Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
For a few blissful minutes when she awoke the next morning, Lydia forgot about Alexander’s existence.
She dressed after the soiree, tired but happy with her memories of dancing and her friends.
All these people having arrived to see her off.
As always, she drank her hot cocoa and selected a morning dress, then descended to the breakfast room.
There, however, she was confronted with a tall man sitting at the breakfast table. Her breakfast table.
Her heart pounded as she recalled their conversation the previous evening. She had danced with him, and he had all but told her that he never wished for their marriage to be anything other than this. A farce.
In essence, he could not wait to dispose of her.
The Lydia of a year ago might have curled up and died at such a thought, mortified beyond belief that he thought so little of her. But this Lydia had been entertaining for a year. For the span of an entire year, thanks to him, she had been a duchess, and now, instead of humiliation, she felt ire.
Marie had suggested she encourage the duke to fall in love with her, but Lydia knew better. There was no softness in him that spoke of a willingness to love. At least Marcus, Marie’s husband, had been prepared to remain married to her.
Hers abandoned her.
Their dance had been enough to confirm that he would not fall for whatever feminine wiles she possessed—and more than that, she had no desire to make him.
Still, she had less desire to leave.
As though sensing her presence, he glanced up, frowning when he saw her still in the doorway.
“Sit with me,” he spoke in a deep timbre. “We should have a substantial breakfast before we set off.”
Lydia knew for a fact that her dresses were not packed; nothing she had was ready to go.
But explaining that would mean engaging with him, and it was too early in the day for that. Her stomach churned as she stepped into the room and selected a single slice of pound cake, putting it on a plate and not so much as using a spoon to eat it with.
“I would rather not, Your Grace,” she replied, dipping into a curtsy she hoped was as mocking as she felt, and departing the room with her head held high.
Inside, her heart shuddered against her ribcage. That had been the most cutting she had ever been to anyone, including servants. The person she had been, afraid of confrontation, shivered within her chest.
But she refused to regret it. If he wondered why his wife was cold to him, then perhaps he could work it out himself.
As she passed into the drawing room, there was a small commotion in the hall, and Eliza brushed into the room, snow glistening on her raven curls.
“Lydia!” she burst, as though there were nothing unusual about Lydia wandering about the house with a slice of half-eaten pound cake on a china plate. “The weather truly is horrific!”
For the first time, Lydia paid attention to the snow plastered against the windowpanes. She glanced at Eliza’s flushed face. “If the conditions are so bad, why are you here?”
“To implore you not to go. And to give you this.” With a flourish, Eliza produced a book from her cloak.
“You seem… unwilling to give the duke a chance, and this is your marriage.” She gave Lydia a sharp glance.
“I confess I am no expert in the realm of marriage, but if you do not wish to leave here, and if you do not want an annulment, then the only other option is for you to make the most of it.” She shoved the book into Lydia’s hands.
“Read this. Consider. And whatever you do, do not let him cart you off to London in this.”
As if to confirm Eliza’s point, the wind moaned around the house, splattering ice crystals against the glass.
“I should return home before I am snowed in here.” Eliza gave Lydia a mischievous look. “And I am certain you will want some time alone with your husband.”
“Eliza.” Lydia followed her friend to the door, pound cake in one hand and the book in the other. “You know I have no desire for that. To know him better. I hate him.”
“Hate and love are so closely attached, dearest, one may hardly know the difference between them.” For a second, Eliza looked contemplative. “I believe I am coming to discover that myself.”
“But—”
“Read the book and reflect. This is your opportunity for action—don’t waste it!” With a wiggle of her fingers, Eliza stepped out of the front door and was immediately blasted with snow. She had a carriage waiting for her, a maid peering anxiously outside.
Already, the snow was piling up. The garden, of which Lydia had become inordinately fond, was now blanketed in white. The carriage lurched into motion, cutting a path through the immaculate covering on the road, the wheel tracks filling again almost immediately.
Thank heavens Eliza only lived a mile or two away, or Lydia would have seriously worried for her.
Philips appeared by Lydia’s shoulder, his face impassive and his hands tucked behind his back. “The conditions are not favorable, ma’am,” he intoned.
“No indeed…”
“It is my opinion that it would not be sensible for you to begin a journey at this present time.”
“I agree,” Lydia nodded once, feeling a little as though she were conspiring against the duke, and delighted that his butler, of all people, was her co-conspirator. “And perhaps not even tomorrow.”
