Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Has he gone?” Lydia gritted to Marie.
Her friend patted her arm. “He has.”
“Good. I can’t keep this charade up for much longer.” Lydia’s shoulders wilted, and she took the glass of wine from Eliza, tossing it back. “He thinks nothing is wrong, and I intend to keep it that way.”
Eliza’s mouth twisted sympathetically. “Why don’t you tell him how you’re feeling?”
“He lied to my face about Helena. And he’s…
every so often, it’s like he retreats into himself.
I’ve been open with him, and even if I do think he cares for me, I don’t think it’s enough.
All this time, he’s been planning this, I’m sure of it.
He knows how I feel. What would be the point in telling him? ”
Lydia found an empty chair and sank into it.
All around her, the ball entered into full swing, couples dancing in the middle of the floor, and the quartet playing from the corner of the room.
She had never been in this room during one of her mother’s parties, but she had sometimes sat on the staircase, gazing through the open door at the glitzy lights and swirling couples and wondering what it might be like to be one of them.
Reality rarely lived up to its promise.
“You know, dearest,” Marie began softly, “I do think he cares about you.”
“I do, too,” Lydia murmured, massaging her temples.
The wine had not helped the headache that had been coming on all day.
“I thought he cared about me enough to put aside his past and learn to be happy with me, but he doesn’t.
If anything, he loves her enough to sacrifice any chance of building a life with me.
” She couldn’t help the bitterness that coated every word, and her throat felt as though she had swallowed glass. “How could he?”
“Maybe he is leaving on a business trip?” Marie suggested, her warm, kind eyes soft with concern. “And he’ll be back shortly. Marcus takes them all the time, you know.”
“Marcus tells you when he is leaving you alone for business,” Lydia pointed out wearily. “Not to mention he doesn’t have a lady from his past he is still madly in love with.”
“I thought you said he told you he wasn’t any longer?” Eliza asked.
Lydia raised a hand limply. “So he said, but I can attribute this desire to abandon me again to nothing else. I thought we were turning a new leaf, Lizzie. Happy, Marie. Finally, I thought we were both finding our place in the world, and I’d never seen him like this.
But…” She shrugged one shoulder. “I suppose I was wrong.”
“Here,” Eliza whispered, stuffing a plate with a small cake into her hands. “You should eat something before you faint.”
Marie cast her a reproachful look. “Cake won’t solve anything. We need to make a plan.”
“There is no plan,” Lydia finished. “I am not going to fight to make him stay with me if he doesn’t want to.”
“So what are you going to do?” Marie asked, concern etched across her features. Of course—her friends all had people who loved them now, and they wanted her to have the same. But she ought to have known when she stood by the pond all those years ago that she would never find love like that.
Together, Alexander and Helena had convinced her to have hope, but even then—even when she instantly fell in childish love—he was in love with someone else.
She went to London with her father and never found anyone who would make her happy.
The baron was a good man, but not one filled with passion, and not for her.
Then, at the death of her father, she had married a duke whose heart belonged to another.
It had always belonged to Helena, and nothing Lydia could do would change that.
She could wish, she could hope, but reality would not bend its will for her sake.
And she should have known.
“I need some air,” she said, looking around the ballroom once again. Familiar yet unfamiliar. And so filled with people, she felt their presence smother her. “If Alexander asks where I am, tell him I have returned home.”
“Do you want a carriage?” Marie offered. “I can send you back if you like.”
“In time.” Lydia forced a wan smile. “Tonight, I just need time and space. Not dancing and music.”
“I can—” Eliza started.
“It’s all right. Spend time with Mr. Godwin. Please.” She leaned in and kissed both her friends on the cheek, and then she walked away, putting her glass on a nearby footman’s tray. As she walked through the crowd, she felt her cares lift from her shoulders.
All she needed was time and space. Everything would be better once she gave herself time to heal. Everything healed with time. Even the memories of her mother in this house, for all the times she felt haunted by the past.
Now, she just felt her mother’s gentle hand on her shoulder.
She walked down the familiar hallway to the door, a path she had trodden a thousand times as a child.
