Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
Alexander
T he late-morning sun filtered through a light haze that clung to London’s streets. It wasn’t as hot as it had been, thanks to a steady rain the night before. Still, come afternoon, it would be boiling again, Alexander knew.
For now, though, Angelo’s Fencing Academy on Bond Street was alive with activity, its high-ceilinged rooms echoing with the rhythmic clash of steel against steel. Here, lords and aspiring gentlemen alike honed their skill at swordsmanship, under the discerning eyes of master instructors. Unsatisfied with his performance that day, Alexander sighed as he and his friends made their way out of the establishment.
Alexander adjusted the cuffs of his coat, his hair slightly mussed from exertion. To his left strode Harrington, broad-shouldered and perpetually grinning, while Matthew Fitzroy brought up the rear, languidly flicking imaginary dust from his pristine gloves.
“I must say,” Harrington began, already brimming with laughter, “if your performance today is any indication of married life, I shall have to advise against it. Distracted on the piste, bested three times in one hour, and against opponents you would normally dispatch with ease. A tragic decline, wouldn’t you agree, Fitzroy?”
“Utterly tragic,” Fitzroy echoed, his voice dripping with feigned solemnity. “It appears that matrimony saps more than just a man’s freedom. Who knew it also dulled his reflexes? Or is it simply exhaustion from your wedding night?” He and Harrington elbowed each other as they cackled like girls in finishing school.
Alexander rolled his eyes, his step steady but deliberately slower than usual to conceal a lingering stiffness in his legs. “If you two spent as much time honing your own skills as you do flapping your tongues, you might someday pose a genuine challenge,” he retorted, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“And yet, you’re the one walking out with bruised pride,” Harrington quipped, gesturing to the wooden sword Alexander carried in his hand. “That strike I landed would’ve gutted you if it had been live steel.”
“Oh, do tell, Harrington,” Alexander replied dryly. “I don’t recall the manuals advising one to lead with one’s face as you so often do. Was it Bravery for Idiots or The Unorthodox Art of Fencing for the Completely Hopeless where you first encountered such tactics?”
Fitzroy chuckled, stepping beside Alexander and casting a quick glance over his friend’s face. “This coming from the man who flinched at every parry. Honestly, Alexander, one would think you had other matters weighing on your mind—like, I don’t know, your brand-new bride?”
Alexander shrugged nonchalantly, though his grip on the wooden hilt tightened imperceptibly. “You overestimate my distraction. A single day of bad form hardly requires such dramatics. Even I am allowed the occasional lapse.”
“Not during a gentleman’s sporting engagement, surely!” Harrington cried, feigning a scandalized tone. “What would Angelo say to that?”
“Likely nothing, as I still won the final round,” Alexander said pointedly, his smirk shifting into something more genuine as he turned to Fitzroy. “Besides, Fitzroy, I imagine you’re unfamiliar with victory. I hear your instructor muttering prayers for your competence every time you step onto the piste.”
Fitzroy groaned theatrically. “Ah, insults, the last bastion of a man who knows he’s been bested. Shall I fetch your fainting couch, Your Grace?”
“Fetch one for yourself,” Alexander countered smoothly, earning a fresh round of laughter. For a moment, their camaraderie was enough to brush aside the faint unease gnawing at the edges of his mind.
As they rounded a corner toward their waiting carriages, Harrington clapped Alexander on the shoulder. “All jesting aside, you seem off, old chap. Shouldn’t you be glowing with marital bliss instead of dueling in earnest before noon?”
Alexander hesitated, his composure slipping only slightly before his mask of humor resumed. “I didn’t realize it was compulsory to drape oneself over one’s spouse after exchanging vows.”
They’d reached the back of the facility where their carriages awaited.
“Fitzroy, must you hoove it home?” Harrington asked but Matthew shook his head and nodded toward the driveway. There, the clip-clop of approaching hooves echoed down Bond Street. A glossy black barouche turned the corner, bearing Fitzroy’s unmistakable family crest. Alexander had always thought it pretentious when families who were not members of the peerage had family crests designed for them, but he’d never said anything about the matter.
Within moments, Matilda Fitzroy emerged, her bonnet angled just so to frame her strikingly sharp features. The straw bonnet had a rather large sunflower attached to it and for a moment, Alexander wondered if this might suit Lydia. The bright yellow sunflower would complement her red tresses, he had no doubt. Indeed, she’d look rather lovely.
He frowned, unsure where this thought had come from but he had no time to swell on it.
