Chapter Sixteen
“Miss Page is here, my lord,” Crabtree announced, his voice edged with a touch of wariness. “Are you available for a visit?”
The mere mention of her name caused Ambrose’s heart to skip a beat.
Seated at his desk, attending to some long-overdue correspondence, he gripped his pen a little tighter and then set it down, clenching his fist to halt the sudden tremor in his hand.
He drew a deep breath and then released it slowly.
“My lord?”
“Is the girl alone?” he asked, without looking up.
“She is, my lord.”
“Put her in the front parlor,” Ambrose replied. “And don’t bother to offer her anything. She’ll not be staying long.”
There followed a brief spell of silence, then, “As you wish, my lord.”
Ambrose almost fired a reprimand at his butler, whose hesitant reply implied disapproval.
Instead, he faced the more crucial issue at hand.
Lydia Page was here and undoubtedly looking for answers.
Had her visit been prompted simply by concern for his lack of contact, or might it be due to a different circumstance?
It seemed reasonable to assume word had spread about his recent appearance at the theater.
He wondered if Miss Page knew about it and who might have told her. Harriet, most likely.
Ambrose drew another deep breath, pushed his chair back, and went to the window, which looked out over his garden.
“Damn you,” he murmured, his mind going back to that magical moonlit night several weeks before.
How enchanted he had been. Utterly captivated, in fact.
Would he ever be able to spend time in his beloved garden without thinking of that night?
Perhaps, if he made a few changes. His jaw clenched.
A few changes? He’d have to rip the entire garden out. Pave over the whole blasted thing.
“Get a grip, Pendlewood,” he muttered, and lifted his chin, resolved not to show any sign of anger or resentment.
Rather, his demeanor had to be that of calm control and nonchalant superiority.
Miss Page needed to be reminded of her place.
It must be made clear she was an unsuitable match for someone of his societal standing.
Hence his decision to end their relationship.
The mantel clock stuck four, drawing Ambrose’s attention.
Miss Page could also wait, he decided, till he’d finished his correspondence.
He returned to his desk and picked up his pen.
Twenty minutes later, fingers cramping, he set his pen aside once more, not having written a single word.
If he was to be honest with himself, he dreaded what was to come.
For a moment, he considered sending a message to Miss Page, letting her know he was too busy to see her, but he shook off the temptation.
The situation needed to be resolved and put behind him, so that he might continue with his future.
In need of a little Dutch-courage however, he went to the sideboard, poured himself a brandy, and downed it.
Then he adjusted his cravat, tugged down on his sleeves, and headed for the parlor.
Pausing momentarily, he then opened the door with a flourish and strode into the room with as much presence as he could muster.
“Miss Page,” he said, as she rose to her feet. “My apologies for the wait. I have rather a full agenda today.”
The smile on her face faltered, no doubt due to his use of the formal address.
Frowning, she bobbed a curtsy. “Forgive me, Ambrose. I did not mean to intrude. It’s just that I…
well, I had not heard from you since you left for Nottingham and I wondered why.
I only found out earlier today that you’d returned to London. ”
Ambrose kept his expression impassive and searched Lydia’s face for signs of duplicity, hints of guile, but saw none.
Gads, but she was lovely! And her perfume, so sweet.
Her hands, however, were meshed at her waist, fingers fiddling.
An indication of nervousness, perhaps due to his demeanor.
She appeared to be searching his face as well, as if trying to see into his thoughts.
“I have missed you,” she said, and reached out a hand.
Fearful her touch might weaken his resolve, Ambrose took a slight step back, and Lydia’s eyes widened as she dropped her hands to her side. “Have I done something wrong, Ambrose?” she asked. “Offended you somehow?”
The temptation to throw her infidelity in her face consumed him.
The desire to preserve his pride overcame it.
He considered correcting her use of the casual address, but decided to let it go.
He just wanted this unpleasant episode over with.
“No, Miss Page, not exactly,” he said, with a calmness he did not feel.
He even managed an impassive smile. “I should, of course, have enlightened you before now. Been rather distracted since I got back to London, I’m afraid.
In any case, the thing is, while I was away, I gave a good deal of thought to our liaison and, given our social differences, I’ve come to the conclusion that we must go our separate ways.
