Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Alexander
T he next morning Alexander strode through Green Park again, although his time he was not with his friends but rather with his ward. He’d decided that there was no time like the present when it came to implementing Emma’s advice. Therefore, he’d announced to Eammon he’d take him to the park that very morning – much to the lad’s alarm. Indeed, he’d looked at Alexander as though he’d committed some infraction and was being punished. Something that troubled Alexander more than he cared to admit.
Presently, little Eammon trailed a half-step behind, his gaze downcast. Though the park buzzed with chatter and laughter, their walk was marked by an uneasy silence. Alexander carried himself with the stiff formality he reserved for situations he found most trying, his hands clasped firmly behind his back as if to stop them from betraying any nervous energy.
Eammon glanced tentatively at the ducks splashing in a nearby pond, his small face alight with curiosity. “Your Grace,” he began timidly, “might I go and see?—”
“No.” Alexander’s reply came swiftly, more curt than he intended. At the boy’s startled flinch, he softened his tone. “It isn’t safe, Eammon. The bank is slippery, and we don’t know what sort of... creatures might linger in the reeds. And ducks are notoriously vicious.”
Eammon’s shoulders sagged, and he nodded obediently. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Alexander stifled a sigh. It was always like this—his words too harsh, his gestures too uncertain. He felt as though he were teetering on the edge of failure, each attempt at care strained through the filter of his awkwardness. He had no experience in raising a child, and his efforts were often clumsy at best.
Yet the weight of responsibility pressed heavily on him. He had sworn to John and Maebh’s memory that he would ensure Eammon’s safety and success. That promise, coupled with his own profound guilt, compelled him to hover too closely, to correct too quickly, to care too much in all the wrong ways. The more he thought about it, the more he understood Emma was right – the boy needed a mother.
“Come along,” Alexander urged. “The promenade is this way.”
They walked for some time, Eammon’s small legs scrambling to keep pace with Alexander’s strides.
They’d reached the main lawn of the park and Alexnader paused for a moment, considering just what to do with the boy. Then a sharp thunk drew his attention as a pall mall ball soared across the grassy expanse. Alexander, half-turned to address Eammon’s perpetual hesitancy, caught the movement too late. The ball skittered over the trimmed lawn and struck Eammon’s small foot with an audible thud.
Eammon yelped in surprise, clutching his foot. Though he didn’t appear to be in any real pain, the suddenness of the event rendered his reaction sharp and immediate. His face crumpled, his small hands gripping Alexander’s coat sleeve tightly.
“Steady, steady,” Alexander said, kneeling quickly to examine the boy’s foot. “Show me—has it hurt your toes?” He swept Eammon into a hasty inspection.
“It hurts, Your Grace,” Eammon whimpered, though Alexander could tell the pain was mostly fright. His small features scrunched as he looked up at his guardian, searching for comfort.
He exhaled slowly, his chest tight. “It was only a ball,” he murmured, gently shifting Eammon’s booted foot this way and that. “You’re not harmed, but—” He stood abruptly, his voice firm now as he scanned the clearing for the offending party. “Who did this?”
“Here, sir! It was me,” piped a bright voice.
Alexander turned to see a slender, auburn-haired girl hurrying toward him, a look of earnest guilt on her face. Behind her trailed another girl, identical to the first in every way—her twin, unmistakably, though her pace was slower, her expression more apprehensive.
“We didn’t mean to!” the first girl called as she skidded to a halt before Alexander. Breathless and wide-eyed, she added in a rush, “It was an accident—I only meant to hit it toward the hoop!”
“An accident, indeed,” Alexander replied sternly. He retrieved the ball, holding it up as though to chastise it for causing such havoc. “You must learn to take more care when aiming your shots. Your recklessness could have caused serious harm!”
“But it didn’t!” interjected another voice, cool and collected yet laced with amusement.
