Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
Alexander
T he following day, Alexander found himself at his club once more. This time, in addition to Matthew Fitzroy, he was joined by Harrington and Wycliffe. He did not usually meet with his friends quite this often, as he found their company better enjoyed in less frequent sessions.
However, Arabella and Harry, as well as Hannah and Edwin, were in the country still. Evan, with whom he most enjoyed hunting and riding, had gone to his vineyard in Shropshire with his friend and business partner, Jonathan Stone, the Earl of Wessex. Meanwhile, Emma, was busy with Lady Wessex, who remained in town.
Thus, he had found himself rather in need of company.
It wasn’t that he was bored, precisely. During his long absences from his family in Ireland, he had discovered ways to pass the time. Reading, music, and writing—all pursuits well-suited to solitude—had served him well. Yet ever since the news of his friend John’s death had reached him, he had found himself in a gloomier mood than usual.
Since returning to England, he had gone to Ireland to visit twice per year. His estate, now occupied by Harry’s cousin Lady Helen and her husband, Lord Farnsworth, was always ready to receive him and he had so enjoyed these frequent visits. However, he hadn’t considered going back now, because he knew John and Maebh were no longer there. It wouldn’t be the same.
Ireland would no longer be the refuge it had once been. Now, it would be a reminder of what he had lost.
Alexander shook his head and took a sip of his whiskey, the liquid burning the back of his throat as it went down, before warming his stomach.
He’d left the confines of his home to escape such thoughts, and yet here he was, circling around the dark pit of grief once more.
“So, is it to be a big wedding, then? Rather festive? The sort of thing the town craves in these boring summer months?” Wycliffe’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“I beg your pardon?” Alexander responded, startled.
“Fitzroy here swears to us that you’ve been asking questions about a young lady you met on promenade. A desperate sort, I hear.” Wycliffe’s eyes glinted with mischief.
He blinked and glanced at Matthew, who smirked.
“Oh yes. Lady Lydia,” Matthew confirmed smoothly.
“Do you really intend to marry her, or is Fitzroy having us on? You know how he likes to embellish the truth,” Harrington asked with a grin.
Alexander ran his finger along the edge of his glass, considering the question. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed logical. Lady Lydia was precisely what he needed. From what he had heard—thanks to his butler, who was better informed about the happenings among the ton than any author of a scandal sheet—she could benefit from the arrangement as well. And her father, Lord Bristol, ought to be delighted with an offer of marriage from a duke.
“I have a mind to propose, yes,” Alexander finally replied.
“Well, she is desperate enough to have you,” Harrington said with a roaring laugh.
“That is what I’ve heard. Desperate enough to take on a man with a ward who needs looking after. I think her father will gladly hand her over,” he replied.
“I would think so,” Wycliffe said. “Nobody else seems to want her. But do you really want to waste yourself on a girl like that? One with no prospects?”
Alexander took a deep breath, irritation flaring. He didn’t care for the way his friends spoke about Lady Lydia. Still, he knew a reply in kind was necessary to maintain his position in their eyes.
“As you said, she is desperate. That means she’ll make a good, obedient wife. I’ll be able to carry on as I always have, unbothered, while she contents herself with managing the boy.”
He disliked how callous he sounded, but his friends seemed to appreciate the candor. If he had spoken in such a manner in front of his sisters, he would have been met with a righteous scolding. Deservedly so.
“Well, well,” Fitzroy said, clapping his hands. “Listen to our good duke here. He has it all figured out. He’ll secure himself a pretty lady to care for his ward while he enjoys himself. One handsome enough to show off to the ton as well. You’ll have done right by the boy and met society’s expectations while still enjoying bachelorhood in all but name. Well done,” Fitzroy added with a chuckle.
“Indeed, indeed,” Wycliffe agreed, raising his glass. “Here’s to the Duke of Pleasure and his ingenious schemes.”
“I’ll say,” Harrington chimed in. “If you could find me a desperate lass like that, I wouldn’t say no either.”
“And she’s from wealthy stock, so don’t let yourself get cheated on the dowry,” Wycliffe added with a sly grin. “While you’re at it, you might inquire about his other daughter.”
