Читать книгу The Lord’s Persuasion of Lady Lydia - Raven McAllan - Страница 9

Prologue

‘I have a headache.’ It was almost true, Lydia thought, as she glanced up at her mama from under her lashes. If she were forced to fall in with her parents’ intentions it would no longer be a white lie. Even thinking about the evening’s so-called entertainment made her tense. ‘Can I not give the ball a miss and you make my apologies to our hostess?’ After all, she’d spend most of the night as a wallflower – not that she minded that at all; it was the fact that she would be forced to dance with whomsoever her hostess foisted upon her that she hated. Supper would be agony, as whichever gentleman had been coerced into escorting her attended to her for the bare minimum of time politeness dictated and then disappeared. ‘Seriously, Mama, let me have a night off. I am not interested and you know it.’

Her mama, the Countess of Ibstock, sighed, frowned and felt Lydia’s forehead. ‘You’re not heated and your complexion is normal. I’m sure you’ll be fine once you are there.’ There was a note of finality in her voice that hinted Lydia should take heed. ‘You never know, you might even catch the attention of…’ She broke off and reddened. ‘You will be fine,’ she said again lamely.

Poor mama. She was, Lydia thought with a surge of amusement, ever optimistic. In this case it was sadly misplaced. In her younger days, her vivacious mama had been considered an incomparable, and even now, in her fifties, showed the beauty she had once radiated. If she had been married to anyone other than Lydia’s papa her mama would, Lydia thought, have been a much sought after, leading hostess. Sadly, her papa, the Earl, was somewhat of an eccentric and eschewed most tonnish entertainments and his wife. To the Countess, fancy gowns, parties and balls were the spice of life and she couldn’t understand how her daughter hated them. Without those frivolities, Lydia suspected, her poor mama would be lonely and alone. Even Lydia couldn’t fill the void her papa deliberately left in his wife’s life. It was incomprehensible how he could be so unfeeling or how her mama managed to put on a stiff upper lip and rarely showed how hurt she was by her husband’s attitude. It might be the way of most of the ton, but it would never be Lydia’s way.

It would not ever do for her. If nothing else, it showed her she could not and would not be subjected to such a life of anguish and lack of respect as a person in her own right. Her mama loved her papa dearly, and look how he repaid her?

No, no, and no. It was not for her. She’d much rather be an old maid. Whoever said having a large fortune and a considerable dowry was an asset was sadly mistaken in Lydia’s opinion. The fortune might well be her saving grace one day, but a dowry? She shuddered. How many fortune hunters and men down on their luck had she refused? People who didn’t see her as a person, but as a purse. The number of females who, on discovering who Lydia was, looked startled, then speculative, couldn’t be counted. Friendships were courted and cultivated and ideas on how to spend her pin money – and more – bandied about. It was no wonder, Lydia mused, that she had deliberately gone out of her way to appear dull and bookish and fade into the background. Marriage had never been high on her agenda after she had thought her heart broken by a suitor she imagined loved her. Sadly – or thankfully, she had subsequently decided – she had discovered he loved her money, not her. It had been a bitter blow to come upon him, at what should have been her betrothal ball, bragging to one of his friends that she was boring, had no animation in her, and that nothing about her was interesting.

No doubt, the man had continued with a laugh, she would be rubbish between the sheets, but he would perk himself up by thinking of her fortune. She’d shown him how wrong he was with regards to her personality, stormed in, slapped his face, and told him that he would never find out. Plus, she had said, in such an icy tone he had blanched, to her knowledge she hadn’t actually agreed to the betrothal. When he tried to protest, she had grabbed a carafe of red wine from a nearby table and poured the contents over his head. He had spluttered and sworn, and a large quantity had dripped over his immaculate evening breeches. As he had an affectation for buff, the pale material turned a nice, deep claret.

Needless to say, she hadn’t seen him again. It had been a somewhat difficult conversation she had with her parents when they discovered her swain gone, but in her mind it had been worth it. To Lydia’s surprise the man didn’t talk about her in a bad way, indeed, the aborted betrothal never saw the light of day in the ton. She decided he was probably too embarrassed.