Alexander turned and saw the red-haired woman he’d noticed in the park the day before approaching with calm deliberation. She was, he noticed, not wearing a bonnet and her hair was almost scandalously loose, held together only by a few pins which stood no chance against the volume of her tresses. Her cheeks were pink from exertion, her green eyes clear and unwavering as she regarded him. She was, he could not deny it, striking indeed.
“My sister didn’t intend to cause trouble,” she said, her voice steady but warm. “Surely you must see that. It’s just a game.”
“Games often result in injury when carelessness is involved,” Alexander shot back, though his tone wavered slightly under her unwavering gaze.
Lydia drew closer, smiling faintly. “It was a ball, sir—not a cannonball. A young boy needs a few bumps and tumbles. Surely you remember your own childhood?”
Alexander stiffened. His childhood had been filled with joy and laughter – until his mother died when he was about the age these twin girls were. After that, he recalled little. And by choice.
“As it happens, I do not. But that is of no consequence here. My ward Eammon could have been hurt.”
“And yet, he as not. Indeed, I dare say he could do with a round of pall mall.” She looked at him with a smile.
“He is too young for such chaos.”
“Chaos,” Lydia repeated thoughtfully, her expression softening as her gaze shifted to Eammon. The boy was still clutching Alexander’s coat but watching the exchange with quiet fascination. “I’ve never heard pall mall described as chaotic, sir,” she continued, kneeling to address Eammon directly, her green eyes now level with his watery brown ones.
“Do you like games, Master Eammon?” she asked gently.
Eammon hesitated, his gaze darting toward Alexander for approval. When none came, he murmured faintly, “I... don’t know, ma’am.”
Lydia’s lips curved into a patient smile. “I think you might enjoy them if given the chance,” she said, her voice coaxing. “You see those girls over there? Those are my sisters. Eliza and Maggie. And that little one with our housekeeper is Cressida. How would you like playing a round of pall mall with them? If your papa will allow it,” she said, looking up at him.
Alexander pulled his shoulders back, taken aback by her assumption he was Eammon’s father. Likewise, the boy looked at him out of wide eyes, as unsettled as Alexander was.
“I am not his father, I am his guardian. Eammon is my ward,” he said stiffly.
“Well then,” the young woman said. “Perhaps your ward might enjoy a game. Would you like to take a turn?”
Eammon’s eyes flickered to the group Lydia indicated: a pair of small girls near the pall mall hoop, giggling as they practiced their shots. One waved in their direction, beckoning shyly.
Alexander interjected quickly, his voice firm. “He has no experience with such... pursuits. I doubt it would be wise.”
“It’s hardly rough,” she paused and tilted her head to one side. “I do not believe we’ve exchanged names.”
“Alexander Hayward. The Duke of Leath,” he introduced himself and she performed a curtsy he suspected was not entirely sincere.
“Your Grace. A pleasure. I am Lydia Andrews,” Lydia’s tone bordered on amused now, though her words retained their warmth. “A gentle introduction to pall mall wouldn’t harm him. In fact, it might help him more than you realize.”
Alexander hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he considered her suggestion. He glanced at Eammon, who stood small and quiet beside him, his shoulders tense. The boy’s demeanor was a mirror of his own tightly wound restraint, and Alexander’s heart sank at the recognition.
“If anything happens—” he began.
“Nothing will,” Lydia assured him lightly. “I have much experience looking after young children, I assure you. I’ll keep a close watch.” She held out her hand toward Eammon. “Come, Master Eammon. Let us see if you have an aptitude for the game.”
Eammon hesitated again, his gaze darting between Lydia’s kind expression and Alexander’s unreadable one. When Alexander tipped his head, he tentatively, he took her hand, allowing her to lead him toward the hoop where the other children played. The woman appeared to be a rather capable governess, for the young girls in her charge minded her quite well.
He hadn’t been certain who or what she was at first. Indeed, he’d even thought she might be a lady of higher birth but her words made it clear – she was a governess. And that, he supposed, made sense. She was too young to be their mother and too old to be their sister, for she had to be at least ten years their senior.