“His other daughter?” Alexander tilted his head. “The twins are barely ten. Surely you don’t mean?—”
“No, not the twins,” Wycliffe interrupted. “Lady Louisa. Nearly as lovely as Lady Lydia but untainted by rumors of broken engagements. A finer catch, some would say, though not as beautiful.”
“I doubt you’d stand a chance,” Harrington teased. “I hear Bristol has his sights set on a duke for that one. Arlington, isn’t it?”
“Arlington? Bristol certainly has lofty goals,” Wycliffe remarked. He shook his head. “I wonder why he saddled Lady Lydia with such poor matches when he could aim so high.”
Fitzroy snickered. “Perhaps he cares more for Louisa than Lydia. I overheard him at the theater, all but saying as much.” He grinned. “But whatever the case, it all works out for our friend here, doesn’t it?”
Alexander leaned back in his chair, his thoughts elsewhere. So, Lady Lydia was the less favored of the sisters. The idea stung on her behalf. He thought of the many times his own father had berated him, reminding him that as a second son, he wasn’t supposed to have been the heir.
His deceased elder brother, despite having lived only briefly, had been deemed more worthy in their father’s eyes. Perhaps Alexander was doing Lydia a favor by marrying her. Or perhaps he wasn’t. He hadn’t truly considered her desires in all of this, only his own—a fact his sisters would have undoubtedly reminded him of.
Still, he resolved himself. Lady Lydia was exactly what he needed. Titled and experienced with children, she would ensure his son received the best care and guidance. That was all that mattered.
Lydia leaned over the desk, the scratching of her quills barely audible over the whispered complaints of her sisters. Elizabeth and Maggie sat nearby, their pale faces stormy with indignation as they stared at their arithmetic problems. Across the room, Mr. Henderson, their elderly tutor, perched precariously on a chair with a book in one hand and a handkerchief in the other, wiping his brow in frustration.
"I detest sums," Maggie declared dramatically.
Elizabeth nodded emphatically. "And I see no reason for them! Why must we be tormented when we have people taking care of such matters for us?"
"Young ladies," Mr. Henderson chided, "the mastering of arithmetic fosters discipline and sharpens the mind. Now please?—"
"But I don’t want discipline, Mr. Henderson," Elizabeth interrupted. "I want tea and biscuits." Maggie burst into laughter beside her sister, who looked rather proud of herself.
Lydia straightened, her calm voice cutting through the burgeoning chaos. "Enough." The single word held a quiet authority that halted her sisters mid-complaint. Their gazes turned to her, half-defiant but clearly chastened.
Lydia softened her expression. "Do you think I enjoy hearing the same debates every lesson? Finish your work now, and I will read Through the Looking-Glass to you in the drawing room after supper. You may even take turns reciting the Jabberwocky, if you wish."
That earned reluctant smiles from both Elizabeth and Maggie. Elizabeth resumed her sums, and Maggie hesitated only a moment before following suit.
Mr. Henderson let out a relieved sigh, settling back into his chair. "Thank you, Lady Lydia," he said with a slight bow of his head. "Your assistance is invaluable."
Lydia smiled faintly and returned to her own seat, though her thoughts wandered. She often found herself in this role—mediator, mother-figure, and confidante. Her sisters required guidance and gentle prodding, for her father’s irregular presence had left them more willful than well-mannered. She did her best to nurture without overindulging, though it felt like walking a narrow tightrope most days.
She adjusted her papers and caught a flicker of movement outside the window. Glancing up, she drew a sudden, hitching breath. Below, in the driveway, stood a stately black carriage with polished brass fixtures. Its imposing coat of arms glimmered faintly in the afternoon light—one she did not recognize.
Her father rarely received visitors, and when he did, they typically joined him at his club. He considered the house an unsuitable place for company, dismissing the girls’ presence as an unnecessary distraction. So, who was this unexpected guest?
Lydia rose and stepped closer to the window, trying to get a better view. Her sisters remained engrossed in their arithmetic, paying her little mind. From her perch, Lydia saw the coachman descend and open the carriage door. Moments later, a tall figure emerged. The man wore a finely tailored dark coat, his top hat sitting at a precise angle. It cast a long shadow over his face, obscuring his features entirely. He paused briefly, surveying the house.
