giving even a hint as to what he was thinking.

  “Did you not think to talk to me about this?” Oliver asked. “Did you not think I would not want to help? Christ, Stephen, if not because you’re my brother, but because it would be the decent thing to do?”

  “You have never helped before.”

  He stared at him in disbelief. “It is all I do.”

  “Not without a goddamn argument!” Stephen lowered his tone. “You never support me. You don’t believe I have any idea how to handle finances or what might be best for me. Christ. Is it any wonder you won’t believe Lydia either?”

  “Do not bring her into this,” Oliver said dangerously.

  “Why not? You behave in the exact same way with both of us.”

  “Lydia didn’t attempt to extort money from me.”

  “No. She just wanted your heart, but you won’t allow her, will you? You’d rather play us all, puppets tangled in your strings, begging for scraps.”

  “Don’t presume you know my mind, brother,” he said, and he heard their father in his tone.

  “Yes. Of course. My lord,” Stephen said coldly.

  Before he could respond, the door to the study opened. Annoyed at the interruption, he prepared to lambast whoever stepped through.

  Standing there, with his hand in Alexandra Torrence’s, was Maxim.

  Oliver blinked. No. It couldn’t be. His youngest brother was dead. He’d died years ago. He couldn’t be standing on the threshold of Roxegate’s study, looking older and weathered and....

  The man who couldn’t be Maxim moved further in to the room. His hair was ragged, his skin tanned, and he wore rough clothing. He was huge, at least a foot taller than the Maxim of Oliver’s memory, and broad. His brother had been skinny as a rake, but he’d had the promise of that width in his bony shoulders.

  The man looked at them uncertainly, and then he glanced at Alexandra. Squeezing his arm, she seemed to silently say something to him and he saw the man square his shoulders, as if the look they’d shared had given him resolve. Alexandra and his brother had always been like that, as if they were connected in a way only the two of them could understand.

  “I presume we have arrived ahead of the letter,” the man finally said.

  The words were spoken in a deeper and rougher voice but unmistakeably Maxim’s voice. His brother, who had been fifteen when last he’d seen him, who had been presumed dead, had instead grown into a man.

  Oliver sat frozen behind his desk. Christ. It was Maxim. He didn’t know how to react. Stephen appeared as shell-shocked as he. His brother—his middle brother—wiped his hand over his mouth as he stared, his face pale.

  Alexandra turned to Maxim and he leant down as she whispered something. Shaking his head, he whispered something again and they seemed to have an argument before reaching a consensus. They both turned to regard Oliver and Stephen.

  Alexandra smiled nervously. “Maxim would like me to stay, if that’s agreeable to you both.”

  Her voice broke his stasis and Oliver shot to his feet. “Of course you may remain. You should— Please. Both of you sit.” He moved to the chair before the fireplace and gestured to the chaise. They both sat, Maxim’s hand in Alexandra’s lap. Stephen still stood by Oliver’s desk, silent and pale.

  Oliver stared at their clasped hands. “Where have you been?” he asked Maxim.

  “Lately, Waithe Hall. Alexandra found me there.” He gave her a slight smile.

  She smiled back, and he saw between them the love their friendship had always promi
sed. Unable to think about that, he concentrated on his returned brother. “And before?”

  “The Americas,” he said. “Boston. After the shipwreck, after I had recovered from my injuries, I was employed as a servant. At first, I had no memory of who I was, but eventually I recalled enough to remember my home was in England. I bought passage on a ship as a shiphand. Sometime after I arrived in London, I saw the Roxwaithe carriage and I...remembered.”

  Oliver locked his jaw. “But you did not come to us.”

  Uncertainty leant youth to his features and, in that moment, Oliver saw his fifteen-year-old brother. Inhaling sharply, he fought the pressure behind his eyes.

  “I could not,” Maxim said softly. “Not after what Father had said.”

  “What did Father say?”

  All three of them looked at Stephen. He still stood by Oliver’s desk, was still pale. “What did Father say?” Stephen repeated.

  Maxim glanced again at Alexandra, who smiled reassuringly. “He said not to return. He said my shame was too great.”

  “What shame?” Stephen asked.

  Maxim shook his head.

  “What shame?” he pressed.

  Seeing his youngest brother’s discomfort, Oliver said, “Perhaps we should—”

  “No,” Stephen said sharply. “What shame?”

  “Stephen,” Oliver said. “Our brother has just returned. How does this matter?”

  “It matters!” he shouted. “It bloody matters. Maxim died, Oliver. He died and now he’s back and—” He choked up and turned away, shoulders shaking.

  Feeling completely useless, Oliver stared at his brother. His middle brother. Because Maxim had returned.

  “Father said he would disown me,” Maxim answered. “Because I was sent down from Eton for cheating, but I didn’t cheat. I paid someone to write my assignments, but I dictated every word, and the reason I did that.... The reason.... I can’t....” He exhaled slowly. Alexandra squeezed his hand and he glanced at her quickly, seeming to take comfort from her. “I can’t read,” he said.

  “You can read,” Alexandra said fiercely.

  “But not well.” He gave her a little smile. “Not well.”