“Perhaps.”
“After all, I would hate to risk the horses. Or to be stranded.”
“That would be distressing to us all, ma’am.”
Lydia closed the front door with a satisfying bang, almost a skip to her step as she made her way to the library. “Can you have breakfast delivered to me there, Philips?” she asked. “I only need a little toast and tea.”
Philips inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Handing him her plate, she turned her attention to the book.
What could Eliza have possibly given her that would make a difference to her thinking?
Yes, she had no desire to leave here, but she also had no desire for the duke to share this space with her.
If possible, she wished to return to the way things had been for the past year.
But, she realized with a jolt, that was terribly unlikely.
The duke would not just leave her to run his estate in his absence. This year of absence had likely been a deliberate ploy to keep out of her way, but he would not want to abandon this estate for the rest of time.
If she wished to remain, she would have to be a wife. Married to the man she was currently married to. And if she allowed her resentment to get in the way of that, what was she resigning herself to?
With a sigh, she opened the book, skipping through the pages. It was a tome on marriage advice, giving both wives and husbands recommendations about living a comfortable and happy life together, one of unity and respect.
In short, all the things she was reluctant to do with her husband.
But then she turned a page, and a slip of paper fell out. Frowning, Lydia bent to retrieve it.
On it was a list of things Eliza stated she wished to do with a gentleman. Romantic, perhaps even a little improper things. Lydia blinked at the list. Had Eliza intended to leave it here? Had she written it for herself or for Lydia?
A knock at the door disturbed her, and she glanced up as Philips arrived with a tray containing her breakfast.
“Thank you,” she smiled, attempting to conceal the cover of her book—and indeed the contents of the note.
“His Grace is looking for you.”
“Allow me five minutes to eat my breakfast, and then you may tell him where I am. Oh,” she added, “and in case there is any confusion, Rosie has not packed my things according to my instructions. Please do not punish her.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Philips bowed and left the room.
Lydia’s heart beat a little faster when she looked at the list again.
In all her frustration and upset, she hadn’t considered the other aspect of marriage.
That of physical relations.
Her marriage had been so quick, and so few people knew of it before she had been whisked to York, that no one had ever spoken to her about the institution before she left.
After all, she had no mother.
Heat flooded her cheeks as she considered the prospect of intimate relations. Of course, she had no desire to join the duke’s bed, and she suspected he would not want her there, either.
But there were other things. Romantic things. And with a rush of epiphany, she understood what her life would be like if and when she left.
Lonely.
It was very unlikely she would marry again, and she didn’t think she could ever take a lover. If she wanted to know what any of this would be like, she must experience it now, with a man she at least had some claim over.
She scanned the list again, making mental asides as she did.
Romantic dinner. She didn’t quite know what changed an ordinary dinner into a romantic one, and she didn’t think the duke would know, either, but perhaps it was worth an attempt. Just to see.
Sit on his lap. She chewed her lip as she thought about that one. Their relationship being as it was, she hardly thought she could perch on him in ordinary ways, but perhaps she could contrive a reason? In a private setting, of course.
Feed him during a formal dinner. Perhaps she could combine this with the romantic dinner. She had once read about a man feeding his lover in a book, so it struck her as romantic. And given his hand was out of commission, that provided her with an excuse.
Play questions and commands. She’d never played this game, but in London she’d heard whispers from young ladies who had, and who had evidently found a great deal of satisfaction in it. That could be fun and easy enough to initiate.
Whisper something scandalous in his ear at a formal event.
Lydia trailed her finger across the words, something heating in her lower belly at the thought.
Now, this was interesting. How would someone as stiff and buttoned up as the duke respond to such behavior?
But, for this to work, she would have to drag him to another social event before he dragged her away. ..
Sneak into his rooms at night. Well, this was perhaps a little too scandalous—and yet she had an odd curiosity to see how the duke slept. Did he still scowl then? Did his hands shake? Or did he prowl the manor at night like a beast in search of prey?
Kissing (outdoors). Lydia shook her head firmly. There would be no kissing of any description, indoors or outdoors. If she had a pen, she would draw a line straight through it.
Bathe together. Absolutely not. Categorically not. That would be far too scandalous!
Lydia closed the book with a snap, placing it on the nearest shelf, and tucked the list in her pocket. Now, all she had to do was convince her husband to remain here for the duration it took her to complete her list.
And who knew—perhaps by the end of it all, he might be prepared to keep her as his wife. At a distance, of course.