Happily, within the season he married elsewhere and retired to Wales, out of sight and out of mind.

Even so, the wedded state become less and less attractive over the years. Her erstwhile suitors left a sour taste in her mouth. As for her parents’ marriage? Words failed her.

Perhaps I was swapped with someone else at birth? There seemed to be no other explanation for those views which were so diametrically opposed to those of her parents.

‘Besides,’ the Countess continued, bringing Lydia back to the present with a jolt, ‘though I hate to bring the subject up, how else will you find a…’

‘Mama.’ Lydia held her hand up to stop her mama speaking. ‘Do not dare mention a husband. I am almost six-and-twenty and not interested in the gentlemen who are interested in me.’ Not that there were many these days. Lydia knew she had perfected the art of fading into the furnishings, and dissuaded all but the most persistent. ‘You know I do not suit them, and you also know that I prefer it that way.’ She squeezed her mama’s shoulder in silent sympathy. ‘I’m not you. I really don’t see the benefit of being a wife. After all, where would I find a man as perfect as papa?’ She hoped her sarcasm didn’t show, for her words were such an exaggeration. Lydia wouldn’t hurt her mama for anything, but sometimes it was so very hard to show respect for her father.

She wasn’t quite sure she loved him – for how could you love someone rarely there? However, she supposed she owed the Earl her filial respect for he was most definitely the head of the house and her mama deferred to him in all things. That lady never had an independent thought or idea, unless, Lydia mused wryly, it appertained to the problem of Lydia’s almost old maid status. She was definitely one more reason why Lydia had no intention of becoming a wife. How her mama could put up with the indifference shown to her – kindly or not – Lydia couldn’t comprehend.

Lydia was well aware she did not have the disposition to accept commands meekly without question, nor not to ask why something should be just so, nor to hang on to a man’s every word as if it were the only thing that mattered. Even as a young child she questioned everything. Lydia understood she had a mind of her own and opinions that were just as valid as those of anyone else. Nevertheless, from all she had seen and heard, no man had ever tempted her to change her attitude. She would not be a commodity, or someone to be used as a brood mare and then discarded. That was something she had watched happen all too many times, and sometimes the results were horrendous. In general, though, the ton seemed to think a marriage of convenience was the preferable alliance, advantageous to both parties concerned. Lydia disagreed and preferred her single life. Oh, she accepted some people’s marriages were different – her friend Esther’s was one in question – but how could she be sure her own would be?

Esther opined that miracles did happen; however, Lydia was of the belief that, after Esther and Edward, there were no more to be had. Esther, a friend of Lydia since schooldays, and now the wife of an influential lord who was an MP, had a marriage that was the one successful example, to Lydia’s knowledge, of those arranged for gain.

There had only been two other firm offers. The first was when the man turned out to have feet of clay. It was pure chance Lydia learned – from the lady herself – about his married mistress a few days before he asked her papa for her hand. The said mistress, herself married to a man who ignored her, had, she declared, been assured her liaison would not end after the marriage. Fortuitously, Lydia’s papa had let her refuse the offer. That had surprised her, but she had been grateful. It was only later she understood that her papa thought the man inferior to them and was someone who had once snubbed the Earl at Tattersalls.

Her mama couldn’t comprehend Lydia’s attitude. After all, a mistress was not something uncommon, surely Lydia understood that? When Lydia had asked her whether her papa kept a mistress, her mother had paled and her eyes clouded over until she stuttered and told her daughter it was not a subject to be discussed with innocent, unmarried girls. From that Lydia had inferred he did.

So it had been a pleasant surprise when her papa had not pushed her to say yes to that or a subsequent, even less palatable, offer. Agreed, that was more to the elderly peer’s lack of fortune, fondness for inferior port, and Lydia’s father’s fortune the man assumed would go to her on her papa’s death, than her vehement refusal, but it still gave her two more lucky escapes.

Since then she had become more wary of those peers looking actively for a wife. So many seemed to think a mistress was part of any marriage, and so many of those women seemed to be married to someone else. It was not for her.