Alexander followed closely, his chest tight with apprehension. He watched as Lydia guided Eammon into position, her patience steady and her instructions clear. She placed a small mallet in his hands and showed him how to hold it properly, correcting his grip with a gentle touch.
“There, just like that,” she said, encouraging him with a smile. “Now give it a swing—not too hard, mind you. You only want to nudge the ball forward.”
Eammon swung awkwardly, the ball wobbling only a few feet. He looked up at Lydia uncertainly, his small brow furrowed.
“Well done for a first try,” she praised. “Try again. It’s practice that makes the master.”
To Alexander’s surprise, Eammon smiled faintly at her encouragement and adjusted his stance for another swing.
Alexander, standing stiffly at the edge of the group, found himself captivated by the scene. Lydia’s warmth and ease were a sharp contrast to his own fumbling efforts, and the sight of Eammon relaxing, even slightly, tugged at something buried deep within him.
As Eammon swung the pall mall mallet under Lydia’s gentle guidance, and the encouragement of her sisters, Alexander felt a peculiar tightening in his chest. The boy, who had moments ago been reluctant and tentative, now beamed with uncharacteristic delight as Lydia crouched beside him, adjusting his hands on the mallet with patient firmness.
“No, not so stiff,” she instructed gently, her tone laced with warmth. “You need control, yes, but also ease. Like this.” She placed her hands lightly over his, giving a small nudge. “There—see how much smoother that is?”
Eammon nodded, a toothy grin spreading across his face as he sent the ball rolling cleanly toward the hoop.
“Well done!” Lydia said, clapping her hands together in approval.
Eammon laughed—a sweet, clear sound that startled Alexander more than anything else had that day. It struck him, then, how natural Lydia seemed in this role. Her firm yet kind demeanor struck the perfect balance, coaxing laughter from a boy who had barely managed a smile in days. Alexander’s attempts to connect with Eammon felt like clumsy parodies in comparison.
His thoughts wandered unbidden. He needed a woman like Lydia—not just for Eammon’s sake, though that was compelling enough, but to bring a measure of order to his life as well. A child needed more than structure and rules; he needed nurturing, patience, and a steady hand. Emma had been right about that, and Lydia had just said as much.
Alexander’s heart ached to admit it, but perhaps a mother was precisely what Eammon required. But perhaps a kind and youthful governess could fill the role he needed. A woman like her. Or perhaps – just her?
But where was he to find someone capable and kind, a perfect mixture of maternal kindness and strict guidance? He could hardly select this young woman who was clearly someone else’s employee.
Who did she work for, he wondered? For perhaps that lucky soul would know where to find another capable woman. He’d tried but not succeeded. All the best governesses were already taken and unwilling to change, and those still available were either young and inexperienced – something he would not risk – or elderly like Miss Murphy. Women like Lydia Andrews were a rarity.
His musings were interrupted by a voice behind him, familiar and laced with amusement.
“Your Grace,” Matilda called as she strolled into view, accompanied by her brother, Matthew. “Taking the air, I see?”
Matilda Fitzroy, was resplendent in a rich burgundy gown that spoke to her theatrical flair. Her blonde curls spilled over one shoulder, and a small decorative parasol twirled idly in her gloved hand. Beside her, Matthew’s stood with an air of perpetual irreverence, his wide grin signaling trouble before he opened his mouth.
Alexander straightened, drawing himself from his thoughts. “Matthew, Miss Matilda,” he greeted, giving a brief nod. “What brings you here at this hour?”
“We’re on our way to meet with the musicians, naturally,” Matilda said lightly, gesturing toward the opera house visible at the far end of the park. “Matthew is meeting with the theater director today to discuss details for the premier’s celebration. We are sponsoring it, of course. Anyhow, I had to stop when I saw you. So, is this your boy? I’d heard talk but had yet to confirm.”
“Yes, Eammon,” Alexander said tightly, his tone clipped as he observed Eammon now enthusiastically swinging the mallet under Lydia’s encouragement.
“And the young lady, a new friend of yours then?” Matilda’s gaze drifted toward Lydia, her expression turning speculative.
