Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
Alexander
T he thick soles of Alexander’s slippers made a muted, gentle sound as he paced through the quiet, dimly lit halls of the house. His banyan trailed softly behind, its silken folds barely brushing the polished floorboards. The air was curiously still, disturbed only by the occasional flicker of the sconces gracing the walls.
He had not meant to stray far from his chambers, yet the restlessness that had roused him from his bed led him aimlessly through the corridors. Thoughts of his quarrels with Lydia and the strange feelings of admiration that had plagued him lately would not let him sleep.
As he rounded another corner, his hand grazing the polished wood of the banister, a sudden rustle of movement caught his eye.
Emelia, one of the maids, scurried past, her hands shaking as she held a cup precariously filled with liquid. Her anxious expression prompted Alexander to halt mid-step.
"Emelia," he called, his voice low but commanding. She froze at once, eyes widening, her knees dropping into an ungraceful curtsy as she nearly spilled the contents of her cup.
"Your Grace," she stammered, cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“What are you doing here at this hour?”
“I-I heard screaming, from Master Eammon’s room."
At once, he was alarmed. “And who was screaming?” he asked, his tone sharp yet laden with suspicion.
"Master Eammon, Your Grace," she replied, her voice small. "It’s another of his nightmares. Miss Murphy went to calm him, and I was fetching warm milk—sometimes it helps."
A sigh escaped him, the weight of the situation pressing down on his chest. Nightmares. Again.
Eammon had been plagued by restless nights ever since he arrived, though no one could say if it was due to homesickness or something else entirely. Alexander pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, feeling the weight of it all.
Just then, soft footsteps echoed through the hall. Alexander’s eyes turned instinctively toward the source, only to freeze at the sight of Lydia, moving with quiet determination down the corridor.
In her arms she held Eammon, his small form swaddled in a white sheet that trailed behind them like a cloud. The boy’s tiny hands clutched her neck as his tear-streaked face nestled against her shoulder. From where Alexander stood, he could hear the gentle hitching of Eammon’s breath and see the faintest tremor of his small fists.
Lydia’s hair was loose, escaping from the pins that had failed to hold it in place, and her robe hung in an unceremonious drape over her nightdress. Yet, despite her disheveled appearance, there was a quiet grace in the way she carried the child, a sense of calm that contrasted sharply with the scene at hand.
She raised her head slightly, her gaze meeting his with an unspoken challenge and weariness. In that glance, a strange wave of conflicting emotions swept over him.
"Your Grace," she murmured, a note of quiet acknowledgment in her voice as she inclined her head ever so slightly. They’d gone from using their Christan names to the formal titles again—which had not been his choosing but what could he do?
Alexander’s frown deepened, his attention shifting to Eammon, whose dark, tousled hair appeared wild even in sleep, his body pressed tightly against her.
"Where are you taking him at this hour, may I inquire?" he asked, his tone noticeably level, though there was an undeniable tension beneath his words.
"To my chamber, he is afraid at night when he’s had nightmares. My sister is also afflicted by such bad dreams and I allow her to sleep in my chamber when that happens. I think it will help him, since it helps her," Lydia answered without missing a beat. Her chin lifted ever so slightly.
Eammon stirred, his hold tightening, and Alexander’s lips pressed thin.
"Nightmares," he muttered, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. "The poor boy is plagued by them. Ever since he arrived here."
"I know," Lydia replied, her voice a mere whisper, a softness in her words meant only for the child who rested against her.
Alexander’s gaze lingered on them both for a moment, an unspoken conflict building within him. Rather than continuing the conversation, he simply stepped aside, gesturing toward the hallway leading to Eammon’s room. Lydia gave a small, determined nod, and continued her way down the corridor, her steps unfaltering despite the weight she carried.
As she passed, Emelia, still standing by Alexander’s side, ventured a quiet word, her hands still tightly clutching the cup of milk.
"She’s done wonders for him, Your Grace," the maid said softly, casting a furtive glance between Alexander and Lydia. "More than anyone else."
