OLIVER MALCOLM ALOYSIUS FARLISLE, Viscount Hudson and heir to the Earl of Roxwaithe, was fourteen years and one week the day he met Lady Lydia Claire Torrence, youngest daughter of the Marquis of Demartine. It was an unimpressive occasion. She was, after all, only three days old.
“You’re squishing her,” his youngest brother complained. At six, Maxim barely reached Oliver’s chest, but that didn’t stop him from tugging at Oliver’s arm as if the action would somehow rectify the situation.
“No, I’m not,” he retorted, though he gingerly loosened his hold.
“If he were squishing her, she would be crying,” Alexandra said. At five, she wasn’t much shorter than Maxim, and, as the baby’s older sister, she would know better than Maxim if Oliver was squishing Lydia.
Maxim rolled his eyes. “He is too squishing her. Don’t defend him, Alexandra.”
“I’m not defending him.” Brows drawn, she studied her sister. “She is rather red, though.”
Oliver loosened his hold even more.
In the corner, the baby’s other siblings were currently rolling a ball back and forth. Four-year-old Harry’s face was creased in concentration, while at two, George reacted with delight each time he captured the ball.
Oliver shifted the baby in his arms. Alexandra and Maxim crowded closer to him, as if the baby was the most interesting sight they’d ever beheld. He wasn’t sure why they thought this. The Marquis and Marchioness of Demartine had produced four children thus far, with Lydia being the youngest. One would suppose they would be used to the arrival of a new baby, but instead Lydia’s arrival had been greeted with fascination andhe wincedthe stepping on of toes by younger brothers.
In the armchair placed before the nursery window, his middle brother Stephen stared out, his chin on his updrawn knees. At ten, Stephen kept mostly to himself, even when they were all ensconced in the nursery in Bentley Close.
Oliver looked down at Lydia. There would be no more siblings for him. Their mother had died giving birth to Maxim and their father seemed uninterested in providing them with a stepmother. In fact, their father preferred to leave the parenting of them to a series of governesses and tutors, and the prospect of a stepmother seemed unlikely.
The baby shifted in his arms, her small mouth making a moue. In a month, he was to Eton, the first time he’d left Waithe Hall for any length of time since he himself was born. Lydia would change and grow, and the next time he would see her, she would be fat, drooling and healthy, not this wrinkled red thing that had wholly captured the attention of two families.
The door to the nursery opened. Lady Demartine entered, a harried look on her fine features. “Thank you for holding her, Oliver. I’ll take her now.”
For some reason, Oliver was loathe to return Lydia to her mother. Lady Demartine didn’t notice, however, taking the baby and expertly swinging her into her arms, wincing a little as the baby pressed against her chest. “You boys should return to Waithe Hall soon. Surely you are expected for dinner.”
“Mama, Maxim should stay for dinner,” Alexandra said. “And Oliver and Stephen, too.”
“Alexandra, their father is expecting them.”
“Father is not there,” Maxim said, his eyes on Lydia, who was gripping his index finger.
“Where is he?”
Maxim shrugged.
Lady Demartine turned blue eyes to Oliver. “Oliver?”
“I believe he set out for London,” he said.
Her brows rose. “Again?”
He resisted the urge to follow Maxim’s example and shrug. Their father was often called to London and seemed to have no compunction leaving his children in the care of his old friends. It was the way of things. Their father went to London and they were left in the care of Lord and Lady Demartine. To speak the truth of it, Oliver preferred staying at Bentley Close. The Torrences were raucous and fun, and sometimes Lady Demartine hugged him.
Now, Lady Demartine sighed and rang for the butler. “Simmons,” she said once the servant had arrived. “Liaise with the butler and housekeeper at Waithe Hall and organise for Viscount Hudson, Lord Stephen and Lord Maxim to stay with us.”
“Very good, my lady. And how long will they be staying?”
“Let us say two weeks, Simmons. They may need to partially shutter the hall. If the servants require direction, we will help with arrangements.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Once the butler had left, Lady Demartine shook her head before turning to Oliver. “You boys will be comfortable here?”