“An acquaintance,” Alexander replied hesitantly. He wasn’t sure why but he didn’t wish to tell Matilda that he’d only just met her and had no idea who she was. “I do not know her all that well,” he admitted, as he felt this was vague enough.
“Ah, well. Lady Lydia is a lady of reputation,” Matilda corrected slyly, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.
“Some reputation indeed,” her brother added.
Lady Lydia? Had he heard correctly? But … she was a governess, was she not? Now he was genuinely intrigued.
“The truth is, I do not know Miss…Lady Lydia well at all. In passing, one might say,” he said and looked away though he felt the way Matilda stared at him.
“I see. Well, she is Lydia Andrews, eldest daughter of the Earl of Bristol,” Matilda said. Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “Although the ton refers to her by a different name.”
She snickered, as did her brother. For once, Alexander did not feel like joining in. Instead, he cleared his throat.
“And what would that name be?”
“The cursed bride,” Matthew said and laughed out loud so hard his hair bounced in the breeze.
Alexander’s brow furrowed. “Why would she be called that?”
“Because she is cursed indeed,” Matilda said with glee. “Three courtships in a year or so and all of them over in a flash.”
“How so?” He scratched his head, unsure what this all meant.
“Ah, therein lies the intrigue,” Matilda said, clearly reveling in the tale. “The first gentleman, Lord Haythrop, was caught in a scandal—embezzling funds from the family estate. Lady Lydia found out and ended things before it could become public. The second, Viscount Marling, was discovered gambling away half his fortune. He had been at it for some while without anyone know but as soon as he courted Lady Lydia, it became public knowledge. Very curious indeed.”
“Indeed,” her brother said, taking over the conversation. “And the third, Sir Perry Clarke, was... well, let’s say rumors of his ‘proclivities’ began circulating at exactly the wrong time.”
“She uncovered the unsavory nature of each, it seems,” Alexander remarked, though his tone was contemplative rather than critical.
“She did,” Matilda said with a nod, “but not everyone views such a woman kindly. In fact, her reputation has earned her the aforementioned unflattering appellation: ‘the cursed bride.’”
Matthew, never one to let an opportunity for jest pass, added with a crude chuckle, “She’s so cursed, she’d be lucky to get a one-legged sailor to propose, and even then she’d be considered lucky!”
Alexander’s jaw tightened, his distaste for Matthew’s flippancy flaring instantly. “That will suffice, Matthew,” he said coldly. He’d already gotten the picture. The young woman, though noble, was unlucky in love. Or maybe not so unlucky, given the men she’d escaped.
Still, the ton would not forgive three broken courtships. The young woman would likely never find herself with a husband now.
But Matthew, seemingly undeterred, tilted his head, observing Alexander with new interest. “Say, if you are looking for a woman for your ward while maintaining your bachelor ways, she might be desperate enough to have you on your terms.”
Alexander said nothing, his eyes fixed on Lydia as she knelt once more to congratulate Eammon on another well-aimed swing. There was an undeniable grace in her movements, a natural empathy and authority that made her seem born to command a household.
The gears of his mind turned steadily. Lydia Andrews was considered unmarriageable by polite society, a notion which paradoxically made her an ideal candidate for what he needed. She would likely welcome stability over romance, which suited Alexander perfectly—his heart was not an offering he was prepared to make. Beyond that, there was Eammon. He thought of the boy’s laughter moments ago, a sound as foreign to his ears as any heathen language. Lydia had reached him in a way Alexander had failed to; she could provide the maternal influence Eammon so desperately needed.
And as for society’s disdain, what of it? His title was secure, his responsibilities paramount. Alexander knew his position granted him authority that rendered such rumors inconsequential.
The more he considered the matter, the more rational and inevitable it seemed. Lydia Andrews, with her poise, practicality, and ability to connect with the boy, was precisely the sort of woman his household needed.
No, as he stood with his friends, Alexander understood one thing with certainty – here, standing before him was the answer to all of his problems.