“Your Grace!” Matilda Fitzroy called as she approached from the opposite side of the street. She walked with her usual flair, her sharp gaze flicking between the trio. Her voice carried a certain cutting amusement that heralded trouble. “Shouldn’t you be busy charming your blushing bride instead of trouncing my brother at fencing?”
“Ah, Matilda,” Alexander greeted, doffing his hat. “Do forgive my transgression. I fear my charming skills are underwhelming when applied to an audience of one.”
Matilda studied him closely, an arch smile forming. “So I’ve heard,” she remarked, stepping beside her brother. “Marriage scarcely 24 hours old, and already you seek escape. Shall I draw up the annuity paperwork on your behalf?”
The men laughed, though Alexander forced his to sound genuine. “No such thing, Miss Fitzroy. My bride and I are as we should be: delightfully apart for much of the day. It’s a rather promising arrangement. She does not appear keen on my company.”
“Ah well, mores the pity. But I suppose it is an arrangement that suit you.”
“Indeed, it does, he was right to marry that desperate ape leader in the making,” Harrington said with a nod.
“You are right,” Alexander said, though he didn’t like disparaging Lydia because he knew she had a difficult time and was struggling. “She was quite desperate indeed. And because of this, she will settle into her place in due course.”
Matilda raised a brow but refrained from probing further. Instead, she turned to her brother. “Matthew, Mother is waiting for us. Shall we go before she sends someone to scour Bond Street for us?”
Matthew smirked. “A rescue party from Mother. Heaven forwent. Harrington, Alexander, until next time.” He dipped his hat in farewell, offering his sister his arm before leading her away down the street.
Once the Fitzroys were out of sight, Harrington clicked his tongue.
“Fitzroy and his sister,” Harrington began, shaking his head with an incredulous chuckle. “They make the rest of us look downright saintly, don’t they?”
Alexander raised a brow, his steps steady. “How so?”
Harrington gestured dismissively toward the now-distant barouche. “Oh, come now. You heard Matilda. Always ready with a cutting remark, and Matthew’s hardly better. A pair of vipers wrapped in silk if you ask me. I wouldn’t trust either of them further than I could throw them.”
A faint frown flickered over Alexander’s face, though he hid it quickly. He had long grown accustomed to Harrington’s tendency toward flippant opinions, but there was a kernel of disquiet in the assessment. After all, if Harrington spoke this freely about others, what might he say when Alexander wasn’t present? He knew Wycliffe – who did not enjoy fencing and thus did not join them – likewise liked to talk about anyone and anything – including Harrington and the Fitzroys.
A momentary silence stretched between them. Alexander forced a neutral tone. “They’re no different from most of society, I imagine. Polished exteriors masking private judgments. We all play the same game.”
Harrington glanced at him, a wry grin tugging at his lips. “And some play it better than others. Admit it, Alexander, at times they’re insufferable.”
Alexander chuckled, though it lacked conviction. “They’re sharp, certainly. Perhaps overly so. But they’ve yet to wrong me.”
“Give them time,” Harrington quipped, waving toward his own waiting carriage. “Well, I shan’t keep you. Rest assured, I’ll warn you the next time the Fitzroy barbs are headed your way. Just remember to sharpen your own wit for the exchange.”
As Harrington climbed into his carriage, Alexander lingered on the street. His friend’s casual dismissal gnawed at him, a faint unease stirring in his chest. It wasn’t so much the words themselves but the underlying reminder that loyalty, even among supposed friends, had limits.
He shook his head slightly and stepped into his own carriage. The city buzzed on around him as the wheels began their rhythmic clatter against the road. He leaned back into the plush leather seat, exhaling deeply. His thoughts drifted back to the fencing hall, to the sharp retorts and biting jokes, and finally to Lydia.
Perhaps Harrington was right about the Fitzroys. Perhaps they did speak unkindly behind his back. And perhaps, he mused wryly, so did everyone else.
But what of it? Let them talk.
As the carriage rolled toward Hayward House, Alexander closed his eyes momentarily, taking solace in one indisputable truth: Eammon was safe. Whatever chaos churned elsewhere—in his marriage, his social circle, or his reputation—he could lay that worry to rest. For now, at least, he had achieved something worthwhile.
That small victory would have to be enough.