“Yes, my lady.” Of course they would be comfortable. Sometimes, he pretended Lord and Lady Demartine were his parents. Sometimes, he pretended he and Stephen and Maxim could stay at Bentley Close always, but he knew it was only pretend. He knew he would one day be the Earl of Roxwaithe, and he had a duty to his ancestors, to his tenants, and to those who would come after him. He could, fleetingly, pretend, but it was always fleeting and he would never, not in a million years, voice his fancies.
In Lady Demartine’s arms, Lydia opened her eyes, and he was caught by her unblinking stare. An unwilling smile tugged at him and, though he knew she was too young, he could swear she smiled in return.
***
OLIVER WAS EIGHTEEN YEARS and two months the summer he finished at Eton. In the autumn, he would begin at Cambridge, but for two months he would return home to Waithe Hall.
The carriage rumbled along. Bracing his foot on the seat opposite, Oliver stared out the window. They’d left Waithe Village ten minutes ago and it would not be long before he would see the turrets of Waithe Hall and, even further in the distance, the chimneys of Bentley Close.
The carriage turned on the drive leading to Waithe Hall and Oliver grinned broadly. Seated on the stump that marked the beginning of the drive was Lydia Torrence. Every time he came home, he always found her sitting on that stump, waiting for him. She was only four years old, and yet she somehow managed to escape her governess and her nurse with alarming regularity.
“Myers, slow down,” he called. The coachman obliged, coming to a stop before Lydia. “What are you doing out here?” he asked her.
She jumped off the stump. “Waiting.”
Fighting his grin, he asked gravely, “For what?”
Big hazel eyes met his. “For you.”
It was a ritual between them. He always asked and she always answered the same. He opened the carriage door for her and she clambered inside, seating opposite him. Her feet dangled over the edge.
“Are you back?” she asked.
“For the summer,” he said, knocking the roof. The carriage lurched, and then they continued on.
Lydia’s small brows drew together. “I don’t like it when you go away.”
“I don’t like going away.” He glanced out the window. “I miss this.”
“Do you miss me?”
“Of course.”
“When I’m older, we’ll get married, and then you won’t go away.”
Laughing, he shook his head. She smiled in return, swinging her feet as the carriage rumbled toward Waithe Hall.
***
OLIVER WAS TWENTY-FOUR years and seven months when Maxim died.
The rain had cleared that morning, before the service, but the sky was still murky and grey. Dry-eyed, he stared as they lowered the coffin into the earth. The empty coffin, because Maxim had been lost at sea halfway across the world.
A small hand wormed into his. He glanced down at the top of a strawberry-blonde head. Lydia. The little girl had wormed her way to his side and, though he was loathe to say it, he was glad of her company.
Opposite, his father stared at the coffin. Oliver watched him stonily. It was because of him his brother had been on that ship, because of an argument their father refused to discuss. Because of him, his brother was dead.
Beside him stood Stephen, his face wet with tears. Oliver didn’t think his brother even realised he cried. Every so often, their father would throw an impatient look at him, scowling at his middle son’s emotion, because God forbid someone displayed even a modicum of normal human expression—
Oliver’s chest tightened. Stephen wasn’t the middle son anymore.
The hand in his squeezed. He felt his lip tremble, felt wetness well in his eyes. Screwing his eyes shut, he willed emotion away. Lydia’s hand was warm, comforting, and he focused on the feel of it, the small shape, the sturdy fingers. He could feel the ragged edges of her nails, because she bit them when she was nervous or upset.
God. Upset. Of course she was upset. They were all fucking upset.
Slowly, people filed past him, murmuring condolences, offering platitudes, and the entire time, Lydia’s hand remained in his.
***
OLIVER WAS TWENTY-FIVE years and five weeks when he became Earl of Roxwaithe.
Legs sprawled before him, he watched as his father’s valet—no, Bartlett was his valet now—fussed around him, preparing a bowl of hot water, shaving soap and towels. The earl’s chambers in Roxegate, the family’s London townhouse, were his now, as was Waithe Hall, and every one of the properties that comprised the Roxwaithe estate.
