A Bride for the Icy Duke (Duty and Desire #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

NORTH RIDING OF YORKSHIRE

“Lydia, darling! Get back here!”

Clawed branches ripped at Lydia Swinton’s clothing as she lurched through the woodland. Dusk had fallen, the final embers of day settling low in the sky. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she let out a choked sob.

Leaving York. Leaving for London. Lydia had never visited London before, but she knew of it—knew it was busy, noisy, overwhelming. And she also knew that her best friends would not be leaving with her. She would be alone.

Another harsh sound—too raw to be a sob—broke free. She swiped ahead of her blindly with her arms. Her father’s calls behind her melted into the encroaching darkness.

Good. If he was going to travel to London, he could do it on his own.

When her mother had died, he had awkwardly held her, her head on his shoulder, his arms curving around her back with the stiffness of a man not given to physical affection. “We shall contrive together,” he had told her. “Just the two of us. You’ll see.”

But for all she knew he was trying, she was a young girl—thirteen now, leaving girlhood behind in favor of adulthood—and he was a man. They had nothing in common. If it were not for her friends, Eliza and Marie Radcliffe, she would be lonely indeed.

Yet her father insisted she must leave them behind.

First she lost her mother, and now she would lose her home. Her friends. Everything that had made her life feel bright. All that was left was her father, who had never recovered from the loss of his wife a few months earlier.

Well, neither had she. And leaving the last place that had memories of her would be a blow too far.

Too much. Her chest hurt, and she rubbed at it with the heel of her hand as though she could scrub away the pain.

More tears blurred her vision, spilling down her cheeks, their paths cool in the night air.

She stumbled through some bush and came face to face with a pond. Here, her father’s voice had faded into the night breeze. Finally, truly, she was alone.

The water almost seemed to mock her. There was little light left, but what there was, the surface of the pond reflected back to her.

Moving more out of instinct than conscious thought, she moved closer.

Her chest rose and fell with each breath, and she wanted to turn, to run, to demand her father listen to her for once in his life.

But desperation had her slipping her shoes and stockings off. The frozen moss burned her bare feet with its chill, but she ignored the discomfort as she stared down into the dark, endless surface of the pond.

Logically, she knew the water must have an end—and probably not a deep one. But as she stared into its depths, she could trick herself into believing that there would be no floor, nothing to support her if she stepped in.

She sucked in a ragged breath as she took the first step.

Then the next. The water was so cold it almost burned, and although it was barely night, already patches of brittle ice lined the surface.

So cold. Her teeth chattered. Yet she kept moving, welcoming the pain, letting it distract her from the overwhelming hurt in her chest. Before her mother’s death, she had not known a heart could hold so much pain.

Although she knew it could not be true, she felt as though the organ itself was splitting apart.

Her mother had been the only person in the world who had understood her, and now she was gone.

All this time, Lydia had been living in the memory of her mother, burying her face in her mother’s perfumed shawl and reading her mother’s favorite books.

She would wander the hallways and recall conversations they’d had.

In the library, she would curl up in her mother’s favorite armchair and pretend the cushions were her mother sitting underneath her, preparing to read her a story.

All this would be gone in London.

Her breath grew harsher as the water reached her thighs. She was no longer crying, but she didn’t know if that was due to shock. Her chest felt tight, as though breathing itself was a challenge she could not overcome. She no longer felt her feet, but the water felt like icy knives in her legs.

Laughter reached her, the sound so incongruous that she stopped, blinking and looking up.

Shadows wrapped around the tree trunks. The laughter sounded male, but it was not her father—the timbre of the sound was different.

Rougher, sprightly, perhaps. That of a young man rather than an older one.

If anything, he sounded a little like the stable boy they employed, the one who was a mere couple of years older than she.

But surely it could not be the stable boy.

Confusion and indecision had her pause, her feet sinking into the mulch and the water slicing her into ribbons. She shuddered, arms wrapping around herself, as the shadows parted to reveal a man.

No, a boy.

No, older than a boy. He was taller than her, although not quite as tall as her father. His shoulders, too, were not as wide. But as he approached, she saw he had grown out of the awkward, lanky phase that boys so often went through. Definitely not the stable boy.

The laughter stopped as suddenly as it arrived. He stared at her, soaked in the water of the pond and drenched in the last remaining light from the sky above. When next he stepped forward, the movements were jerky.

“Miss?” he ventured, extending a hand, although he could not quite reach her without entering the water himself. He stopped right by its edge. “What are you doing, miss?”

Lydia tightened her hands into fists by her chest. What was she doing?

What did she hope to achieve here? She was so cold she could hardly think straight.

All she knew was that there was kindness in his voice, and she had felt as though she had been empty for months, and now, finally, someone had come along to fill that forgotten place inside her.

She let out a ragged sob. One, then another. Messy, raw sounds that racked through her and threatened to send her tumbling headfirst into the dark water.

“Miss!” After a second, she heard a splash, and then hands were on her arms, hauling her backwards into a warm body.

The boy cursed, using words Lydia had never heard before, and set an arm around her waist as he hauled her back to the shore.

Disoriented, she made no objection, merely crying harder when he stood her upright again.

“That’s bloody cold,” he shuddered, almost to himself, then brushed his fingers over her arm. “What happened, miss?” he managed, gentling his tone.