Lydia’s curiosity deepened. The mysterious visitor exuded a quiet authority, his movements deliberate and confident. Yet there was no clear indication of who he might be.
She lingered at the window, but as he made his way toward the front door, her view was cut short. Clutching the edge of the curtain, she frowned. Her instincts told her this visit would change the rhythm of their quiet, orderly lives. But whether for better or worse, she could not yet say.
The library was warm and inviting, its tall windows filtering in the afternoon light, casting golden hues on the shelves of well-worn books. Lydia sat in the center of the room with Elizabeth and Margaret, gently guiding them as they read aloud from Through the Looking Glass .
“Slowly, Maggie,” Lydia said patiently, her finger resting under the words as Margaret stumbled over the phrase “Jabberwocky.” “The ‘slithy toves’ are ‘sleye-thee,’ not ‘slit-hee.’ Just take your time.”
Margaret puffed her cheeks and blew out an exaggerated sigh. “This is hard! Why did Lewis Carroll make up so many silly words?”
“Because they’re fun once you understand them,” Elizabeth countered, already eager for her own turn. “Let me try next, Lydia.”
Margaret stuck out her tongue, prompting a laugh from all three. For a fleeting moment, the heaviness of responsibility that so often plagued Lydia felt lifted, replaced by the simple joy of shared stories.
The door creaked open, its sound pulling them from their escape into Wonderland. Their father, Lord Bristol, entered, his hands clasped behind his back, his stern expression immediately deflating the buoyant atmosphere.
“Lydia, come with me,” he said, motioning sharply toward the hallway. Then, as though noticing the twins for the first time, he added, “Continue on your own.”
As Lydia rose, smoothing her skirts, her father’s eyes lingered on Margaret. His brow furrowed deeply. “Margaret, are you feeling better today? I heard screaming last night.”
Lydia tensed, placing a steadying hand on her sister’s shoulder. He heard, and yet he did not come?
“She had a nightmare,” Lydia said calmly, her voice carefully controlled. “But everything is fine now. Isn’t that right, Maggie?”
“Yes,” Margaret said softly, staring at her lap. “I’m fine now, sir.”
Her father’s expression did not soften. “This cannot go on. You’ll have to get yourself together, young lady.”
Margaret’s lower lip trembled, but she nodded. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.
Lydia felt a pang of anger rise in her chest. “Father,” she began, her voice even, “Margaret was?—”
“That will do,” Lord Bristol interrupted coldly, fixing her with an icy glare. “Come with me, Lydia. Now.”
Biting back her retort, Lydia gave Margaret’s hand one last squeeze, then glanced at Elizabeth, who offered a worried smile. She followed her father out into the hallway, her mind racing.
What could he possibly want so urgently? He rarely involved himself in the day-to-day goings-on of the household, let alone with such insistence. Whatever it was, it didn’t bode well.
Lydia stepped into her father’s study, her hands clasped tightly before her to steady their trembling. The room smelled faintly of pipe smoke and leather, a sharp contrast to the softness of the library where she had just been.
A man stood by the window, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair catching the faint glow of afternoon light. She stiffened, immediately recognizing the figure—the one she had seen emerge from the carriage. His face remained shadowed by the brim of his hat, but her intuition told her this moment was pivotal.
The man turned. Her breath caught as recognition flooded her. The Duke of Leith.
Her stomach dropped like a stone. The child in the park. He was here because of yesterday. Panic spiked through her, and before he or her father could speak, she blurted out, “All I did was offer a child a chance to play. I didn’t mean any offense.”
Lord Bristol frowned, his lips thinning as he regarded his eldest daughter. “Lydia, do not be melodramatic,” he said stiffly, before turning toward the duke. “Your Grace, she is not birdbrained. Just... excitable at times.”
To her astonishment, the duke smiled, his expression far from offended. “I assure you, Lord Bristol, I do not mind. In fact…” His gaze slid back to Lydia, his tone growing thoughtful. “It was that very encounter that inspired me to come here to propose to your daughter.”
“Propose?” Lydia echoed, barely managing to get the word out. She turned to her father, certain she must have misheard.
“Do not act the fool, Lydia,” her father snapped, clearly losing patience. “You’ve had an offer of marriage from the Duke of Leith. You will be the Duchess of Leith. It’s all arranged.”