Oliver gripped the arm of the chair, the chair that until very recently had been his father’s. He supposed he felt some grief his father had died. That must be what this emptiness was, though it felt different from when Maxim had died. This grief was more like indifference, and…relief.
Bartlett mixed the shaving cream, the motions quick and practiced. Oliver rubbed his jaw. Twice a day his father had him shave, and his hair trimmed every Sunday. His clothes were his father’s choice, and now his rooms were his father’s. Everything in his life was his father’s. Nothing was his.
“I will not need a shave this morning, Bartlett,” he said abruptly
The valet looked as surprised as Oliver that he’d spoken. “My lord?”
“Help me dress, Bartlett,” he continued, trying to sound authoritative. It must have worked, because the valet leapt to action.
Having skipped his morning shave, Oliver’s face felt strange as he made his way to the study. His father had often scoffed at those gentlemen at his club who grew moustaches or sideburns, or whose hair was longer than the earl had deemed appropriate.
Sitting behind the earl’s desk, he stared at the stacks of paper flanking the blotter that seemed to have multiplied overnight. Roxwaithe owned property in thirteen shires, along with the London town house and the ancestral estates in Northumberland, while the shipping concern sprawled across the globe, with an office in too many ports to count. Keeping the business of Roxwaithe was a job he’d spent his life preparing for but now it had arrived, he knew how woefully inadequate that preparation had been. Some days, it seemed it would never end and he stayed at his desk until the early hours, his eyes gritty as the candle’s burned low.
His gaze snagged on a particular report. Waithe Hall, the seat of the earldom, was haemorrhaging funds, keeping a full number of staff in preparation for the arrival of an earl who never did. Old pain lanced him at the thought of returning to Northumberland, where every corner held a memory of his youngest brother.
He rang for his secretary and within moments, Rajitha appeared. Rajitha was not his father’s man, but instead the one choice Oliver had made. Around Oliver’s own age, Rajitha’s dark eyes missed nothing, and he possessed a calm competency Oliver desperately needed.
“Rajitha, instruct the staff at Waithe Hall to shutter the property and close the house,” he said.
Rajitha did not react. “Of course, my lord. Do you require anything else?”
“No. Thank you.”
After Rajitha left, Oliver exhaled. He rolled his shoulders, feeling as if a weight had been lifted. If he had need to go to Northumberland, he would stay at Bentley Close. Lord Demartine would not object, and thus there was no reason to keep Waithe Hall open. It made economic sense, and the staff stationed there could be better utilised elsewhere. Besides, he was now the earl and he could do whatever he damned well pleased.
The door to his study burst open. Startled, he watched as Lydia exploded into his study. At eleven years old, she’d shot up in the last few months, such that she almost reached his shoulder if they stood side by side.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. He didn’t ask how she’d got here. Their townhouses bordered each other, and they’d all long ago discovered the common attic.
“I never see you anymore, so I am here to keep you company.” She dragged an armchair opposite his desk and plonked herself in it.
He watched her do so without comment. “Aren’t you going to be bored?” he finally asked.
She held up a book, one he knew to be on architecture because he knew Lydia to be obsessed with architecture. “No.” Settling in to her chair, she opened the book. “Go on with your work,” she said.
He looked at the paper before him and did as she bid. Every now and then, he’d look up to find her completely absorbed in her book, a lock of hair wound around her finger.
Smiling, he shook his head and returned to his work.
***
OLIVER WAS TWENTY-NINE years and ten months when Tom Harding beat Anthony Mulgrave by a straight knock out in the grudge match of the century.
The fight had been the biggest ticket for months. He’d told Lydia yesterday he wouldn’t be working in his study today, and she’d been distinctly amused by his ill-concealed excitement. Wainwright had been the one to source the tickets, and Oliver had met his friend at the public house staging the fight. They’d proceeded to match each other ale for ale as they’d joined the throng cheering on Harding and Mulgrave.