She shook her head, unsure whether the tremors racking her body were from the chill of the water or the shock at having been dragged from it by a strange boy. Or if it was just leftover from the news that they were leaving York.

Perhaps all three combined.

“I—” he started, looking around as though searching for something.

When nothing appeared, he dragged a damp hand through his hair.

Dusk had well and truly fallen, disguising its color, but Lydia suspected it was light.

A sandy brown, perhaps. Soft blonde. She caught only glimpses of him when she glanced up, but it was enough to tell her that this boy was handsome.

At the realization, she cringed and put her hands over her face. Now her disgrace was complete—not only must she endure the worst thing to have ever happened to her, but this handsome boy bore witness to her every weakness.

“Now then,” he said, the hand on her arm traveling to her shoulder. “Don’t cry, miss.”

If anything, that made her cry harder.

He exhaled gustily, and drew her against his body in an embrace.

She froze, mid-sob, shocked at the unexpected warmth of his chest. Though he wore a waistcoat and coat, the heat of his body blazed into her, feeling like a warm bath after being so, so very cold.

She shuddered, and he drew a hand up and down her spine.

“You shouldn’t go in the water at this time of year,” he said, both soothing and gently chiding. “You’ll freeze.”

“I-I-I—” Lydia’s teeth were chattering too hard to get any words out. Unlike her father, whom she knew loved her but at a distance, this boy felt as though he was accustomed to handing out embraces left, right, and center. His breath gusted by her ear.

Lydia closed her eyes. Her heart, so bruised and bloodied from her mother’s death, gave a little leap.

He felt so warm, so right, so solid and reassuring in front of her.

She had read about these moments in novels, an illicit embrace between a man and a woman, and the entire sensation was so very nice, so very welcome, that she forgot to cry.

All she could do was stand within the circle of his arms and feel.

“Alexander?” a girl’s voice called, and suddenly, Lydia was pulled out of her relief. Someone else was here. The boy’s arms loosened, and she turned to find a girl stepping out from the same set of bushes that he had emerged from.

“I found her in the water, Hel,” he replied. “She’s frozen.”

“Oh, poor dear.” The girl came closer, revealing herself to be a few years older than Lydia.

Perhaps sixteen, her figure soft and womanly.

Her features, though Lydia could see little of what she looked like, were pretty, ringlets of indeterminate hair color framing her round face.

She, too, seemed kind, but there was a way that she looked at the boy—who held her rather more loosely now—that made ice from in Lydia’s chest.

These were not merely two playmates. They shared a history, a past, and some kind of affection Lydia could not even hope to access or guess at. All she knew was that the boy who had made her feel so warm and safe belonged to this girl, not her.

“Don’t you worry,” the girl soothed, feeling around on the ground until she located Lydia’s shoes and stockings. “Rub her hands, Alex, before she catches a chill.”

“What do you think I’m doing, Hel?” he rolled his eyes, though he obediently took Lydia’s hands and rubbed warmth into them. “There,” he coaxed. “Are you feeling better now? What happened?”

Mutely, Lydia shook her head. Explaining her troubles to this boy and girl felt incomprehensible.

Although they had been nothing but kind, nothing but determined to save her, she felt certain the illusion would shatter once they understood she had knowingly run away from her father.

That she had walked into the pond with no clear idea of what would happen after the event.

The girl fell to her knees and squeezed Lydia’s dress onto the grass.

“Here,” she said, easing Lydia’s feet into her shoes, abandoning the stockings altogether.

Some part of Lydia felt as though she ought to be scandalized, but she didn’t have the energy.

“We must get you back home. What’s your name? ”

“L-Lydia,” she stuttered. “Lydia Swinton.”

“Lord Blackmoor’s daughter?” the girl asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She exchanged a long look with the boy.

Alexander. “Well. My name is Helena Perry. This is… Alexander Rayment.” The pause suggested she was going to say something else before changing her mind, but Lydia did not have the energy to examine what that might have been.

Instead, she looked up into the face of her savior, just able to make out a handful of features.

She had never met him before, but she memorized what little of his expression she could, determined that if they were to meet again, she would recognize him.

Helena rose, putting her arm around Lydia’s waist. “Come now,” she said, and Lydia could have sworn her hand brushed Alexander’s behind her back. “Tell me what the problem is. Are you running away from home?”

Lydia shook her head jerkily, though had she been running away from home? She had certainly been running—and she knew there was no home for her to return to.

“My father wishes us to move,” she whispered through chattering teeth. “To London.”

“I see,” Helena said. “And you don’t want to?”

“He wants to dispose of the last memories of my mother.” This time, the crack in Lydia’s voice sounded as though the earth under her feet had split entirely. “But how can I?”

Helena held her a little tighter. “Oh, poor child. Your mother died?”

“A few months back.”

“I’m so sorry, dearest,” Helena cooed, so gently it made Lydia cry all over again. “That must have been so terrible. But, you know, memories don’t leave us just because we’re no longer in the place that birthed them.”

“London is a place of possibility,” Alex nodded.

“My friends are here.”

“Do you think it impossible to make new friends?” Helena asked, brushing tears from Lydia’s cheeks. “Because I can assure you now, that is not the case.”

“Let us take you home,” Alex urged. “Things won’t seem so bad in the morning.”

Lydia looked up at him, needing the reassurance he was offering. “Do you promise?”

He nodded, steady and certain. “I promise.”