Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
Lydia
L ydia braced herself. After all, the night had already seen its fair share of unexpected turns—why should this moment be any different? As Alexander led her onto the dance floor, she half-expected some biting remark, some cool observation about the state of her reputation or the necessity of appearances. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost sheepish.
“I trust you are a good dancer? For I rather like the waltz. I thought it scandalous at first but now I favor it among the others.”
“I do not know how to dance the waltz,” she admitted. “My father never would let me learn. He thinks it immoral,” she said and glanced in the direction of her father who shook his head.
“Well, I do,” he assured him. “Just follow my lead. I will guide you. For once, I shall be in charge.”
She exhaled in relief. “Well, you’ve done a rather good job of that already.”
“Have I now?”
“A very subtle hand, but a firm one,” She said with a smile.
He smirked slightly, lowering his voice as he added, “I suspect I have not been in control of this marriage nearly as much as I thought.”
Lydia let out a laugh as the music swept them into motion. “A dreadful realization, I’m sure,” she teased.
“You’ve no idea,” he murmured dryly, but there was no true bite behind the words—only something light, almost companionable.
And just like that, the apprehension she had felt melted away, replaced by the peculiar sensation that, perhaps, just perhaps, they might be finding a rhythm beyond this waltz.
Lydia had not thought she would dance at all this evening, and yet here she was, swept into Alexander’s arms as the music guided them across the floor more so than she did. The waltz was not unfamiliar to her, and thankfully, it seemed that her husband was quick to adapt. She allowed herself the indulgence of enjoying his nearness—the steady strength in his hands, the way the candlelight reflected in his dark eyes, making them softer than she had ever seen.
She had been so certain of the man she had married. Yet, time and time again, he proved to be someone else entirely. Someone who had come to her defense, someone who—though exasperating—seemed to value her in ways she had not dared to hope for.
“Thank you,” she murmured, glancing up at him beneath her lashes. “For coming to my aid. It was most uncomfortable.”
“It looked that way,” he replied, his voice quieter than she expected.
Her curiosity stirred. “How did you know to intercede?”
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “It was not I,” he admitted. “Your sister came to fetch me. She alerted me to what was happening, so I came as quickly as I could.” A half-smile tugged at his lips. “I can’t have you turned into a custard at a ball. How would that look?”
The smile she had been wearing faltered. Of course. That was all it ever was to him, wasn’t it? Propriety, reputation, appearances?—
“How would it look, indeed?” she said in a solemn tone.
“Lydia,” he said, and this time, there was an urgency in his tone that made her eyes snap back to his. “I do care how things look. But that is not all that I meant.” His hold on her hand tightened slightly. “I will not have you be spoken down to. Not by Mosley, not by your father, not by anyone.” His jaw clenched, but then he took a steadying breath, as if forcing himself to go on. “You are the Duchess of Leith. And with that title comes my protection.” His voice dipped lower, as though confessing something even to himself. “Moreover, I know that we have gotten off on the wrong foot. But I value what you have done for Eammon.”
He hesitated, and she found herself hanging on the silence that stretched between them, as though willing him to continue.
“I value…” He swallowed and forced the words out. “I value you.”
Something trembled in her chest at that—something startling and foreign.
“Thank you,” she whispered, unsure what else to say.
They danced on, the music carrying them in easy steps across the floor. And for once, she did not think about who might be watching, or whispering, or what was to come of them. For once, she merely let herself be.
Then, his voice cut through her thoughts once more. “Pray, tell me. How involved were you in ending your courtships? I have heard tales.” He arched a brow, his tone light, but there was true interest in his gaze. “As you know, the ton is inclined to make mountains out of molehills.”
Lydia felt heat creep along her neck and looked away, only to realize there was nowhere to escape. When she turned back to face him, she forced herself to keep her expression neutral.
“I daresay the demise of my first courtship—the one with Lord Haythrop—was not my doing,” she admitted carefully. “I did not wish to marry him, but the scandal that followed…” She bit her lip before finishing, “It was not my doing, either. His mismanagement of family funds became public and my father ended the courtship because of it, though it somehow became my fault regardless.”
Alexander said nothing, merely waiting. She inhaled sharply, then pressed on.
“The next two courtships my father arranged were worse.” The words came faster now, as though letting them out would somehow make them less damning. “But by then, I had learned what to look for. And once I knew what to look for…” She hesitated, before lifting her chin, watching his reaction carefully. “Let us say that I kept my ears open for any potential leverage that could be used among the ton.”