Alexander did not respond, though his features briefly tightened, a slight scowl twitching at the corners of his lips. Was it right to have him sleep in her room? She knew that he was scared in the night but at the same time, would it not be best to make him get used to sleeping alone? In a few years, he’d go to Eton and there he could not expect some kindly nurse to take him to her chamber when he had a bad dream.
No, this was not right. The boy might need more kindness and support but this was a step too far.
Alexander remained still for a moment, his hand flexing at his side, before he turned toward Emelia, still clutching the cup of milk. “Give me that, please. I shall take it,” he said with a quiet command, seizing the cup from her hands. Without a further word, he strode resolutely down the hall, his steps swift as he followed Lydia.
The door to her chamber was slightly ajar upon his arrival, a soft glow from a solitary oil lamp spilling into the hallway. He entered without a sound, pausing on the threshold as his eyes scanned the room. His frown deepened as he took in the sparse surroundings. The room was neat to the point of sterility—devoid of any personal touches or familiar marks of its occupant’s presence. This had of course always been the case, for this had been used as a guest room and had therefore no personal touches at all.
But he’d expected her to add some by now. Alas, it appeared this was not so. No paintings graced the walls, no trinkets or mementos lined the shelves, nothing to suggest this was a place where one truly resided. The bed, a simple four-poster, appeared freshly made yet wholly untouched, the ivory coverlet immaculate. It seemed...temporary. More akin to a passing stop than a true home.
He had not anticipated such an impersonal space from her. Lively, opinionated Lydia, of all people. The realization stirred something unsettled within him.
Lydia, meanwhile, was wholly absorbed in her care for Eammon, entirely unaware of his scrutiny. Gently, she laid the boy onto the bed, her fingers smoothing his dark hair with a tenderness—an affection—Alexander hadn’t imagined possible from someone who, by all appearances, seemed so spirited and strong. The boy stirred in his sleep, mumbling faintly as he settled against the pillow.
Moving further into the room, Alexander set the cup down upon a small table by the bed. The soft clink of porcelain on wood caused Lydia to glance up, her brow furrowing in surprise.
“You,” she said, blinking at him as if she were not quite certain of his purpose. Her voice, though soft, held an unmistakable weariness. “I wasn’t expecting you to?—”
She trailed off, then turned her attention back to adjusting the bedclothes around the sleeping boy. Alexander’s jaw tightened at her dismissal.
“I need to speak with you.”
Lydia straightened, though she did not meet his gaze. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn he saw the faintest roll of her eyes. A silent gesture of exasperation, or worse.
With a deep sigh, she adjusted her posture, a familiar air of exasperation settling across her features, though her expression remained composed. “Must it be now, Your Grace?” she asked, her glance flicking downward to the boy as though he had answered the question for them both.
“Yes,” he replied, his words deliberate, as he motioned toward a nearby side door. “In the dressing room. We shall not disturb him there.”
After a pause, she gave a small, reluctant nod before striding toward the adjoining room. Alexander followed, noting the spartan nature of the space she had entered. Like her chamber, it was nearly bare—no portraits, no personal effects, no visible sign of attachment to the place. A simple wardrobe, a chair, and, in the far corner, the same stacked trunks he had noticed earlier. A sobering thought struck him again, this time with greater force: Lydia resided within his household, yet it hardly seemed as though she lived here in any true sense.
He shook the troubling notion away and stepped further into the room, crossing his arms as he fixed his gaze on her.
“About Eammon?—”
“Is this where you lecture me again?” she interrupted, her tone lightly challenging as her arms mirrored his in frustration.
He frowned deeply. “I’ve noticed how quickly he’s grown attached to you,” he began, his words cutting the silence. “And how easily you indulge him.”
Lydia lifted a brow in disbelief. “Indulge?” Her voice was laced with incredulity. “You believe I’m ‘indulging’ him?”
“You’re spoiling him, Lydia,” he stated plainly, his voice tightening. “Encouraging every whim, feeding into this unhealthy dependence.”