Luckily, all other potential suitors she had thankfully managed to put off before they got as far as approaching her papa. She thought they might as well have guinea signs etched on their foreheads. It was galling to be seen as a money-well, but if it had done nothing else, it had made her increasingly aware that she was more than that. She had intelligence and wit, even though she chose not to show them but instead court a reputation for unconventionality.

Hence, in a few weeks’ time, she could take charge of her own, not inconsiderable, fortune, and she had plans made. Lydia was going to move to her cottage in Devon and forget all about Almack’s, balls, afternoon teas and gossip. She would be in charge of her life.

It was a fact that she could hardly wait, and Lydia sighed at the thought of what she needed to endure until then. The Countess regarded her daughter steadily and Lydia did her best not to squirm, but her mama had the knack of making her feel like a specimen under a microscope.

‘You really do not enjoy the life of the ton, do you?’ The Countess made it sound as if her daughter came from an alien planet. ‘Sometimes I despair of you. How can anyone not enjoy the parties, the chat, the…’

Lydia rolled her eyes. She felt her mama’s anguish, she really did, but even that couldn’t change her attitude towards the ton. ‘Sorry, mama, I am such a trial, I know, but I could reply with how can anyone enjoy them.’

The Countess pulled a face and shook her head. ‘Somehow I must have failed you.’

Not you, but Papa and your marriage did. And those bone-headed idiots who chose to try and pull the wool over my eyes. They opened my eyes to inequality and injustice. To overhear I am undesirable, but for my fortune he will put up with me, is not something any woman should ever apprehend..

‘Never, mama.’ Lydia patted her mama’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. ‘I just am different. I’m sorry but you know neither of us can change what we are.’

‘Sadly. Even so, my love, you have to attend tonight,’ her mama said earnestly. ‘Her ladyship would be most disgruntled if you pulled out at such a late date. You might not want to go’ – her tone indicated she personally could not comprehend anyone who chose not to attend such a gathering – ‘but do this one thing and I promise you can forgo Almack’s tomorrow.’ She sighed very dramatically. ‘I will think of some excuse that doesn’t offend the patronesses.’

Thank the lord for small mercies. It was a very large concession from her entertainment-loving mama, who thought Almack’s, balls and soirees almost the sole reason for living. ‘Say I have the plague? Oh, all right, the headache. And let me miss the musicale at Lady Bishop’s as well?’ Lydia added hopefully. ‘You know I get no pleasure at those events and it will make the headache all the more plausible.’ The only saving grace, as far as Lydia was concerned, was that if she closed her eyes during each musical piece, people thought she was lost in the music and not snoozing.

The Countess shook her head in sorrow and sighed heavily. ‘You strike a hard bargain. Very well.’

‘I try.’ Lydia stood up and shook out her dress. How could she explain the claustrophobic sensation that filled her when in the social situations her mother adored? Or the way her mind went blank and she wanted nothing more than to yawn or find a book to read. ‘It’s difficult, but I really try.’

She waited for her mama to come back smartly with ‘very trying’, but for once she did not, and merely patted her daughter’s cheek. ‘It will be fine,’ she said, not very convincingly.

‘In that case I best go and get ready for another evening in hell,’ Lydia said, ignoring her mother’s tut-tut and muttered admonishment as she left the room. If she had to endure several hours of torture she’d make certain she looked her effacing best. Not that it would make much difference. Whatever she wore she would still be seen as well on the shelf and not worth bothering with. Sometimes it perturbed her – she rather thought she would be a good mother – but after listening to the moaning of several young matrons, bored and ignored by their spouses, those moments were becoming fewer and fewer. Better not a mother than an unloved and unwanted encumbrance. After all, how much mothering would she, as the wife of a member of the ton, be allowed to minister? That thought made her smile wryly. Maybe she needed to find a nice jolly country squire who had no intention of straying, or a vicar who couldn’t afford nursery care and expected his wife to do it all, as well as ministering to whoever of his flock needed it.

Make gruel? Bake bread? Make small talk to all and sundry? That negated the vicar’s wife, then. Lydia had only the haziest idea of how bread or gruel was made and her repertoire of small talk was non-existent. An old maid with a trusty servant it would have to be. Plus, she thought with an inward giggle, cats.