His lips twitched. “Leverage.”
“Lord Marling, the second gentleman my father selected, had a gambling habit. I ensured the true debt of his debauchery became known to certain people with connections to the broadsheets. And the third, Sir Perry – he was by far the worst. He had a fondness for his maid, and I suspected she was with child.” She glanced away for a moment, then met his gaze again. “I was correct. And so I… ensured that word got out.” Her mouth curled into the slightest, wry smile. “He broke the engagement of his own accord and ran off with her.”
At this, Alexander let out a low chuckle. “You are ruthless, Miss Sharp.”
A surprised laugh escaped her. “Miss Sharp? I suppose that is a preferable title to my current one. The cursed bride.”
Alexander’s eyes darkened, his frame tensing slightly. “Ah,” he murmured. “Well, I overheard a different remark. Regarding myself and my family. It seems we are also cursed.’”
Despite herself, Lydia laughed again. “We do make a fine set, do we not?”
His own amusement remained subdued, but he shook his head. “It pains me that you had an unpleasant evening as well.”
“Not entirely,” she said softly, her voice light with a touch of sincerity. “It has improved greatly since you rescued me from my father and Lady Mosley’s barbs.”
He inclined his head. “Indeed.” Then, after a pause, he added, “It is peculiar, is it not?”
“What is?” she asked.
“That we have so many similarities between us.”
She had thought the same but had not dared to voice it.
“Or is it peculiar?” he continued. “Or is it good fortune?”
Lydia blinked, stunned by his response. “Pray, what do you think? Are our similarities a curse indeed, or a blessing?”
“I must call it a blessing in disguise. It seems to me that both of us have had to contend with a questionable reputation. And difficult parents,” he said with a wry smile. “But perhaps that also means we can understand each other better than most.”
She stared up at him. Understand each other?
Of all the things Alexander Hayward had said to her, this—this—was what made something deep within her shift.
The music swelled around them, each note spinning like golden thread through the air, binding them in a dance that suddenly felt far more significant than it should. Lydia knew these steps well, had danced them countless times before—but never like this. Never with a man who, mere weeks ago, had been a stranger, a begrudging arrangement, a source of deep frustration. And yet, here they were, moving as though they had been made for this moment.
Alexander’s hand was steady at her back, , supporting her, and for the first time since she had married him, she did not resent the pressure of it—she welcomed it. Their eyes met, and a spark flared in his, something like amusement but softer, lingering.
Then, the music came to its final, lilting note, and still, his hand remained.
Lydia was acutely aware of the warmth of his palm against her spine, the way his fingers curled ever so slightly as if reluctant to let go. Her breath caught—just for a moment—just long enough for her to wonder what might happen if she reached for him instead of away.
But propriety was a cruel mistress.
Alexander released her with the same measured grace as always, the loss of his touch absurdly keen, as if he had taken with him a part of something she had only just realized she wanted.
Silent, he offered her his arm, and she took it, though her heart beat far too quickly for something as simple as escorting her back to the row of gilded chairs along the ballroom’s edge. The walk should have felt unremarkable, but it wasn’t. It felt as though something between them had changed, some careful boundary blurred by the waltz, by the way he had looked at her, by the way she had not wished him to step away.
She was still sorting through these thoughts—startling, unwelcome, yet undeniably real—when they reached the seats. He turned to her, lingering once more, just long enough for her to feel his presence settle in her chest like the weight of a sigh.
“I suppose I shall have to learn the waltz properly,” he said, his tone light but his expression unreadable. “You make an excellent teacher.”
Lydia tried to summon some jesting reply, some quip to lighten the way her heart had inexplicably softened toward him, but all she managed was a quiet, “I shall hold you to that.”
Alexander inclined his head, a trace of amusement in his gaze, and then—because, of course, he was nothing if not composed—he stepped away.
And Lydia, against all sense, against every bit of hard-earned resistance in her heart, felt the loss of him.
She let out a slow breath, settling into her seat, but her mind was far from still.
How had this happened? How had she gone from planning ways to escape him to feeling the slow and utterly disarming pull of admiration? She had misjudged him—so severely that the realization stung. He was not merely an ambitious man concerned only with appearances, nor was he indifferent to her as she had so long assumed. He had defended her, valued her, danced with her, and smiled at her—truly smiled, in a way she suspected very few ever had the privilege of seeing.
And Lydia—who had spent her entire life building walls, guarding herself from hurt and disappointment—felt, for the first time, the faintest whisper of something dangerously close to hope – and perhaps something more dangerous yet.