Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
Alexander
A lexander surveyed the ballroom and noted a few familiar faces, though none of his close acquaintances were in attendance. The Fitzroys were far too low in rank to receive an invitation to such an event, and both Wycliffe and Harrington had made it clear they would not be coming. He wished his brothers-in-law were present. They would stand together in some secluded corner, drinking and laughing, exchanging wry observations, or discussing their plans for the summer, for Christmas, or whichever holiday came next. But they were all abroad—including Evan, who had departed with Emma the previous week.
He drained his wine and procured another from a passing footman when a fragment of conversation drifted to his ears.
“I cannot believe she is here. I have not seen her out in some time.”
“Well, I suppose she must now that she is Duchess of Leith,” another man remarked.
Alexander cast a brief glance over his shoulder and observed two young men conversing. He took a subtle step backward, positioning himself to better overhear their exchange.
“Who would have thought that miserable wretch would ever manage to secure herself a husband? And a duke, no less.”
“Indeed. Three broken courtships, and yet she still contrives to make herself a duchess? That is a talent.”
“Some might call it witchcraft,” the first man jested with a chuckle. “But what an improvement. What was her last suitor? A knight? A baronet? That poor girl. One must pity her, forever overshadowed by her younger sister.”
“I always thought her rather pleasant to look at,” the first man admitted. “It is her father who parades her like a mare at Tattersall’s, foisting her upon any man who might have her, while the other daughter is treated as though she were a diamond of the first water.”
“Perhaps with good reason. A father knows what he is about. In any case, she has done quite well for herself. Leith has considerable estates and a business.”
“A business,” the first man scoffed. “Our class ought not to entangle itself with trade. But it seems their entire family is steeped in it—vineyards, imports. Does one of them not oversee a children’s charity or some such?”
“Indeed. The Hayward family is rather… dare I say it, cursed.”
Both men chuckled. “And they have a brother, do they not? Well then, he has chosen wisely, has he not? The cursed duke and the cursed bride—what a match indeed.”
Their laughter rang in Alexander’s ears as his pulse quickened. His fingers curled into fists, itching to plant themselves into their insufferable faces, but he knew better. He could not afford to prove them right. What angered him more than their mockery of him was their slander of his family—of Lydia. It was bad enough that Lydia had long been made to feel second to her sister, but to know that all of society whispered of it as well? That they dared to call her such ugly names? No. She did not deserve this. Not in the least.
Before he knew what he was about, he turned on his heel and straightened his waistcoat.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice smooth yet edged with unmistakable warning, “if you must indulge in idle gossip and spread your venom, might I advise that in future you take care to note who may be within listening distance? Otherwise, you may find yourselves in a most unfortunate predicament. Such as this.”
The first man paled, his blue eyes widening as he ran a hand through his unruly blond hair.
“Your Grace,” he stammered. “I had not realized you were here this evening.”
“You observed my wife was here. Did it not follow that I should be as well?” Alexander countered. “In any case, it should not signify whether you were aware of my presence or not. It is highly unbecoming to speak so ill of one you do not know.” He tilted his head slightly as he recalled the man’s name. “Wentworth, is it not?” “Wentworth is my father,” the man said stiffly. “The Earl of Wentworth. I am Lord Holmes—Viscount Holmes.”
“Ah, that is right. Holmes. And Wentworth.” Alexander arched a brow. “Curious that you hold such poor opinions of business when your own father spent a fortnight attempting to persuade me and my associate to engage in an import-export venture with him.”
The man's lips parted in shock, while his companion gaped at him.
“Holmes? Is that so? Your father—engaged in trade? What shall we hear next?”
“I am against it,” Holmes said hastily, his voice faltering. “I do not believe it necessary—” He cleared his throat. “I meant every word I said earlier about our class having no need to involve itself in business. But?—”
“If I recall correctly, your father mentioned you were forced to sell off some land. What was it for? The tax debt for your uncle? Or some such unfortunate affair?” Alexander tilted his head. “A dreadful business. Many great houses have already suffered greatly, and it seems yours is soon to be among them. Your father sought my aid, and I had considered his request. However, now that I understand your true sentiments regarding those engaged in business, I find myself compelled to reconsider.”