The door to Roxegate loomed before him. He missed it the first time he’d tried to rap on it. Damn thing wouldn’t stay still. He tried again. His knuckles made contact, but the leather of his gloves made little noise. Squinting, he remembered there was a doorbell. Somewhere. That would probably work better. Bracing himself against the door, he waited until there was only one knocker. Possibly, he may have had a little too much to drink.
Eventually, he managed to find the doorbell. The thing made the most horrific ring, but the door opened and the dour face of his butler filled his vision. Tugging off his gloves, Oliver stumbled into the townhouse, leaving them where they fell while he tugged at his great coat and then his jacket. He struggled with his waistcoat, though, the buttons stubborn bastards, but he bested them in the end, the waistcoat hanging open as he pulled his shirt from his breeches.
“My lord, may I suggest you finish disrobing in your chamber?”
He turned. Arms full of Oliver’s discarded clothes, Hood regarded him without expression.
“Yes. Good. That’s a good idea.” He put his hand to his head. Damn thing was throbbing.
“Very good, my lord.” Hood watched him for a moment. “Do you require assistance?”
“Yes, Hood. Thank you.” He allowed the butler to lead him to his bedchamber and, once Hood had left, Oliver rubbed the strangely dry flesh of his lip as he tried to put his finger on what he was feeling. He was….He was something. His skin felt jumpy, and he wanted…he wanted to tell someone what had happened. It had been the greatest thing he’d ever seen and—
Lydia. He wanted to tell Lydia. Maxim always used to sneak into Alexandra’s bedroom, so why couldn’t he do the same with Lydia?
His chest tightened at the thought of his dead brother, but he pushed those feelings aside. Looking down at himself, he saw he still wore his breeches and boots, though his shirt was untucked and his waistcoat hung open. Somewhat presentable.
It was a short order to stumble from his room and up the stairs to the attic, and even less to lurch to the Torrence side. He managed to be mostly quiet as he stumbled through their hallways, unerringly making his way to Lydia’s room.
She was asleep, of course. He stood just inside the threshold of her chamber, vacillating. Should he wake her? She looked so peaceful, but he wanted to tell her…. The room started to spin. He shook his head. Why was it spinning? He put his hand out to steady himself. Something crashed to the floor, the sound muffled by the carpet. A lamp? What was a lamp doing there?
She stirred. “Oliver?” she asked sleepily.
“Lydia.” The vague thought crossed his mind that this was inappropriate, but he’d known her forever and Lord Demartine was like his uncle. “I went to the fight, Lydia.” The edge of her bed was right there. He sat and ran his hands though his hair. He hadn’t pulled it back, and it hung to his shoulders. The room stopped spinning. “It was amazing.”
The corners of her lips lifted. “Did you perhaps celebrate?”
He held up his hand, thumb and index finger held an inch apart. Was it an inch apart? He couldn’t really focus. “A little. The fight was amazing, Lydia.”
Sitting up, she crossed her legs beneath the bedclothes. “Tell me about it.”
And, happy to have the attention of the one person in the world whose attention he always wanted, he did.
***
OLIVER WAS THIRTY YEARS and seven hours when Lydia stormed into his breakfast. “Happy birthday,” she growled, and then threw herself into a chair.
He lifted his coffee cup to his lips. He knew from long experience not to ask when she was in one of these moods and that it was always best to let her tell him.
He didn’t have to wait long. “I don’t see why I should learn the pianoforte,” she complained. “It is a stupid instrument, and I am bad at it besides.”
“It is what all accomplished young ladies learn,” he said. “Don’t you want to be accomplished?”
She shot him a dirty look. “It is a waste of time. Why do I need these lessons, when I shall be marrying you once I’m old enough?”
He frowned into his cup. She had been saying the same thing since she was a small girl and though he’d tried numerous times to dissuade her, she stubbornly insisted that eventually they would wed. It was right to dissuade her. One day soon, she would realise boys her age were much more interesting and she would forget all about how she’d once wanted to marry him.
Something ached in his chest. He eyed the sausage with distaste. He was too young to suffer a heart complaint, but perhaps he should cut back on rich foods just in case.
