FROM THE BALCONY, LYDIA stared into darkness. Behind her, the sounds of the Fanning ball drifted into the night; laughter and music, crystal clinking and conversation. A warm breeze lifted the curls lying against her nape, playing her hair gently against her skin.
Closing her eyes, she allowed London to wash over her. She’d enjoyed her time on the Continent immensely but she’d missed the country of her birth, and now she’d returned she took every opportunity to soak in that which made England. There was nothing quite like the capital on a summer’s eve, with the threat of a thunderstorm brewing in the distance and the scent of honeysuckle and lilies carried on the breeze.
“Here you are.” Lord Matthew Whitton leaned one shoulder against the door jamb, a rakish smirk on his handsome face.
Placing her elbows against the balustrade, she returned his smile. All evening they’d sent each other glances and it seemed the game they’d played had now come to a head. “Here I am.”
“I thought to offer you my arm and a dance, Lady Lydia.”
“Did you?” Amusement filled as he frowned, clearly not expecting such a dismissive response. However, he recovered quickly, his face once more wreathed with a rakish grin.
“I did, but I am much taken with this interaction instead,” he said. “There is nothing more beautiful than a lady bathed in moonlight.”
“Any lady, sir? One would think a certain specificity in this situation would be warranted.”
A frown touched his brow before it smoothed again, his smile seductive. “Of course I am referring to you, Lady Lydia. There is none in London who can rival your beauty.”
“Only London? Fie, I did hope for a greater reach.”
Again, consternation. Inwardly, she sighed. She found her countrymen had not the skill of the French or the wit of the Viennese.
Eventually, comprehension lit his gaze that she sought to further their game. “I am covered in blushes to have been so gauche as to suggest such, my lady. I have not yet been further than our own fair country, and so did not think to compare beauties in other lands. Forgive me.”
“But of course, sir. It is an easy mistake to make.”
He grinned broadly. “You are quite jolly, aren’t you?”
Disappointment filled her. “Lord Matthew, you do not abandon a flirtation in the middle. When you do make it to Paris and beyond, the ladies will be most disappointed.”
“I have other skills.”
“Oh?” She watched as he came closer.
Raising his hand, he lifted a curl from her nape and twined it around his finger. “Shall I show you?”
“It is of supreme discourtesy to offer such a thing and then not display it.”
The corner of his lip lifted. “So shall I?”
Her response was to simply raise a brow.
Slowly, he bent his head and his lips brushed hers, gentle and sweet. What would be his next move? Would he believe, because she’d agreed to a kiss, she’d agree to more? Or was he a sensible boy, and realise a woman agreeing to a kiss meant just that?
It seemed he was a sensible boy. His lips moved against hers, long dark lashes resting against his cheeks. It was so unfair. Why did men always have the beautiful lashes? Her own were stubby things, such she’d taken to darkening them with beeswax and soot as her French lady’s maid had shown her in Paris.
With a sigh, Lord Matthew pulled back, his arms still caging her to the balustrade. “That was pleasant,” he said softly.
It was pleasant. Lord Matthew was a pleasant enough fellow, and he seemed to understand the game with minimal prodding. He was at most two years her elder and the heir to the Earl of Cornell. Her family would be pleased should she announce he courted her. There was absolutely no reason she shouldn’t fall in love with him.
The loud clearing of a throat interrupted them. Lord Matthew hastily pushed himself from her, his charming smile fading as he paled. Lydia couldn’t fault him his reaction. The Earl of Roxwaithe in a cold temper was a terrifying sight.
Jaw clenched, Oliver stood rigid, blocking the entrance to the house. Dark brows drew further over cold grey eyes, noting Lord Matthew still stood closer to her than was proper, while full lips tightened into a displeased line. Long golden brown hair was clubbed back at his nape, and a close-cropped beard shadowed his strong jaw. An immaculately tailored coat clung to wide shoulders that tapered to narrow hips, and buff-coloured breeches covered powerful thighs. She knew, in the past, he’d spent time at Peterson’s Gymnasium because whenever she had mentioned it, his cheeks would ruddy and he’d become bashful, so she’d made sure to mention it often. He was half a foot taller than she, towering over most men, and with his hands behind his back, there was little to distract from the awesome breadth of him.
Heart racing, she wet her lips. Damn him, the sight of him still made her weak.
Coldly, Oliver said, “I was unaware you knew Lady Lydia, Whitton.”
“I, ah—” Throwing her a helpless glance, Lord Matthew edged toward the French doors.
Without removing her gaze from Oliver, Lydia said, “I’ll see you back in the ball room, my lord.”