“No—Your Grace!” the man said quickly. “Truly, I was merely speaking—idle talk, nothing more. I—I beg you?—”
Alexander dipped his head. “I shall take it under advisement. Good evening, gentlemen. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
With that, he walked away from the exchange entirely. Yet he could not deny that a part of him regretted attending this ball in the first place. Why had he agreed to come? He knew that at times he would be required to present Lydia as his wife in an official capacity, but this had not been one of those occasions. There were certain balls and dinners during the Season where it was expected that a gentleman attend with his wife, but private affairs—especially out of season—were not among them. What had he been thinking?
Well, he had been thinking of Lydia, of course. As he seemed to do so often these days.
He took a deep breath and made his way through the crowded ballroom. The dancers were engaged in a quadrille, their movements light and joyful. For a fleeting moment, he wished he too could dance. It had been a long time since he had done so. At private balls, he might occasionally dance with his sisters—an act frowned upon at formal events. Not because it was considered improper, but because such occasions were intended for young ladies to demonstrate their skill, and a gentleman was expected to partner those in need of such an opportunity rather than a member of his own family—or even his wife.
Yet as Alexander observed the dance floor, he noted that many in attendance were dancing with their spouses. Should he ask Lydia to dance?
Would she even wish to?
Did he wish to? And why?The more time he spent with Lydia, the more he felt himself losing his way. She was meant to be his ward’s mother. Nothing more.
Where was she, anyhow? His gaze swept the ballroom once, then twice. He did not see her. Was she still in the refreshment room? It was entirely possible, of course. He turned in that direction when suddenly, he spotted her.
She stood near the garden doors, her back to him.
For a moment, he admired how gracefully she held herself, her shoulders drawn back with quiet poise. But something was amiss. There was a tension in her frame he had not seen since their wedding day. Upon closer inspection, he realized she was speaking with her father. The older man stood in his tailcoat, head inclined to one side, lips pursed in a familiar expression of displeasure. Beside him stood a woman dressed in a turban and a gown too colorful to be considered fashionable—its cut was a style long out of favor.
Alexander hesitated. Should he intervene? He doubted Lydia would want him to. She had made her feelings toward him abundantly clear. And yet, something about the interaction gave him pause.
He had only spoken to her father a handful of times—once to arrange the marriage, then to settle the dowry and other formalities.
“Your Grace,” a voice murmured beside him.
He turned and immediately recognized the woman.
Lady Louisa.
He had met Lydia’s younger sister before, of course—at their wedding and once or twice in the park. But even if he had not, there would have been no mistaking her. She bore the same heart-shaped face as Lydia, her hair a similar shade, though not as vibrantly red.
“Lady Louisa,” he acknowledged. “Good evening. I trust you are enjoying yourself?”
“There is no time for pleasantries, Your Grace,” she said. “I believe my sister is in need of your aid.”
“My aid?” He followed her gaze toward Lydia.
“The woman beside my father is Lady Mosley, the sister of one of my sister’s former suitors. Though I hesitate to use the term ‘suitor,’ as he was entirely unsuitable. As were all the men my father sought to match her with. In any case, Lady Mosley accosted her in the refreshment room earlier, and Lydia put her in her place—by making her curtsy before her.”
Alexander smirked. That sounded precisely like the Lydia he had come to know.
“Well, she is a duchess. A mere lady ought to curtsy before her.”
“Indeed, she should. And she did—reluctantly. But she has now involved my father, who is berating Lydia for her actions, despite the fact that she was in the right.” Lady Louisa pursed her lips. “Lydia has never been able to stand up to our father. She does, in her own way, but… she has always been intimidated by him. She knows he prefers me over her.”
There was a flicker of something in Louisa’s expression—displeasure, perhaps, or guilt.
Alexander exhaled sharply. “Say no more. I shall intercede at once.”