It is for the best. I’m sure you understand. ”
She inhaled sharply as her hands went back to fiddling at her waist. “Our separate ways?”
“Precisely.”
“Then… no, Ambrose, I don’t understand, not at all, though I feared there was something wrong when you didn’t contact me.
” Frowning, she glanced around the room as if attempting to gather her thoughts, then regarded him once more, her eyes now bright with a shimmer of tears.
“Of what differences do you speak? You know that I love you, and I thought…” Her voice faltered.
“You said… you said you loved me too. Was it a lie, then? Are you saying that everything we shared has been a lie?”
Her dismay was convincing. Utterly believable, in fact.
But, as the relentless image of her being kissed by the other man slid into Ambrose’s mind, he loaded an imaginary bow, and let the arrow fly.
“To be frank, Miss Page, upon consideration I came to realize that it was folly to pursue someone who is, in actuality, an underling, and therefore not suitable to be my countess. There really is nothing more to be said.”
She drew another sharp breath. “An underling?” A tear rolled down her cheek and was hastily scrubbed away. “My goodness, that I did not expect. Indeed, I never once had the impression that my societal position was abhorrent to you.”
“Not abhorrent, exactly,” he replied. “But unsuitable, as I have already explained.”
“Unsuitable.” She laughed, a painful sound.
“Yes, of course. I understand you now. I understand you completely. And having just been so enlightened, it is clear I must take my leave of you.” Clutching her skirts, she moved toward the door, halting as she passed to glare up at him, fury evident in her eyes.
Fury, and something else that looked like profound sadness. Misplaced, no doubt.
“But know this, Lord Pendlewood,” she continued, “the loss this day is yours, not mine.” Another tear escaped, to be quickly brushed away.
“And I am not, nor will I ever be, an underling. Indeed, the unworthiness is yours for having so cruelly deceived me. May God forgive you, for I doubt I ever shall!”
Then, with a swish of skirts and leaving a soft swirl of floral scent in her wake, Lydia departed, the sound of a sob making its way back to Ambrose before the door closed behind her.
Unmoving, he closed his eyes and stood in silence, seeking to rationalize what he’d just done.
He felt sick. Close to tears himself. He’d been brutal in a way that went totally against his nature.
But what choice did he have, after all? He was the one who’d been deceived.
So why the hell did he feel as if he’d just made a terrible mistake?
He toyed with an urge to go after her, to confront her with what he’d seen and watch her deny it.
But she couldn’t deny it, could she? The images of her and her lover in the park danced in his mind even now, giving him comfort.
No, not comfort. He drew no comfort from any of this.
It was justification he needed, and those wretched images provided it.
Heaving a sigh, he opened his eyes and made his way back to his study.
He also needed a drink. Something to take away the bitter taste in his mouth and to ease the dull pain that now occupied heart and mind.
As for the rest of the Season, he thought, pouring himself a brandy, he’d spend it accordingly, partaking of the welcome distractions it offered.
With time, the terrible sense of loss burdening him would surely dissipate.
“…the loss this day is yours, not mine.”
Ambrose threw the brandy down his throat and poured himself another.
Lydia barely remembered the ride home that afternoon. Only when Owens opened the door did she even realize that the carriage had stopped.
“Miss Page,” he said, holding out a hand. “We’re home.”
Lydia regarded him through a haze of shock. “Yes, of course.” She placed her hand in his. “Thank you, Owens.”
He sighed, but said nothing as he helped her out of the carriage.
Then, “Wait a moment, miss,” he said, and went up the steps to the front door, opening it for her.
Not something he usually did. Lydia regarded him.
“Thank you,” she said again, and addressed his obvious, but silent, sympathy as she stepped over the threshold. “I’ll be all right, Owens.”
“I know you will, miss,” he replied, with a solemn smile. “You’re Mr. Page’s daughter.”
Lydia barely staved off an urge to hug the man. “Yes, I am,” she replied, straightening her spine. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“Miss Lydia! Didn’t expect you back quite so soon,” Doyle said, hurrying toward her, parting with a gasp as she drew near. “Oh, my dear, what’s wrong? Are you unwell?”