“Yes. Thank you,” Lord Matthew said gratefully, bowing and departing in haste. He had to edge around Oliver, who stood his ground and watched him silently, eyes glinting in the low light.
When they were alone, she said, “Good evening, Roxwaithe. Are you enjoying the ball?”
“What were you doing with that boy?” he said without preamble.
She shrugged. “Playing.”
His expression became colder. “That is your explanation?”
“I wasn’t aware I had anything to explain.”
“He does not even stay to protect you or ensure your safety. You chose poorly, Lydia.”
She sighed. “It was a dalliance, nothing more.”
“Even worse. As your elder—”
She gave a staccato laugh. “Oh yes, please. Do tell me as my elder what I should do.”
“As your elder,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “It behooves me to warn you against playing fast and loose with your reputation.”
“It is mine to do with as I please, and no concern of yours.”
“Whatever occurred on the Continent, it is different in London.”
“You have no notion of what occurred on the Continent.”
His jaw worked. “I see,” he said stiffly.
“I’m not sure you do,” she retorted. Let him think the worst of her. Let. Him.
Glancing beyond her, he seemingly collected himself. “Regardless of what occurred, you are in London, amongst society. What was permissible in Paris is not here.”
“Why are you saying such things to me, as if I do not know the rules? I know them as well as you.”
His lips twisted. “Yes. You know them so well you allow a boy to maul you in full view of the ballroom.”
“He wasn’t mauling me.”
“From where I stood, he was certainly mauling you.”
“How, pray, was he mauling me? He had both hands on the balustrade.” Damnation, but he had no right to interfere. None.
“He was caging you.”
“He was not,” she retorted.
“I thought he was attacking you!”
“Well, he wasn’t!”
The words hung in the night air. Chest heaving, he stared at her, his grey eyes tumultuous. Her chest hurt. How was it they were yelling at each other? Where had it gone so wrong?
Oh, she remembered. When he had rejected her.
“I apologise,” he said.
She turned her face away, willing the tears that burned her eyes to do the same. “Is that all you have to say?”
The gentle breeze picked again at the hair on her nape. In the distance, people laughed and music played.
“I apologise profusely,” he finally said.
Bitterness twisted her lips. “Thank you for your condescension, Roxwaithe. I appreciate it greatly.”
He frowned. “You’re calling me Roxwaithe.”
“It is your name. What else should you be called?”
Glancing away, he shrugged.
No. No, he could not do this to her. She would not feel guilty. She wouldn’t. “Roxwaithe,” she stressed. “Is there aught else you wish to chide me on? My gown, perhaps? The length of my bodice? Perhaps my hair is incorrectly arranged.”
His expression hardened. “No. Simply the company you keep.”
“Ah, something that has absolutely nothing to do with you. Well done.”
He opened his mouth as if he would retort then pressed his lips together. Bowing sharply, he turned on his heel and, before she could say another word, left the balcony.
Crossing her arms, she stared after him. She wanted to storm after him, grab him and demand he pay her attention, but such action had never done her much good, had it? He’d decided to ignore her, and heaven forbid anyone try to change Oliver Farlisle’s mind once he’d decided something. It was just like when she’d come back from the Continent. He’d avoided her until he’d been forced to greet her, and then it had been with such an air of disinterest, it had been all she could do to scrounge disinterest in return.
Digging her fingers into her biceps, she forced herself to remain where she was. She’d been so certain they were meant for each other, and the night of her eighteenth birthday had seemed the perfect occasion to show him she was ready. She’d kissed him and, inexperienced though she had been, she’d felt him respond. But then he’d pushed her from him, and the horrified look on his face had almost destroyed her.
When her father had discovered them and sent her to her mother as if she were a child, she’d been so ashamed she’d simply done as he’d commanded. Her mother had been surprised to see her, but when her father had also appeared and, after a few moments of furious whispering, promptly decamped, her mother had turned to her with a wry comprehension.
“So, your father interrupted something,” her mother had said.
Pressing her lips together, Lydia hadn’t responded.
“Lydia?” her mother had prompted.
Digging her fingers into her biceps, she’d stared at the floor.
Her mother had sighed. “Lydia, were you kissing Lord Roxwaithe?”
Still she hadn’t answered.
“Did you kiss him or did he kiss you?”
“What does that matter?” she’d burst out.
“It matters.” Her mother had waited.
“I kissed him,” she’d finally admitted.
Her mother had sighed again. “I thought so.” Her mother had come closer to sit beside her, taking her hand. “Lydia, you cannot force someone to feel as you do.”
“I am not forcing him to feel anything. He loves me.”
“As a sister—”
“No. He loves me.”
Her mother had shook her head. “Even if he does, he’s not ready and you cannot force him.”
“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.