The carriage creaked and swayed as it rolled along the gravel path leading to the manor. Alexander sat back, his gloved hand resting on the cool leather of the seat, the rhythmic clatter of hooves filling the cabin. But when the carriage turned the last bend and the manor came into full view, something caught his attention. A sudden flash of movement near the south lawn. He leaned closer to the open window, eyes narrowing. There, by a rain-fed puddle, stood Lydia and Eammon.
Eammon’s small frame was unmistakable, all momentum and abandon. He bent low, picked up a stone, and lobbed it into the water with a practiced throw. A loud splash erupted, sending muddy water into the air. It hit Lydia’s gown—a gown of soft pastel fabric, now streaked with dirt. She laughed, the sound light and carefree, as though they were at a festival rather than surrounded by muck.
Alexander’s hand tightened into a fist. This scene—so wild and disorderly—was unbefitting of both her station and his charge. Without thinking, he rapped sharply on the carriage roof. “Stop.”
The coach lurched as it came to an abrupt halt. Alexander threw the door open and stepped down with purpose, boots sinking slightly into the dampened earth. He strode toward them, the clip of his polished steps cutting across the field.
“Eammon!” His voice rang out sharp and unyielding, startling the boy who froze mid-throw. Lydia’s head turned, her cheerful expression giving way to something more subdued.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Alexander demanded, his eyes fixed on Eammon. He pointed to Lydia’s mud-streaked gown, his tone rising with barely restrained anger. “Look at her! How dare you get her dress dirty? That is exceedingly rude and thoughtless.”
Eammon looked down at his muddy hands, his lower lip quivering. Alexander expected an apology, some semblance of shame. Instead, Lydia stepped forward, a shield between them.
“Your Grace,” she said calmly, though her eyes shone with defiance. “That’s quite enough.”
Enough? He blinked, taken aback by her tone.
“This was my idea,” she continued, her voice soft but firm. “We’re playing a game. Tossing stones into the puddle was my suggestion. He’s done nothing wrong. No harm was done.”
Alexander looked at her—really looked. Stray curls had slipped free from her pins. A streak of dirt marred the edge of her sleeve where she’d clearly knelt down. It wasn’t just Eammon. Lydia, too, had embraced the chaos.
“And yet your gown tells another story,” he said, keeping his voice low but no less cutting. “How thoughtless to make the maids clean that up. And what if Eammon slipped and fell? You ought to know better than to indulge this sort of recklessness.”
The boy whimpered, dragging Alexander’s attention back to him. Tears welled in Eammon’s wide eyes, threatening to spill. The sight of him—small and vulnerable—was like a thorn in Alexander’s chest. The boy was afraid of him. He hated that. He’d never been afraid of Alexander when he was a tot. He’d loved him then. But of course back then, Alexander hadn’t been in charge of the boy. He’d merely played the role of benevolent uncle. He looked away, fixing his gaze on the manor instead.
“Eammon,” he said, his tone softening slightly, though his authority remained intact. “You’re to go inside immediately. Ask Miss Murphy to draw you a bath and clean yourself properly. After that, you’re to stay in the sitting room with a book or puzzle.”
The boy hiccupped a response, his voice muffled, and trudged toward the house.
“Eammon,” she called then and he paused while Lydia knelt, speaking softly to him before his small form disappeared inside the manor doors. Only then did she rise and look at Alexander.
“Do you care to explain yourself?” Alexander barked at once, stepping closer, his boots squelching slightly in the damp grass. “Because from where I stand, it looks like you’ve encouraged him to act like some...common beggar.”
Lydia blinked, then tipped her chin up just a fraction. “A common beggar?” she repeated, her voice cool and tinged with disbelief.
“Yes,” Alexander snapped, his own voice rising. “Throwing rocks into puddles, covered in mud, making an utter mess—of my ward, of you—of the very decorum he should be learning to uphold!”
Lydia's lips pressed into a firm line, and for a moment, he thought she might remain silent. But then she took a step forward, defiance sparking in her eyes. “And what exactly is so shameful about having fun?” she countered, each word crisp and deliberate. “Because that’s what he was doing. He’s a child, Alexander. He’s five, not fifty-five.”
Alexander stiffened, caught off-guard not just by her words but by her tone. It wasn’t disrespectful—exactly—but it wasn’t far off. The boldness of it made his blood run hot, though whether from frustration or something else entirely, he couldn’t say.
“I am very aware of how old he is,” he shot back, lowering his voice but not his intensity. “What I hadn’t expected, Lydia, was to return home and find my ward—my responsibility—tossing stones into puddles while covered head-to-toe in dirt. I’m also fairly certain I made it clear that he was to study this afternoon.”