“Duchess?” Lydia’s voice cracked. Her throat felt tight, her chest burning as she struggled to comprehend his words. Marriage?
Lord Bristol cleared his throat. “Despite appearances, my daughter is quite bright. She speaks several languages, paints reasonably well, her musical accomplishments are passable, and she knows how to?—”
“There is no need,” the duke interrupted smoothly, his hand raised. “I’ve already decided to take her for a wife.”
“A wife…” Lydia whispered. She felt lightheaded, as though the floor beneath her were dissolving. This couldn’t be real.
“I cannot marry him!” she burst out.
“Nonsense,” Lord Bristol retorted. “It is all arranged. The banns will be read this Sunday and the next two Sundays. That will be the end of it. You’ll live at Hayward House, and?—”
Lydia staggered backward, her hand flying out to grasp the back of a chair for support. The words blurred in her mind, crashing together in a cacophony. Marriage? To the Duke? Leaving her sisters, her home? Who did he think he was, waltzing in here and demanding her hand like this? And Father—agreeing so easily?
Her thoughts spun like a whirlwind as she pressed a hand to her forehead. When she looked up, the two men had already left the room, their quiet footsteps echoing down the corridor.
“No,” Lydia whispered, shaking her head. This cannot happen.
Heart pounding, she pushed herself away from the chair and ran after them, her steps echoing through the hallway. She flew past her mother’s abandoned chambers and onto the grand staircase, her skirts swirling behind her.
This cannot be allowed.
Lydia reached the end of the corridor just in time to see her father disappear into the parlor, the heavy door closing firmly behind him. At the same moment, she heard the front door thud shut, and a glance confirmed her suspicion—the butler was retreating down the hall, meaning the duke had just left.
Her pulse quickened. Without hesitating, she turned and rushed outside, the thick summer heat hitting her like a wall as soon as she crossed the threshold. The sunlight was blinding, but her focus zeroed in on the tall figure striding toward the waiting carriage.
“Your Grace!” she called out, her voice cutting through the oppressive air.
The coachman, already holding the carriage door open, froze at her shout. The duke paused and turned slowly, his dark brows lifted in surprise. “Lady Lydia,” he said, stepping back from the carriage. “Is something the matter? I assumed you might need a little time to compose your thoughts.”
She ignored the gentle reproach in his tone, her skirts swishing as she closed the distance between them. “I do not require time to compose my thoughts, ” she said sharply. “For there is nothing to consider. I cannot—no, I will not —marry you.”
His expression cooled as he straightened, shoulders squaring. “Your father has already consented to the match, and that is all the agreement I require,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We will be wed, Lady Lydia. It is for the good of us both.”
“For the good of us?” she shot back, incredulous. “How can you say that? My sisters depend on me. They need me, Your Grace. I cannot leave them.”
“They will manage,” the duke said simply, his gaze steady and unyielding. “And it is not merely about what you want or need. You must consider the circumstances. I need a wife, and a mother for Eammon, and you need a way to move forward despite…” He hesitated, just enough to make her blood boil. “…despite the unfortunate situation concerning your reputation.”
Lydia’s fists clenched at her sides. “I do not need a man, nor do I want one. Least of all, one who thinks to make such bargains,” she said, her voice trembling with restrained anger.
“I understand this may feel… abrupt,” he replied, his tone softening as though he were humoring a child. “But I assure you, all will be well. I am not searching for a traditional wife. All I need is a mother for Eammon. You are clearly capable with children, and beyond that, we will sort out the rest in due time.”
She opened her mouth to respond, to demand an explanation, to argue, but before she could find her words, he inclined his head with maddening composure.
“Good day, Lady Lydia.” He turned and stepped into the carriage, the door shutting with a finality that sent her heart racing with frustration.
The wheels of the coach creaked as it started down the driveway, and Lydia stood rooted to the spot, her fists trembling at her sides and her chest heaving.
How dare he? she thought, glaring after the retreating carriage. Heat curled in her chest—not from the weather but from the fire of her anger. How dare he presume to decide my life for me?
The cool stone of the front steps grounded her as she took a slow, shaking breath. No, this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.