Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
Lydia
T he carriage ride had been both enlightening and peculiar. Once again, he had laid himself bare in a manner she had never anticipated. And once again, she found herself at a loss as to how she ought to react to his confessions. They possessed far more in common than she had ever deemed possible, and yet—could she ever truly place her trust in him? Could she ever truly care for him?
It was as though two men resided within the same body. There was the esteemed and imperious Alexander Hayward, the man who had severed ties with his cruel father and forged a new life from the ashes of his past. And then, there was the Alexander still marked by those very shadows, a man who, at times, seemed to wish to welcome her into his world as something more than a mere convenience.
Which was the real Alexander? Would she ever come to know?
She took a steadying breath as they ascended the stone steps and made their way into the manor house.
“Pray, who is the gentleman whose ball this is?” she inquired. “I know he is a cousin of the Earl of Arlington, but I do not know his name.”
“Peter Foxworthy,” he replied.
“Ah,” she murmured, inhaling deeply before continuing forward.
They were greeted at the door by their host and his wife, who, after a brief exchange of pleasantries, ushered them inside. The house was grand; even the corridor leading to the ballroom was a display of magnificence. Footmen bustled to and fro, balancing trays laden with hors d’oeuvres and champagne flutes. Music spilled from the ballroom, and as they entered, couples swirled gracefully about the floor.
“This is rather odd,” Alexander remarked, his gaze sweeping the lively crowd. “I have not attended a ball without my sisters and brothers-in-law for quite some time.”
“Do you often accompany them during the Season?” she asked.
He inclined his head. “Indeed. Ever since we mended the rift between us, we have endeavored to meet with regularity and partake in such engagements.” He turned his gaze to her. “In time, you shall see. You will accompany us.”
“Shall I?” she asked, arching a brow.
He observed her with mild amusement. “You sound surprised,” he remarked as he led her further into the ballroom.
She hesitated before replying, “I had assumed that, given our marriage was one of convenience, I would not be included in family affairs.”
“How would that appear?” he countered.
Ah. So it was all about appearances. She thought it, but did not say it. There was little merit in provoking an argument.
What was she doing? Had she not, at first, been searching for opportunities—openings through which she might incite discord and compel him to regret their union, thus sending her home? And yet, here lay a perfect cause for contention, and she did not seize it. Why? She shook her head.
“What do your sisters think of our marriage?” she inquired, deciding she might at least extract some knowledge from him.
“If you must know, they did not approve. They deemed it a poor match,” he admitted candidly. “They pitied you—so much so that they made me feel guilty in turn.”
“But not guilty enough to deter you from proceeding,” she pointed out as they moved through the gathering. Lords and ladies, many of whom she recognized, conversed in lively clusters. Several lifted their fans, whispering behind them as they cast surreptitious glances in their direction. No doubt, they were the subject of hushed speculations.
“Is it truly such a dreadful fate to be the Duchess of Leith?” he asked, his gaze fixed upon her.
“What is dreadful,” she said quietly, “is that I cannot see my family. My sisters?—”
“But you see them often,” he interjected.
She exhaled in frustration. Why must he always be so logical? “Not as often as I would wish. They have a governess now. She seems adequate, but it is not I who—” She faltered, the words lodging in her throat. What was she attempting to express? That she felt guilt for no longer being the one to raise them?
“You are envious of the governess,” Alexander stated, his voice even.
She met his gaze. “Can you blame me?”
“Of course not,” he said, his tone softer. “You did what I could not. You took responsibility for your younger sisters. I ought to have done the same. But I did not.” He hesitated before adding, “I admire you for it. And I do regret separating you from them. But you would have married eventually. You would have left home in time.”
“I think not,” she replied. “I had no such plans.”
“Never?” he asked.
She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I do not know. After my mother passed, everything changed. I did not have…” She trailed off and shook her head. She had no desire to share her innermost thoughts with him about matrimony. Not now. “Would you excuse me? I should like a glass of lemonade. I find myself quite parched.”
He released her arm. “Of course. Shall I accompany you?”
“There must be many gentlemen here to whom you must present yourself. I shall rejoin you shortly.”
“As you wish,” he murmured, stepping back with a polite inclination of his head.
