Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
Alexander
A lexander dipped his quill into the inkwell. The study was quiet, save for the soft scratching of pen against parchment as he wrote.
Arabella,
I hope this letter finds you well. I trust you are keeping Henry in check—though I know that is a hopeless endeavor at times. He does so lose his sense in the country. I do hope you make good use of your time while he ambles about the countryside shooting, riding, and whatnot.
I miss you all. It has been too long since we were last together, and I find myself looking forward to your return more than I care to admit. Especially now Emma and Evan have gone. I think things with Eammon might be a little better when everyone is here. He will have others to distract him, at least.
I worry, though. Worry that I have taken on too much. I am not certain I am what he needs. I try, but I cannot reach him the way Lydia can. It is effortless for her. He watches her, listens to her, seeks her out in a way he never does with me. And I…
Alexander hesitated, the ink pooling slightly where his quill lingered too long. He let out a breath, then set the pen down, rubbing a hand over his face.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the half-written letter. He had not meant to admit so much, even to Arabella. But it was the truth. Lydia had a way about her, a strength that was undeniable. She was fiery, unafraid, always ready to meet a challenge head-on. It was admirable.
It was attractive. She was attrative. Indeed, if he were looking for a wife, she’d look much like her. Her hair, her soft curves, her …
Alexander scowled and shook his head as if he could physically dispel the thought. No . He was not looking for anything. He had never been looking for anything. This marriage was a means to an end, a necessity, not a romance.
And yet…
He exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath as he reached for his quill once more. He had no business thinking such things. It did not matter what kind of woman Lydia was. What mattered was the responsibility he had taken on, the promises he had made.
With a firm shake of his head, he returned to his letter, carefully choosing his next words, determined to think of nothing else.
Once done, Alexander stared at the stack of correspondence lay unopened to one side, while a fresh sheet of parchment sat before him, waiting in vain for his attention. The quill in his hand hovered over the surface, untouched by ink, as his thoughts churned restlessly.
He looked around the room and frowned. Of all the spaces in the house, this was the last he had yet to put his mark on. The study remained almost entirely as his father had left it—a testament to the earl’s tastes and habits. Heavy, dark wood dominated the furniture, from the immense desk to the bookcases that stretched to the ceiling, their shelves crowded with volumes Alexander had no desire to read. The green leather of the armchairs had long since worn smooth with age, though their buttons and seams were still taut, a grim testimony to the durability of their maker’s hand.
The scent of pipe smoke lingered faintly, though the room had not been used for such in years. It clung to the curtains and the ancient rug beneath the desk. The entire atmosphere weighed upon him like a tangible presence—a reminder of the man who had occupied the space before him, the expectations, the judgments. Alexander had begun changes elsewhere in the house—simpler, lighter tones, a deliberate detachment from his father’s heavy-handed aesthetic—but here, he had hesitated.
Now he regretted it.
A sound broke into his reverie, soft at first but growing in volume. Laughter. Clear, uninhibited laughter.
He set the quill down, rising to his feet with measured deliberation. Crossing to the window, he pulled aside the heavy velvet drapes. His eyes narrowed against the sunlight pouring in, and his gaze fell upon the scene outside.
Lydia and Eammon were playing in the gardens.
Lydia, her skirts held in one hand, darted around with surprising swiftness. She was chasing Eammon, who zigzagged and doubled back with the boundless energy only a child could muster. The boy was grinning from ear to ear, his shrieks of laughter carrying easily to the window.
For a moment, Alexander simply watched. Lydia’s hair had loosened slightly from her earlier coiffure, and the faintest blush colored her cheeks from exertion. The breeze played with the ribbons of her gown, giving her an almost carefree air—a stark contrast to the formal, carefully composed woman he so often encountered at dinner.
Then, the two suddenly stopped and Lydia gestured beneath his window. Frowning Alexander glanced down and took a sharp inhale of air. There it was. A puddle.
Lydia and Eammon were directly beneath him now, close enough that he could discern the sunlight catching in Lydia’s hair.
He shifted his weight uncomfortably, noticing the puddle nearby. The rain from the previous evening had left the ground damp, and the water, though shallow, gleamed temptingly in the sunlight. Alexander’s lips thinned as he observed the pair. Surely, surely, she would not encourage the boy to leap into the mud again. He half-considered flinging the window open to put an end to it preemptively but paused, his thoughts arrested by the conversation of the night before.
Had he been too harsh? Lydia’s words lingered in his mind, the pointed reminder that Eammon was a child—not yet a gentleman, certainly not a miniature version of himself or any of his ancestors. He is five, not fifty-five, she had said. The truth of it pricked him. He was so consumed with the duties of shaping the boy’s future that he had overlooked the present altogether.
Alexander let his hand drop from the window and continued to observe silently.
Lydia had stooped to gather a handful of pebbles, the edges of her skirts brushing perilously close to the puddle. She rose with purpose, selecting one pebble from her palm. Eammon watched her intently, his hands clasped as if in expectation of instruction. Alexander quirked an eyebrow as Lydia readied herself and threw the pebble. It arched through the air before plopping neatly into the puddle, sending faint ripples outward.
The boy looked surprised, his little face torn between mischief and hesitation. He gestured with both hands, clearly asking something—likely permission. Lydia bent low, meeting him at eye level. Whatever she said caused Eammon to relax. She waved with one hand, the other gently placed on his shoulder, guiding him back a few paces as if to set him in position. Then she threw another pebble with unselfconscious delight and clapped her hands encouragingly.
The moment struck Alexander as strange, almost tender. He had often viewed Lydia’s spiritedness as vexing, but this—this was something different entirely. He frowned, leaning slightly against the frame as Eammon prepared to follow her lead. The boy hesitated, his hand clutching a pebble while his feet remained firmly planted. From the study’s distance, Alexander could not discern what stalled him, but it occurred to him that perhaps Eammon feared rebuke.
Alexander straightened, the thought striking with unexpected weight. He fears me, Alexander realized. The notion sat poorly, though he could not yet articulate why.
Perhaps he should withdraw now to avoid notice, but any sudden movement might draw Lydia’s sharp eyes. No, best to stay his ground and acquiesce silently to their antics. Even as he resolved this, Lydia glanced upward, her sharp, watchful gaze meeting his.
For a moment, they regarded each other. Her expression—half-challenging, half-playful—suggested she had already guessed at his thoughts. Her head tilted slightly, a smile teasing the corners of her lips, as if daring him to interrupt their amusement. Why did she always have to challenge him?
With a sigh, he reached into his pocket, feeling a piece of lint caught between his thumb and forefinger. He could ignore them—he should ignore them. And yet...
Taking a deliberate step forward, he opened the window.
“Take heed not to get too dirty,” he called. His tone was measured but held no bite.
Eammon froze, his face tilting upward in surprise. Then, catching the neutrality in Alexander’s voice, his little shoulders eased, and he nodded earnestly. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said, his voice small but clear.
“And hold the rock flat, that way it will bounce once,” he said with a nod. Eammon stared at him, as did as did Lydia but then, they focused on their game once more.
The boy threw his pebble, the splash drawing a soft laugh from Lydia, who clapped him on the back. Alexander lingered a moment longer, noting the smirk on Lydia’s lips softening into a genuine smile. It caught him off guard. The smile suited her—it lit her face in a way that unsettled and intrigued him in equal measure.
He stepped back from the window and let the curtain fall, yet that smile lingered in his thoughts, a faint ripple echoing long after the scene outside had ended.