Lydia’s eyes flashed, and her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t back down. “He did study.”
“He is to read, draw and educate himself. Playtime is in the evening.”
She stepped closer now, her voice rising with her frustration.
“For an hour, yes. He told me. An hour, Alexander! And then what? He’s supposed to sit in that silent room for the rest of the day, staring at books he can’t possibly understand? He’s five! He doesn’t even understand the concept of history yet, let alone the relevance of historical events that happened centuries before he was born.”
Alexander opened his mouth to retort, but she pressed on before he could.
“You treat him like he’s a miniature adult, but he’s not. He’s a boy—a lonely, curious, imaginative boy who craves connection and joy just as much as discipline. Maybe even more so. Do you know what happens to a child who grows up without laughter? Without play?”
Her words hit him harder than they should have, like stones sinking into the puddle where they’d played moments before. He clenched his jaw, unwilling to let her see how close they’d struck.
“So your solution is what, then?” he said, his voice hard and flat. “Let him run wild? Abandon every principle of propriety and education just because it’s inconvenient or difficult? No. That is not how one raises a gentleman, Lydia. He will grow up with discipline, structure, and a sense of duty—or he’ll grow up spoiled and useless.”
Lydia exhaled sharply, her expression shifting from anger to something softer, though no less fierce. “Spoiled and useless? What a sad way to view joy,” she murmured, almost more to herself than him. Then, louder, “No one’s asking you to give up structure, Alexander. But you cannot expect him to grow into a man you respect if you stifle the very things that make him human now. His heart. His happiness.”
They stood there, locked in a silent battle, the distance between them crackling with unresolved tension. For once, Alexander found himself without a quick reply. Her boldness rattled him—but it wasn’t just that. There was an unmistakable passion in her voice, a rawness that made him wonder if her words came from some wound of her own.
“I have a responsibility to his parents to make sure he is raised right. He cannot act like a commoner, he must act like the ward of a Duke, showing respect. Tossing rocks most certainly is not part of it.”
Lydia’s glare could have pierced steel, her emerald green eyes shimmering with unrestrained fury. Her jaw clenched before she finally spoke, her voice cold and clipped. “Why did you take him in, Alexander? Why did you bother if you won’t even let him be a child?”
Her words hit him like the crack of a whip, but he straightened his shoulders and pressed on, unwilling to let her win this battle. “He can be a child, Lydia. But he’ll be a well-behaved one. That’s why I married you. To help raise him into a gentleman. Not… this.” He gestured sharply to her mud-splattered dress and the fading ripples in the puddle as though the scene itself disgusted him. “Instead, you’ve turned him into some animal, tossing rocks and splashing in the mud like a common street urchin!”
Her chest heaved, her breaths shallow with indignation, and for a moment, Alexander thought she might storm off in a fit. Instead, she took a step closer, her tone scathing as she rounded on him.
“And since you forced me into this marriage,” she said, her voice trembling with unspent rage, “ you will need to let me do as I see fit with the boy. Otherwise, you may as well not have married me at all. Say the word, Alexander,” her voice sharpened to a dagger’s edge, “and I shall depart.”
Her words were a shot straight to his pride, but he wouldn’t let her see how deeply they landed. His chin trembled ever so slightly with the effort to keep his composure, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his voice low.
But Lydia was undeterred. She pulled her shoulders back, a defiant glint flashing in her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was like the snap of a bowstring, deliberate and cutting. “I shouldn’t be surprised, really. A man who doesn’t know how to raise a child properly or treat one kindly—what else could I expect from someone who abandoned his sisters when they were small?”
The words struck Alexander like a slap across the face, and he sucked in a sharp breath as though she had physically knocked the air from his lungs. He stood motionless, his mouth opening, then closing again as he struggled to form a reply. The accusation, the truth buried within it, was almost too much to bear.
His voice was quiet when he finally spoke, but it shook with the force of his restrained fury. “Walk away. Now.”
The finality in his tone was like a heavy door slamming shut. Lydia froze, as if weighing her options, her chest rising and falling with lingering rage. For a moment, Alexander thought she might stay and unleash more of her venom. But then, slowly, she turned on her heel.
Without another word, Lydia walked away, her steps firm and steady, leaving Alexander standing in the damp grass by the puddle, his heart pounding with a storm of unspoken words and unresolved anger.
The laughter of moments before still sounded in his mind. But it was something he would never share.