She wove through the bustling crowd, accidentally jostling not one but two young ladies who glared at her in mild offense. She scarcely took notice. Where was her sister? And her father? The mere thought of encountering him sent her stomach into a painful knot. Seeking refuge, she slipped into an adjoining room where refreshments had been laid out. There would be no formal supper at this ball, a fact for which she was grateful. Light refreshments were offered in one room, and another was arranged for those who desired more substantial fare. But she had no appetite—not for food, at least.
What she needed was a drink. Without hesitation, she seized a glass of wine, pre-poured by the footmen, and downed it swiftly.
“Well, if it is not the cursed bride,” a woman’s voice drawled.
She turned sharply, her gaze landing upon a middle-aged woman adorned with an elaborate turban—a fashion more suited to those long past their prime. There was something familiar about her, though it took a moment before recognition dawned.
“I beg your pardon. Have we met?” she asked coolly.
The woman scoffed. “You have already forgotten? Well, I suppose I ought not to be surprised. It was three courtships ago.”
Realization struck. Lady Mosley. The elder sister of the first gentleman her father had sought to marry her off to. Archibald Garder, or rather Lord Haythrop as his title went, had been a libertine of the worst sort and a horrid business man who’d stolen from his own family. She had pleaded with her father to release her from the match, yet he had deemed it acceptable. Of course, he would never have subjected his beloved Louisa to such a fate. But for her, it had been ‘good enough.’
Her lips pressed into a firm line. “Lady Mosley,” she said with measured politeness. “I trust you are well?”
“I am,” she said curtly. She had not seen the woman in a year and half, maybe more.
“That is good to hear. My dear brother, however, never quite recovered from that unfortunate scandal.”
“How regrettable,” she said, though she did not mean it. “I hope he finds a suitable match,” she said though she knew it was unlikely.
The woman’s gaze sharpened. “I hear you were not pleased with your own match. Turning your nose up at becoming a duchess? No wonder your father prefers your sister.”
Lydia’s hands clenched into fists within her gloves.
“I beg your pardon?” she said icily.
“Oh, you heard me. A pity, truly. My Archie would have done well with your sister.”
“A pity, then, that I would never have had your Archie,” Louisa’s voice rang out as she swept into the room.
Lydia exhaled in relief as her sister approached, clad in a striking gown of pale blue, the sash of white catching the candlelight in a shimmer of silver. Behind her, a small group of ladies followed, their eyes alight with interest. From the way their expressions wavered between amusement and quiet satisfaction, it was clear they had overheard at least part of the exchange.
Louisa smiled sweetly. “Lady Mosley, I believe you owe my sister a curtsey. I did not see you perform one. As you rightly pointed out, she is a duchess now, while you remain a baron’s wife.”
Lady Mosley stiffened, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Indeed, my sister is quite right,” Lydia said. She would not have insisted upon such a gesture but the lady had been exceedingly unkind to her. “It is protocol after all.” She glanced at the women standing just behind Louisa, their expectant expressions only adding to the weight of the moment.
“It is indeed,: She ought to,” one whispered.
“It would be quite unforgivable if she did not,” another agreed, eyes bright with mischief.
A flush crept up Lady Mosley’s neck, but she swallowed her ire. With the smallest, most reluctant curtsy, she turned on her heel and swept from the room, her skirts snapping behind her.
Lydia sagged against the wall, pressing a hand to her temple. “Goodness, Louisa, I am so glad you arrived.”
Louisa took her hand gently, her expression warm. “You did not think I would leave you to face that woman alone, did you? I heard she was here and just saw her turban disappear into this direction, so I came right away.”
Lydia let out a small laugh, though the tension in her shoulders remained. She lowered her voice. “I cannot tell you how uncomfortable it is knowing both Lady Mosley and Father are here.”
Louisa squeezed her fingers. “You needn’t think of them for another moment. Come, let’s return to the ballroom. Perhaps we can find you a nice spot to hide away.”
That coaxed a genuine smile from Lydia. “That sounds perfect.”
Together, they departed. But as Lydia moved through the crowd, she caught sight of Lady Mosley lingering by the far wall, her gaze locked onto her with a smoldering promise. This, the glare assured, would not be their last encounter.