Without another word, he was already striding toward them.
It had troubled him before to know that Lydia’s father so clearly favored one daughter over the other. But now that he had taken it upon himself to chastise her in public, Alexander found his restraint wearing dangerously thin.
He closed the distance in record time, sweeping past several guests who had wished to greet him, them standing in puzzled silence as he brushed past without a second glance.
"Good Sir," Alexander said as he joined them, a bright, genial smile upon his face. He placed a hand lightly on the small of Lydia’s back. She stiffened at first, but then, to his quiet satisfaction, he felt her relax against him, her left shoulder sinking just enough to brush his upper arm. Whether she intended it or not, she was seeking his protection. And when she lifted her gaze to his, the gratitude in her eyes struck him at once.
Louisa had wisely remained at a distance, careful not to make her involvement in the matter too obvious. A clever move, of course.
"Your Grace," Lord Bristol greeted him, his posture shifting as he straightened his shoulders in an attempt to appear more authoritative. "I was wondering where you had gone. I trust you are enjoying the evening?"
"Immensely," Alexander replied before turning his gaze to the woman beside him. She regarded him with sharp hazel eyes, though her expression faltered when he studied her in return. "And you must be Lady Mosley." He inclined his head. She dropped into a curtsy, though she did not meet his eyes when she rose. He smirked as her discomfort became evident. Clearly, she realized that he was already well aware of what had transpired earlier in the refreshment room.
"Your Grace," she murmured.
"I do hope I am not intruding upon a private discussion," Alexander continued smoothly. "I merely noticed my wife engaged in deep conversation and thought it only proper to join her. After all, whatever is of interest to the Duchess of Leith ought to be of equal interest to the Duke of Leith." He made a deliberate point of emphasizing their titles.
"We were only discussing the circumstances that led to this most fortunate match," Lord Bristol said.
Lydia cleared her throat. "Or rather, they were reminding me how fortunate I am to have found a husband willing to take me after all the scandal."
"I see," Alexander said, his tone mild but firm. "I daresay it is I who am the fortunate one. I have gained a rather dashing bride. Though I can see why you would feel pleased with her match. After all, I have heard much of the prior matches intended for my beautiful bride, and they all seemed rather… questionable. Indeed, I was quite surprised that you did not seek to match her with a duke, or at the very least an earl, as you did for Lady Louisa." He turned his gaze to his father-in-law. At once, the older man’s complexion darkened, the flush on his cheeks barely concealed by his white beard.
"I thought they were fine matches," Lord Bristol said stiffly.
"Indeed, my brother was an excellent match," Lady Mosley interjected indignantly.
"And yet, three years have passed, and he is still unwed," Lydia said coolly.
Alexander found his lips curving into a gratified smile at the return of her sharp wit and confidence. "Indeed," he added. "How is it that your brother remains unattached at his age? I believe he is several years my senior, and yet I, who have long delayed marriage, am now wed."
Lady Mosley parted her lips as if to respond but seemed at a loss for words.
"Oh, well," Lord Bristol interjected. "One must be quite certain of one’s bride. Such matters cannot be rushed."
"Ah, but I daresay one can rush things—if the title is sufficiently tempting," Alexander said dryly.
He glanced at Lydia and found her smiling up at him, her eyes dancing with amusement.
Mr. Hayward’s mouth fell open slightly, but, to Alexander’s satisfaction, he wisely refrained from any further protest.
At that moment, the strains of a waltz filled the air. Recognizing the first notes of the melody, Alexander seized the opportunity.
"Well," he said swiftly, "my lord, my lady, if you will excuse me—I have awaited this waltz all evening and cannot possibly miss the opportunity to dance it with my beautiful wife. Dearest," he murmured, offering Lydia his arm.
She took it at once. Without hesitation, he led her onto the dance floor. Though it was not until they had made it to the pristine dancefloor when a problem occurred to him. A rather troublesome one at that. He took a deep breath, fixing his eyes upon her.
“I am afraid I must make a confession.”