She entered her bedroom and grinned at Millie, her personal maid. ‘I have to go tonight but tomorrow is mine and mine alone. A visit to Hatchards and to Mr Lloyd if we can do it without being observed, I think.’ Mr Lloyd was both her solicitor and her confidant. ‘Sadly, before then I have to pretend not to be bored out of my mind for the next however many hours. I’ll wear the midnight-blue silk.’

Millie, well used to her mistress’s abrupt changes of subject, nodded. ‘We’ll sort tomorrow out, don’t you worry, my lady. Now your bath is drawn and I’ll get you out in good time.’

Pity.

****

Purgatory was too mild a word for it, Lydia decided, as four hours later she nodded politely at Lord Baxford, who put a plate with a piece of cheese too small to satisfy even the tiniest and least hungry mouse in the country down in front of her. It was accompanied by a sandwich, no more than one inch square, two patties, and a strawberry – a single strawberry, for goodness’ sake – and none of the excellent treats she had spied as she entered the room. It might not be the height of the soft fruit season, but Lady Lewisham had succession houses unparalleled by anyone. Not for one minute did Lydia think that she would not have provided plenty of fruits for everyone. It was, she decided, with a quirk to her lips that Lord Baxford eyed suspiciously, a gentleman’s erroneous reading of a woman. He thought they should eat delicately and have no need for the same sort of sustenance as a man. How wrong could an idea be?

‘There you are, ah…’ Lord Baxford looked at her expectantly as if he were due a medal.

‘Thank you.’ She refused to pander to his ego and add any more. If she did, her shy mouse cover would be blown to smithereens. It was obvious he couldn’t remember her title let alone her name.

Baxford glanced wildly around the supper room and tapped his teeth with one long fingernail. ‘Hmm.’

Lydia stood up abruptly, tired of the gentleman’s posturing. ‘My lord, you’ve done your duty, and believe me I enjoyed it no more than you.’

He blanched and ran his finger around the edge of his perfectly, but boringly tied cravat. ‘I, er, no you have it…’

‘Correct,’ Lydia said with a sympathetic note in her tone. After all, it wasn’t his fault he’d been forced to escort her to supper and act as if it were his pleasure to do so. Something he hadn’t quite achieved. ‘You are absolved from dancing attendance on me any longer. Go and enjoy the rest of the evening. Mary Sutton is looking at you longingly.’ She had almost said making sheep’s eyes before she remembered herself. Sometimes, acting the lady was not at all easy. Very daring, she patted his cheek and bit the inside of her mouth so she didn’t laugh at his startled deer impression, as he flinched. ‘If you will excuse me.’ She didn’t give the hapless and unfortunate lord time to more than begin to stutter his apologies and thanks before she curtsied to the exact depth due to his status, made her way out of the supper room and headed towards the ladies’ withdrawing room. A little cold water and a stern talking to were needed.

Luckily, apart from the attendant, the room was empty and Lydia was able to use the commode, wash her hands and then, a glass of water in hand, sink into a large, overstuffed armchair and cool herself down without interruption. She hated confrontation, and wished to Hades her mama could understand where her daughter was coming from. A quiet life, a chance to do what she was good at, and with no interference from husbands, parents, or anyone else who thought they knew what she wanted and needed better than she. Surely it wasn’t too much to ask for?

Lydia drank the water and stood up again. With luck she could leave in an hour or so, and then, her duty done, have that well-earned day to herself on the morrow. For the umpteenth time she mentally counted how long she would have to endure the life of the ton before her mama would give in and accept her daughter was a lost cause. That time couldn’t come too soon.

After one last glance in the mirror to check her appearance – mundane but neat and tidy – just right to blend into the wallpaper, she decided – Lydia thanked the attendant, gave her a tip and walked out into the corridor. A group of men approached from the direction of the card room, laughing and chatting to each other, and she took a step backwards until her shoulders brushed the wall. She would stand quietly to one side to let them past. After all, it was highly unlikely any of them would pay her any attention, let alone give her a second glance, but she didn’t want to get in their way so they were forced to notice her. Luckily, Lydia reasoned, she had long perfected the art of fading into her surroundings. As she had thought, the first few males took no notice of her, but one exquisitely turned-out gentleman, arms gesticulating wildly to his companion, clipped her cheek as he walked by. To be fair, she thought – or tried to – as her head snapped back, he probably couldn’t turn his head far enough to see her. His cravat was so high he looked as if it supported his head.

