Chapter Eleven
Lydia stepped into the night to see a carriage waiting at the bottom of the steps.
Glossy black, with no visible crest, it shone like obsidian in stark contrast to the two splendid horses, whose gray coats glowed silver-blue in the moonlight.
The driver showed no awareness of her presence, but as she moved forward, the carriage door opened from within, and a gloved hand appeared. An invitation from a stranger.
Or perhaps a prince?
Lydia placed her hand in the gloved one, climbed into the carriage, and took the seat opposite the mysterious occupant, breathing in his alluring, musky scent.
He sat in translucent shadow, which softened his facial features.
Still, it did not quite mask the strong contours of his jaw, the perfect alignment of his nose, and the dignified line of his brow.
His eyes, locked with hers, were difficult to read.
Then he smiled and Lydia’s heart did a flip.
“I feared you might have entertained second thoughts, Miss Page.” He rapped on the ceiling and the carriage moved off. “I’m very glad you didn’t.”
So, he knew her name, but no one had ever said it quite the way he did. The intimacy of it sent a sweet tingle down Lydia’s spine. As a flush of heat flooded her cheeks, she gave silent thanks for the dim light.
“I am assured of your integrity, sir,” she replied. “Yet you have me at a disadvantage, since you apparently know my name, but I do not know yours.”
“My full name is Ambrose Michael Crossley,” he replied, “but those who know me well call me Pendlewood.”
Lydia cocked her head. “And what of those of us who do not know you well?”
Another smile. “They are generally required to address me, initially, as Lord Pendlewood, and simply ‘my lord’ thereafter.”
Simply? The man had just admitted to being titled, which meant there was nothing simple about it.
Or him, come to that. Despite the reassurances of those involved in this mad venture, Lydia swallowed against a touch of uncertainty.
Nevertheless, she returned his smile. “Well then, it is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Pendlewood.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What did I say, Miss Page?”
“Pardon, my lord?”
“I noticed a change just now.” His head cocked. “Your eyes, your expression. Even your voice. Subtle, but definitely there. What did I say to unsettle you?’
Lydia glanced, unseeing, out of the window. “Your title, my lord,” she said, turning back to him. “I confess, it bothers me a little.”
Both brows lifted. “And why is that?”
“Because it prompts me to question your motives,” she replied. “At least, where I’m concerned.”
“My motives?” He grimaced. “Allow me to reassure you, Miss Page, I do not need your money, but I am glad of it. Why? Because it is, undeniably, the key that has opened doors for you. Without that key, I might never have met you.” His gaze seemed to intensify as he leaned forward a little.
“Certainly, there are those for whom greed is the motivation. But perhaps you might consider the converse side of that particular coin and allow that being in possession of a title is also an attractive lure. Indeed, one that might be exploited both ways.”
Lydia’s cheeks warmed once more and she wondered what title he actually possessed. “I had not considered that, my lord. Forgive me. And please be assured, I am not influenced by yours.”
A few moments of silence followed. “So, you would not complain if I changed my mind about our starlight stroll and took you straight home instead?”
“No, I would not complain,” Lydia replied, “though I confess I would be disappointed. Are you having second thoughts, my lord? If so, I would prefer you speak truthfully and act accordingly.”
“No, Miss Page,” he replied, gravely. “I am not having second thoughts. Not a single one.”
Unsettled by the direction their conversation was taking, Lydia summoned up another smile. “Then perhaps we should simply allow this beautiful night to take us where it may.”
An eyebrow flicked upward and a return smile appeared. Then, “I believe we should, Miss Page.”
Ambrose had at last looked into Miss Page’s eyes, the actual color indistinct due to the low light. They appeared to be dark, however, and edged with an abundance of lashes. He’d also breathed in her sweet, subtle scent and felt her gloved hand in his. She was, indeed, quite lovely.
As their conversation drifted into more agreeable territory, any misgivings Ambrose might have had about his decision dissipated.
The girl intrigued him. Amused him, as well.
Though not lacking in decorum, she was nevertheless possessed of a charming nonchalance, refreshing, and oddly infectious.
She was quite obviously intelligent and spoke with a frankness he admired.
It also appeared they had much in common.
They shared a love of the theater and art.
They also shared a preference for the country rather than the city.
Miss Page loved to ride, as did he. And they both enjoyed reading, though their tastes differed somewhat.