“However,” she said, dispersing thoughts of early onset heart conditions. “It is your birthday. What should you like to do?”
“I should like to enjoy my breakfast.”
As quickly as that, her mood changed and she smiled, dazzling him with its brightness. “Then that is what we shall do.” Grabbing a piece of toast, she munched away, grinning all the while.
Shaking his head, he drank his coffee. The funny thing was, there was no other person he wanted to spend his birthday with.
***
OLIVER WAS THIRTY-ONE years and five months when he looked up from his desk, saw Lydia in the armchair opposite, and realised she had become a woman.
She sat in her chair as she usually did, her legs drawn up under her. Her shoes lay discarded on the floor, and she twirled a lock of red-gold hair around her finger as she read yet another book on architecture, writing every now and then in the leather-bound notebook he’d given her for Christmas. He knew the book to be on architecture, because every book in the pile on the table next to her chair was on the same subject. The long line of her thigh was outlined by the flimsy gown, and the turn of her head emphasised the graceful sweep of her neck. Her lips were pink and her teeth bit into the plumpness of the lower one, her lashes dark fans on her cheeks. Her breasts—
Christ. He wasn’t going to think about her breasts.
He stood abruptly. “You have to leave.”
Startled, Lydia looked up from her book. “Pardon?”
His gaze locked on her lips, which were pink and full and— “You have to leave. Now.”
Her brow creased. “Why?”
“Because this is... It’s inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate? How is today different from yesterday?”
“Because it is.”
“You are making no sense, Oliver—”
“And that’s another thing. You should refer to me as Roxwaithe.”
Her brows just about shot off her forehead. “Now I know you’ve gone insane.”
He needed her gone. He needed her gone so he could get his thoughts back in order and not think how soft her skin looked. “Please, Lydia. Please leave.”
Slowly, she unfolded herself from the chair. “All right, but only because you are acting strange.”
Good. Good. He waited impatiently for her to do so.
She stopped. “Mama wanted to know if you would like to come to dinner tonight?”
“Of course.” Anything to get her to leave.
She nodded and then gave him the most glorious smile. Something squeezed near his heart.
Once she left, he rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. It was an aberration, these thoughts. He was just surprised, was all. He knew she was growing older, knew she would make her debut after she turned eighteen, but he hadn’t known. Now he did.
Tomorrow, all would be normal. He would look at her, see a woman, and that would be all.
That had to be all. It had to.
***
OLIVER WAS THIRTY-TWO years and four days when Lydia kissed him.
Torrence House was ablaze in light, the ball celebrating Lydia’s eighteenth birthday in full swing. Arms behind his back, Oliver stood against the entrance hall wall. From his vantage, he could see into the ballroom while also noting each person who entered. Usually, he’d stand with Wainwright, but his friend had gotten himself married less than a month ago and was currently enjoying his honeymoon with the new Lady Wainwright.
Most of society had turned out for Lydia’s birthday ball, and he knew his brother was somewhere in the throng. He hadn’t seen Stephen for weeks now and, judging by the crush of people at Torrence House, he wouldn’t be seeing him tonight either.
He most likely wouldn’t see Lydia either. He hadn’t seen much of her in the preceding weeks, which was good. It was right. She was preparing for her debut, for dazzling the young men of their set with her wit and her warmth. He would not be surprised if she ended the season with a multitude of admirers, a plethora of proposals, and some young buck’s ring on her finger.
His jaw clenched. And that was good. It was right.
“Dancing, Roxwaithe?” Lord Demartine stood beside him. Lydia’s father was an imposing figure, his shock of brown hair only lightly sprinkled with grey.
“No, sir,” he replied.
“No, you always were more interested in observation.” His smile took the sting out of the words. “However, I implore you, find Lydia. All she can talk of is the fact she can dance with you at this ball.”
Heat burned his cheeks. “Is it appropriate, sir?”
“I don’t see why not.” He levelled hazel eyes upon him. “You’re a good lad, Roxwaithe. You know timing is everything.”