“I take it you mean my allowing him to sleep in my chamber?” she asked, head dipped to one side.
“Precisely. He ought to have been comforted of course, but he ought to have been told to remain in his own chamber. He will forever come to you to sleep here if you let him,” he said.
“And you know this how?” she fired back. “I can tell you that unlike you, I have experience raising children. My sister suffers dreadful nightmares, so bad it has the whole house thinking a calamity has befallen us. My mother always took her to her chamber when she was little and in due course, she stopped. After my mother died, it started again but Maggie is old enough now to be able to stay in her chamber after she has been comforted. She is, however, twice Eammon’s age.”
“An Earl’s younger daughter is hardly the same as a Duke’s male ward. You are spoiling the boy.”
Lydia’s breath caught in indignation. “Spoiling him?” she repeated, her voice now laced with steel. “What I’m doing is caring for him. He needs care, he needs warmth. I’m trying to offer him what he’s lost. Tell me, Your Grace,” she added, her tone suddenly sharp with a touch of accusation. “Has nobody ever cared for you?”
The question lingered in the space between them, sharp and unsettling. Alexander’s mouth opened and closed as if to respond, but words failed him. Her question struck a deep, uncomfortable chord. Finally, after a heavy pause, he spoke, but not with the clarity he sought.
“It isn’t about me,” he said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “And please stop calling me Your Grace, I thought we were beyond that.”
She eyed him carefully. “Are you certain this is not about yout?” Lydia pressed, stepping toward him, unwavering in her stare. “Eammon is a child, Alexander.” She spoke his name in so pointed a way, it was clear she meant to mock him. “A child who has lost everything—his world, his home. If I can make him feel secure, even for a moment, I will. And you know what? That isn’t indulgence—that’s humanity.”
A sting tightened his chest. He said nothing in reply for a long while, his gaze fixed on her. “The world is not always kind,” he said eventually, his words hardening. “And he needs to learn resilience.”
Her response came swiftly, her voice unyielding. “Perhaps you need to understand that resilience and tenderness are not mutually exclusive,” she shot back, her gaze unwavering as she moved past him toward the door.
He stiffened, her words igniting a familiar ache. He knew it all too well—the belief that the world was harsh, that life had to be met with strength above all else. But there was something in her that defied it—something that struck at the truth of what he had missed, what he had neglected.
Before Lydia reached the door, Alexander’s voice, quieter now, laced with a hint of reluctant realization, cut through the silence. “You are right, of course.” The words surprised even himself. “I do not want him to be afraid. I was, as a child, and he doesn’t deserve that.”
She paused, a fraction of a breath before turning back, her face softening, though the unwavering determination remained in her gaze. “And neither did you,” she said softly, before disappearing into the adjoining room.
Once again, Alexander was left in the stillness, his thoughts in turmoil, the weight of their exchange heavy on his shoulders. He felt a new, uncomfortable awareness of the walls he had built inside himself, but for the first time in what felt like an age, a part of him wondered if maybe they could come down.
He followed her into the bedchamber and saw her bend over Eammon, a smile on her face.
"You're right. He deserves it tenderness and kindness. And… I am glad you're here to show it to him," he admitted softly. There was a flicker of something tender in his voice, something unfamiliar to him.
“You never answered my question,” she said then, rising to her full height and stepping back into the dressing room. “If anyone was ever tender with you as a child.”
Alexander stared at Lydia for a long moment, her words echoing in the tense silence of the room. The question hung between them, raw and unanswered, as he finally spoke.
“I did have tenderness in my life once,” he said, his voice low, the weight of memory thickening each word. “From my mother. She…she was everything good in this world. With her, I felt safe and wanted. Secure. But she died when I was still a stripling, barely old enough to understand half of what I do now.”
Lydia’s posture shifted slightly, her expression softening, though she said nothing.
“After that,” Alexander continued, his tone turning clipped, “it was just my father. And my sisters. You probably already know some of this—since you knew I abandoned them.”