But instead of venturing out into the rain, she turned left, seeking the library.
Once there, she stood amongst the books, feeling four-and-twenty and thirteen all at once, her past and present selves colliding in this space.
How much she had loved it here…
She trailed her fingers along the spines of the books, and although the grief clawed at her chest, she refused to let it in.
Not yet. She would wait just a little longer.
Now she had accepted Alexander’s leaving in her heart, now she had given up any chance of winning him back, she felt an odd sort of peace, and she wanted to hold onto that as long as she could.
Grief, she had learned, could not be stopped forever, but it could be delayed. She could prevent herself from giving in to it entirely yet. All she needed was this time alone to sink into herself and remember from where—and whom—she had come…
And where she would go after this.
Alexander would not be the end of her.
Alexander looked at yet another small sitting room on the second floor, frescos on the ceiling, and white-and-gold furniture gathered around a small, low table. The fireplace was large and highly decorated.
“This room has a view over the wood and was where the former Lady Blackmoor wrote her letters.”
“A pleasant room,” Alexander agreed somberly. “Have you redecorated much since taking the house?”
“Very little,” Lord Harrogate admitted. “A little in the main body of the house, but these rooms, as you see them, are as the duchess would have known them.” He sent Alexander a quick glance. “That is the purpose of your tour, I presume?”
“I cannot imagine how difficult it must be coming to this house when it used to be her home.”
“Strange. My wife assures me that Her Grace has no strong feelings about it.” Lord Harrogate hesitated, a line between his brows. “I don’t know how true that can be, but—”
“I doubt it is true at all,” Alexander said shortly. “She may not be resentful or upset, but I imagine she does have strong feelings about the house. This was a place of joy and grief.” And, he reflected briefly, very different from his own manor.
She had not taken any steps to modernize or change Halston, but now he wished she had. If this house better reflected her tastes, then she did not prefer the heavy, dark furniture of their house, nor the oak-paneled walls of some rooms.
Alexander looked at yet another small sitting room on the second floor, frescos on the ceiling, and white-and-gold furniture gathered around a small, low table. The fireplace was large and highly decorated.
“This room has a view over the wood and was where the former Lady Blackmoor wrote her letters.”
“A pleasant room,” Alexander agreed somberly. “Have you redecorated much since taking the house?”
“Very little,” Lord Harrogate admitted. “A little in the main body of the house, but these rooms, as you see them, are as the duchess would have known them.” He sent Alexander a quick glance. “That is the purpose of your tour, I presume?”
“I cannot imagine how difficult it must be coming to this house when it used to be her home.”
“Strange. My wife assures me that Her Grace has no strong feelings about it.” Lord Harrogate hesitated, a line between his brows. “I don’t know how true that can be, but—”
“I doubt it is true at all,” Alexander said shortly. “She may not be resentful or upset, but I imagine she does have strong feelings about the house. This was a place of joy and grief.” And, he reflected briefly, very different from his own manor.
She had not taken any steps to modernize or change Halston, but now he wished she had. If this house better reflected her tastes, then she did not prefer the heavy, dark furniture of their house, nor the oak-paneled walls of some rooms.
These rooms were light and airy, dressed in greens and golds and pale, pretty colors.
Going forward, he would take more steps to make the house a place in which she could feel she belonged. Not because she had made a home there, but because it was hers in every tangible way. For so long, he had let the place rot—neglect in condemnation.
He ought to have done more.
She had told him she was content, and he had taken her at her word without giving the subject more thought.
He was a fool. And she deserved far better than he could ever offer. But he would do better. If she would have him, he would do everything to ensure her comfort and happiness.
As they turned, Alexander's gaze snagged on a portrait hanging near the window—a small thing, easily overlooked. A young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, with auburn curls and solemn eyes that seemed to hold some private grief.
He stopped.
“Ah. An old portrait of the duchess as a child,” Lord Harrogate explained, following his gaze. “Marie and I have been meaning to have it sent over to Halston Manor. I'm certain Her Grace would treasure it.”