Miss Page admitted to playing the pianoforte with, as she put it, some proficiency, but her preferred instrument was the harp.
Ambrose quietly recalled that his grandmother had played the harp. Indeed, the instrument still sat, unused, in the music room at Elgin Park. He wondered if Miss Page might play it one day. In any case, he resolved to have it tuned.
At last the carriage pulled up outside Ambrose’s house in St James’s. Ambrose alighted first, offering his hand as Miss Page stepped down. Her eyes widened slightly as she gazed up at the house’s facade, and took his arm without hesitation as they entered.
“Would you care for a drink, Miss Page?” he asked, beckoning to a footman. “Tea, perhaps? Or ratafia?”
“Ratafia, please,” she replied. “Thank you.”
“By the fountain,” Ambrose instructed the footman, “and please inform Signor Corvinelli of our arrival.”
“You have a beautiful home, my lord,” Miss Page said, her gaze roaming the walls and ceiling as they made their way to the rear of the house.
“Thank you, Miss Page,” Ambrose replied, finding an unexpected pleasure in the fact she’d referred to it as a home, rather than just a house. “I hope you’ll feel the same about the gardens. They’re not extensive, but serve as a haven. An escape, if you will, from the clamor of the city.”
“They sound wonderful, my lord.” Miss Page glanced up at him with a smile, one that had a most unsettling effect on certain parts of his anatomy.
No, it was more than her smile. It was the touch of her hand on his arm, her delicate scent, the mere nearness of her.
Even her voice, the way she enunciated her words.
The combination was utterly charming and most definitely arousing.
Ambrose watched Miss Page’s expression as he led her onto the terrace.
The gardens were his private sanctuary, a place he felt completely at ease.
During the day, the rose and flower beds were breathtaking to behold, the stone paths and privet hedges clearly visible, the arbor a shady place to sit, and the fountain a sparkling restorative for the nerves.
Nighttime, however, offered a different experience, blanketing the colors and shadowing the paths with unhindered darkness.
Which is why, after sunset and weather permitting, dozens of lanterns were lit throughout the space, illuminating the flower beds, the paths, and the arbor.
Tonight, the full moon added an extra touch, bathing everything in a silver light.
Miss Page gasped softly, her expression changing to one of wonder as she released his arm and stepped forward. “Oh, how beautiful!”
“The roses have just started to bloom,” he said, moving to her side. “A little earlier than usual. This recent spell of warm weather has encouraged them.”
“It’s magical, my lord, truly. I never imagined anything like this. A haven is an apt description.”
“I’m glad you approve, Miss Page,” he said, and meant it. For reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, her approval was important to him. He offered his elbow again. “Would you care to explore further?”
“I would,” she replied and tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm as they descended the steps. “Is that a fountain I hear?”
“It is,” he replied. “Do you have a garden, Miss Page?”
“A flower garden, yes,” she replied.
“A favorite flower?”
“Violet.” Smiling, she glanced up at him. “Sorry, my lord.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because it isn’t the rose,” she replied. “I like roses, but they aren’t my favorite.”
“I appreciate the honesty, Miss Page.” And he did. It was refreshing to have someone who didn’t toady up to him. “Actually, the rose isn’t my favorite either.”
They arrived at the pond with its carpet of lily pads and the endless song of its fountain, all resplendent with silver moonlight and flickering lanterns.
“Oh, how splendid!” Miss Page released his arm and settled onto a nearby bench. “I swear I could stay here all night.” She regarded him. “So, what is it, my lord?”
Ambrose, whose mind had snagged on the “stay here all night” remark, gave her a blank look. “What is what, Miss Page?”
“Your favorite flower.”
“Ah!” He sat beside her. “The dahlia.”
“The dahlia,” Miss Page repeated, nodding. “A worthy candidate indeed, for floral favoritism. I must assume you have some in the garden.”
Ambrose smiled at her choice of words. “A few, though it’s too early for them yet. The gardens at Elgin Park have a much larger selection. By the time I return in July, they’ll be blooming.”
“Elgin Park,” Lydia repeated. “Your family seat, my lord?”
“In Berkshire, yes,” he replied. “Ah, here are the drinks.”
Lydia set her glass on the small table nearby and continued to watch the fountain’s cascade sparkling like liquid silver in the moonlight. She was tempted to pinch herself, to be sure all this wasn’t actually a dream. A perfect dream. The fairy tale.
Lord Pendlewood.