Chapter Fourteen
Having done his duty by his unfortunate cousin—expressing his genuine sympathy and paying his respects as required—Ambrose had left Nottingham a couple of days earlier than anticipated.
Truth be told, he’d been glad to get away.
Being parted from Lydia had made him realize how much she meant to him.
So much so, he resolved never to be parted from her again, which in turn meant the time had indeed come to ask that most significant of questions.
Upon his return to London, certain of Lydia’s response, he’d taken the liberty of acquiring a special marriage license and chosen a magnificent diamond-cluster ring from his family’s jewelry collection.
Then, as the rainy skies cleared and with both items secure in his pocket, he’d called for his carriage and set off to surprise Lydia.
The sheer anticipation of seeing her again left him lightheaded, as if he’d had one glass of wine too many.
Smiling to himself, he’d gazed out of the carriage window, his mind elsewhere as the cityscape slid by, each clip-clop of the horses’ hooves taking him closer to the woman he loved.
As it turned out, he never got that far.
Indeed, a little more than an hour after setting out on that optimistic venture, Ambrose found himself back in the study of his Mayfair home, standing stock-still in a patch of brilliant sunlight.
Numb with shock, he didn’t quite know where to put himself.
It didn’t help that an invisible steel band was squeezing his skull so tight he could barely think straight.
Uttering a curse, he strode over to the window and slammed the shutters closed.
The afternoon sun was too bright, too damned intrusive.
He lingered in darkness for a moment till his eyes adjusted, then went to his desk and lit a solitary candle before going to the bellpull and giving it a tug.
Then he collapsed into his favorite armchair by the empty fireplace and closed his eyes.
God, he hurt. To the depths of his soul, he hurt.
Damn you. Damn you to Hell!
A man should learn from experience, he thought, rubbing his temple.
For if that man did not pay attention, he risked being doomed to suffer, in an increasingly brutal fashion, the same misfortunes.
And this day had turned out to be brutal indeed.
A shattering of trust that left him weak limbed.
As for his heart, well, it still beat solidly beneath his ribs, but its function now was merely fundamental.
It no longer had any emotion attached to it.
It had become as a stone: hard and unyielding.
Ambrose’s mind, meanwhile, was unrelentless in its vicious activity, playing the same, torturous scene over and over in his head.
Previously, each time he’d driven past the little park at the end of Lydia’s street, he’d admired it.
With his love of gardens, he considered it to be a pretty little oasis on the edge of a bustling city.
As he’d passed the park earlier that day, however, he’d given it but a fleeting glance through the carriage window.
He’d been otherwise preoccupied with thoughts of love and life.
But as the reality of what his eyes beheld in that brief moment filtered into his brain, an ominous sense of disbelief washed over him.
He glanced back at the park hoping he’d been mistaken.
It couldn’t be. No, it must be someone else.
A rap on the ceiling with his cane brought the carriage to an immediate halt, but he hesitated a moment before opening the door, fearful of what he might find beyond it.
Bile burned the back of his throat as he stepped out of the carriage, his legs oddly weak, a knot of dread twisting in his stomach.
As he approached the park’s neatly trimmed hedge, he offered up a prayer.
Please God, let me be mistaken, I beg of you.
It had turned out to be a prayer unanswered.
In silence, Ambrose stood by the perfectly trimmed hedge and watched the woman he loved accept a flower from the man she was with, laughing and curtsying as she did so.
The man then said something to her, cradled her face in his hands, and gazed down at her as if smitten before placing a lingering kiss on her forehead.
And in that single, perverse moment, everything Ambrose held true collapsed like a house of cards.
Never in a thousand years would he have believed Lydia Page to be capable of such duplicity.
Sick with anguish, he’d turned away, desperately trying to rationalize what he’d seen.
Rage clashed with disbelief, part of him demanding he charge into the park and beat the living daylights out of the fellow.
But something deep inside held him back.
He couldn’t face the actuality of what he’d seen.
Of what it meant. His pride, so recently rejuvenated, had just taken another battering, this one far more destructive. Far more vicious.
First Miss Grissom and now…
To admit he’d been betrayed for the second time was simply beyond his ability. That’s when it occurred to him that he didn’t have to admit it at all. At least, not to any of his peers. There were no other witnesses to what had just occurred.