“Sir?”
“Find her, Roxwaithe. Have pity for my ears.” He clapped him on the shoulder and left.
Entering the ballroom took only a few steps and there, in the middle of the dance floor, was Lydia. She laughed as her partner whirled her around, her red-gold curls bouncing. She wore a light-coloured gown cut low, her breasts almost plumped. The young men around him stared at her with lust-filled eyes, not that she noticed but he sure as hell did. He scowled.
She caught sight of him and the smile she wore turned radiant. The dance ended and she said something to her partner before she made her way to him.
“Your father said you wished to dance,” he greeted her.
“I did. I do. But I should like to show you something first.” Wiping her hands on her dress, she licked her lips. “Come with me?”
Distracted by her tongue, he nodded dumbly and followed as she led him from the ballroom. It wasn’t until she’d led him to the darkened, empty library he realised where they were. And how inappropriate it was.
“Lydia, what are we—”
And that’s when she kissed him.
Her lips were soft against his, untutored, but full of passion. For a moment, half a second, he kissed her back and his hands flexed, wanted to pull her body into his. Then, he realised what he was doing. Christ, what the hell was he doing?
Pulling back, he held her from him by the shoulders. “What are you doing?”
Great hazel eyes opened, blinked slowly. She licked her lips, and he wanted to trace the path with his own tongue. Guilt bit him. She had her father’s eyes. “Oliver”
He bit back a curse, and then, fuck it, cursed anyway. “You cannot do such a thing. Is this how you behave with those boys?”
The dazed look disappeared as anger took its place. “You—”
“Do not make me tell Lord Demartine,” he continued.
“Tell my father what?”
“You— I—” Fuck. He couldn’t tell her father anything. “Your behaviour,” he said lamely.
She lifted her chin. “He will not care.”
“He bloody well will, if he knows his daughter throws herself at men old enough to be her—” Christ, was he really old enough to be her father? “Uncle.”
She threw him a withering look. “You’re not that old.”
“Old enough. And you are too young. Lydia, you’re barely eighteen.”
“So?”
“I’m thirty-two!”
“So?”
“No. Just no. Whatever you’re thinking, it can’t happen.”
“I’m thinking I love you,” she said.
His blood chilled. “You don’t know what love is.”
“Don’t tell me what I know.”
“Lydia, be serious. You have not even debuted to society yet. You will meet so many people, and you will forget.”
“I won’t forget.” Her chin set mutinously. “I won’t change my mind. I love you, Oliver.”
He shook his head. She couldn’t love him. It was a crush. Only a crush.
“You are so obstinate.” Determination setting her jaw, she gripped his upper arms and stood on her toes. She was going to kiss him again. She was going to kiss him and he was going to have to resist. She was eighteen.
“Lydia!”
They both froze. Oliver didn’t want to turn. He knew that voice.
“Lydia. Unhand Lord Roxwaithe.” Lord Demartine said.
White-faced, Lydia stared at Oliver with wild eyes. “Papa—”
“Now, Lydia.”
Averting her gaze, she stepped back.
His heart ached at the shame in her expression. He didn’t want her to feel…She shouldn’t feel shame. “Lydia—”
“Find your mother, Lydia,” Lord Demartine said.
“Yes, Papa,” she mumbled. Without a glance his way, she left the room.
“Oliver.”
He didn’t want to turn. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in Lord Demartine’s eyes. Eventually, he had no choice.
Lord Demartine regarded him soberly. “She is eighteen, Oliver.”
“I know, sir.”
“She still has a lot to experience.”
“I know, sir.”
“You know timing is everything?”
His brows drew. “Sir?”
Lord Demartine regarded him for the longest time. Finally, he shook his head. “It is of no concern, Roxwaithe. Come.” He held his arm out, gestured. “We have a ball to attend.”
Three months later, Lydia and her mother left for the Continent. Oliver told himself he was happy for her, that he didn’t require her constant presence in his life. He wouldn’t miss her.
Oliver was thirty-two and three months when he knew he lied.