Lydia saw stars as the man’s companion swore. ‘Donkin, you ass, you’ve hurt the lady. Apologise at once.’ Someone propelled her to a nearby seat. ‘Go and get some water and a maid.’ Presumably the man spoke to Donkin and not her.

To her chagrin, Lydia felt herself moved backwards and forcibly made to sit down. ‘I’m fine – there is no need to fuss,’ she said faintly as she glanced at her rescuer and blinked.

Oh, good grief, no. Of all the people it could have been, it had to be Lord Birnham. Known with irony to others in the same situation as herself – those females who were older, wiser and not likely to be taken in by a handsome face and pretty manners – as the deb’s delight. Or Handsome Harry, or the luscious lord. Whichever sobriquet she chose, he annoyed and intrigued her in equal amounts. Not that she knew a lot about him. He was not in her small circle of friends or even smaller group of admirers. Rakes weren’t interested in wallflowers. But she knew enough about him to be honest to herself, and wonder, what if? Lydia admitted she had some curiosity about men in general and Lord Birnham in particular.

Not that ‘what if’ was ever likely to become anything else. She bet he’d be hard pressed to even know who she was, let alone realise they frequented the same entertainments. Now he frowned at her response to him and Lydia smiled at his concerned expression. It sat well on his aristocratic face. One could almost imagine it was real. With deep-grey eyes, dark, wavy, immaculately styled hair, and a body honed to perfection hidden under his immaculate dress, it was no wonder impressionable debs swore they swooned if he favoured them with a smile, or even better, a bow or a word. She, however, was made of sterner stuff – she hoped.

‘I am fine, my lord,’ Lydia said earnestly and cursed the husky tone of her voice. ‘Really. There is no need to concern yourself.’ She coughed, somewhat unconvincingly, and ignored the quirk to his lips.

Damn his eyes. ‘Mr Donkin only caught me a glancing blow,’ she explained in a way she hoped showed her determination to be a quiet, unassuming person who caused no trouble. It wasn’t easy as she was more than a little disconcerted by his close scrutiny. ‘If I had been more alert I would have ducked.’

‘He needs ducking,’ his lordship said irritably, ‘preferably his head in the pond. He’s an idiot.’

She couldn’t disagree, but this attention embarrassed her. Lord, if her mama appeared she’d crow and push them together. How mortifying would that be? Lydia got a grip on herself and attempted to stand up. His lordship’s hand, warm and, to her annoyance, comforting on her shoulder, forestalled her. She didn’t need to be comforted, just ignored.

‘Lady Lydia, you should let me call him to accounts.’

He knew who she was? Lydia hadn’t expected that. ‘No need, my lord. It truly was an accident.’ She did not want all eyes on her.

‘Hmm. Stay there until you get a compress on your cheek,’ he commanded in a voice that told her he didn’t expect her to argue. That was enough for Lydia to become riled. ‘You do not…’ she began emphatically, and saw the surprised look in his eyes.

Damn, damn and double damn. Her carefully cultivated boring and wilting attitude was not in keeping with that sentence. Lydia made haste to rectify that, and modify her tone. ‘Do not need to worry, my lord. I’ll be fine and I’ll call my mama and she will escort me home,’ she said in a voice which held no emotion. ‘I’m so thankful for your help, but really there is no necessity.’

His eyes narrowed and Lydia held her breath. Would he challenge her? For a few long and fraught seconds the outcome could have gone either way.

Finally, as she was about to scream – or pretend to faint – he nodded.

‘If you insist.’ The look on his face showed he thought it was a temporary reprieve. ‘I will send a footman to find her. I’ll be back.’ He turned on his heels, presumably to find a footman. The minute he disappeared from view she made a move towards the front door. He obviously intended her to wait where she was.

Lydia intended to do no such thing.