She flinched at his words, her gaze falling to the floor. He could see the color draining from her face, the subtle tightening of her shoulders as if bracing against a blow.
“I—I shouldn’t have said that,” she murmured, her voice tight. “I was angry, and it wasn’t fair.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the faint movement catching his attention as moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating her features. For a moment, Alexander couldn’t look away.
“You did try to apologize,” he admitted quietly. “And I wouldn’t let you.”
She looked up at him then, her eyes wide and shadowed with contrition.
“I didn’t want to talk about it anymore at the time,” he added, sighing as he rubbed at his temple. “It still isn’t easy.” He paused, his voice softening. “But I should have considered your feelings too. I have a habit of overlooking those, it seems.”
“We all make mistakes, Alexander. As long as we learn from them that is all that matters. Pray, may I ask something?”
“Of course, anything,” he said, though he wasn’t so sure he wanted her to ask anything.
“Emma told me about your brother,” she said suddenly, the words tumbling out in an almost fragile tone. “The one who died as a babe. Your father compared you to him a lot, did he not? Is that why you feel you must be so … strong all the time?”
His breath hitched at the mention of it, and his expression hardened reflexively.
“Yes, I suppose so,” he said tersely. “My father…” He stopped, struggling to force the bitterness away. “…preferred the child who didn’t live long enough to walk to the one standing before him. So to impress him, I tried to be strong, to be brave – but it made no difference. No matter what I did, he preferred my brother over me.”
She flinched again, but this time she didn’t look away.
“I understand,” she said simply. “My father prefers Louisa. He always has.”
Alexander let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his bitterness surfacing fully. “Quite a pair we are, aren’t we?” he said dryly, his mouth twisting. “The unwanted children our parents sought to cast away.”
She flinched, glancing down.
“I should not have said that,” he said quickly.
“It is quite alright. Perhaps the two of us have more in common than we thought,” she said.
The silence that followed was profound. Her eyes lingered on him, as though measuring the sincerity of his words, but Alexander knew better than to expect her to voice her own thoughts. Her presence in the room felt more intimate now, but also distant, as if something unspoken had passed between them.
But it wasn’t until their gazes briefly collided that the air seemed to shift, subtle yet palpable. For just a fleeting moment, their surroundings—the cold stone walls, the perfumed scent of her presence—seemed to evaporate. His hand moved almost instinctively, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch—so light, almost fleeting—nearly overwhelmed him. Something charged thrummed in the air, though neither of them moved. Her gaze did not flicker with embarrassment or retreat. Instead, she met his eyes with steady calm, her own unreadable.
Their proximity seemed to stretch in that moment, his breath catching as his eyes reluctantly drifted down to her lips.
It should have ended there. But for the briefest of seconds, Alexander’s will seemed to break as he leaned closer, but a jolt of something—a sense of caution, hesitation—snapped through him, halting him just before they could bridge the distance.
He drew back, the throbbing ache of restraint cutting deeper than any words could convey.
"Well," he cleared his throat, voice raspy but polite, "thank you. For all that you do for him." There was finality in his tone as though this small, lingering moment had to be dismissed, as though his emotions could not be trusted to speak.
Lydia’s expression remained as enigmatic as ever. Her eyes seemed to search his, a quiet resolve in them as she inclined her head slightly, though her lips stayed sealed. She gave him only a soft reply, almost too quiet to catch. "Good night, Your Grace."
He couldn’t bring himself to respond further. Instead, with an abrupt movement, Alexander left the room, walking swiftly through the hall.
He passed by Eammon’s bed again, briefly glimpsing the boy in the stillness of slumber. His heart clenched. In that fleeting moment, something in Alexander—something long buried—shifted again. But before he could understand it, he was already retreating into his chambers.
It was there, alone in his thoughts, that the truth settled over him. Sleep would evade him tonight. His mind spiraled, but through the storm one undeniable fact loomed clear above all the rest: Lydia was no longer an intruder in his life. She had anchored herself into his thoughts, his heart, like an immovable force he was powerless to ignore.