Only him.
Grasping at that fragile straw, he’d headed back to his carriage, pausing at the door as the sound of laughter drifted out of the park.
A man’s laughter. After that, Ambrose remembered nothing.
He had no memory of climbing into his carriage or giving his driver instructions to return home, though he’d obviously done so.
The entire drive back was also lost to memory, buried beneath an avalanche of soul-crushing disbelief and shock.
Now, in the quiet darkness of his study, Ambrose closed his eyes and gripped the arms of his chair.
As he had so many times in the past hour, he wondered who the man was. Obviously someone who knew Lydia very well. Ambrose couldn’t help but wonder how well. Had their affair been going on the whole time? It seemed likely, given the familiarity they shared.
What was I to you, then? A title? Was that it? He gritted his teeth. All the things you said. Lies, all lies. Damn you!
How could he have been so blind? And not just him, which actually gave him a smidgen of comfort.
Everyone who’d met Miss Page believed her to be a delight.
She’d even managed to fool Bessie Dove-Lyon, who was notoriously savvy when it came to reading people.
With that thought, a tiny sliver of doubt wormed its way into Ambrose’s head, causing him to wonder if he’d misunderstood what he’d seen.
He pondered a moment and then silently berated himself for chasing a false hope.
If Miss Page and her companion were merely friends, why had she never introduced the fellow?
Besides, their little pantomime—the plucking of the flower, the bowing, the curtsying—was undoubtedly mocking Society.
As for that kiss, it had been intimate to the point of publicly inappropriate.
And the man’s shout of laughter. Triumphant.
Bombastic, even. The now familiar, sickening sense of betrayal swamped Ambrose once more.
“Pull yourself together, Pendlewood,” he muttered, shifting in his seat.
He needed to calm down, to gain control over the anger and bitterness that currently consumed him.
Ending his relationship with Lydi—with Miss Page—must appear to be solely his decision, thus saving his pride.
Frowning, he played out a scenario in his head.
Due to his cousin’s bereavement, he’d been out of town, mingling with family and peers, a circumstance that had allowed him to step back and view his courtship of Miss Page from afar.
As a result, a change of mind and heart had occurred.
Due to her societal status, the young lady was, he’d decided, unsuitable as a potential countess and the mother of his children.
Nor was her inheritance enough to persuade him otherwise. He did not need her money, after all.
He nodded. Yes, it’s a believable scenario. Unlike Miss Grissom, Miss Page has no idea she’s been caught in the act, so she’ll not be expecting me to end our liaison, nor will she ever know the actual reason behind it.
The images in the park arose again in his mind and he sucked in a breath.
Everything was still horribly raw, but he was determined to rally.
There’d be no running off to Elgin Park.
Not this time. No, this time he’d step out into Society as if nothing untoward had happened, other than his pursuit of Miss Page had come to an end.
Maybe he’d send her a letter of regret. Or maybe he’d simply cast her aside by ignoring her. He owed her nothing, after all.
To hell with you, Miss—
“You rang, my lord?”
Startled, Ambrose blinked the burn of tears away.
Lost in thought, he hadn’t heard the door open.
“Yes, Crabtree, I did. I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day and, until further notice, you will tell callers that I am not at home and you’re not certain when I’ll be back.
Absolutely no exceptions. Not even the bloody Prince Regent, should he decide to visit. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, my lord,” Crabtree replied, frowning as his gaze flicked briefly to the shuttered window. “Are you quite well, my lord? Is there anything I can bring you? Some tea, perhaps?”
“I have a bit of a headache, that’s all, but no, nothing, thank you.” Ambrose shifted his gaze to the empty fireplace. “I repeat, no disturbances. If I need anything, I’ll ring.”
“Very good, my lord.” A floorboard creaked softly as the butler left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Inhaling deeply, Ambrose closed his eyes once more and tried to settle his turbulent thoughts.
In an unbidden moment of weakness, he considered writing a letter to Miss Page outlining, with false regret, his decision to break off their relationship.
But his resentment and anger shoved the notion aside.
He owed the girl nothing, least of all his consideration.
No, he’d take a couple of days to compose himself, then he’d get back in the proverbial saddle for the rest of the Season, pride intact. Brave face, and all that.
And to Hell with you, Miss Page.