Chapter 19 #2
Elf looked well. Perhaps a little less animated than usual, but it seemed more a matter of calm than subdued spirits. He tried to resist, but couldn’t help stealing glances at her as she walked around chatting to this person and that.
She was wearing a different style of gown, he realized. No, not the style, the color. A stronger color, but one that suited her.
Then he had to suppress a laugh.
Waspish colors.
Gads, but she’d be the death of him if he wasn’t careful.
He’d seen her as soon as she entered the garden, as if drawn by a sixth sense. He’d promptly turned to Lydia and concentrated on her as if she were his sole hope of salvation.
Which perhaps she was.
What ease she had in this world . . . Dammit, he was looking at Elf again.
Unlike Lydia, who seemed scared to leave his side.
But that was unfair. Lydia was being kind to an invalid. Elf was eight years older, and had been raised by Rothgar to fill the position of hostess to him. She was up to anything. Lydia could be the same in time.
Or could she? He dragged his attention back to the girl, who was talking to a young friend. Suddenly they giggled over something, hands over pretty mouths.
A child.
But children grow.
Elf had been a child once. A hellion, he’d heard. She had a twin brother, after all, and from things Chastity had said it appeared that the two of them had shared adventures from birth.
At age eight, Cyn and Elf had climbed down the ivy on the north wall of Rothgar Abbey and been whipped by Rothgar for the crime. He was sure Lydia had never contemplated such a rash act, and equally sure that her doting parents had never needed strict discipline.
This should be to her credit.
He remembered “Lisette” talking about using his pistols. Yes, he believed Elf Malloren could load and fire a pistol. He was equally sure Lydia would be horrified at the mere idea. It shouldn’t matter. His wife would never need to protect herself.
Yet the contrasts between the two women troubled him. Elf seemed like a fine sword—flexible steel, ready for action, and potentially lethal.
Lydia made him think of a silk cushion—pretty, comfortable, and ready to conform to his every need.
Any man of sense would prefer the cushion to the sword.
“Do you not like Lady Elfled, my lord?” Lydia’s voice demanded his attention.
He looked back at her. “Like? Why do you ask?”
“You were frowning at her.”
He made himself smile. “Perhaps the sun was in my eyes. Lady Elf is sister to my sister’s husband. We are family in a way.”
It was clear Lydia saw the evasion in this—he’d been pleased to discover that she wasn’t dim-witted—but she did not pursue it. “We had a charming conversation.”
“Conversation is one of Lady Elf’s chief skills.”
“I wish it were one of mine,” said Lydia with a rueful smile that could take any man’s breath away.
Gads, but she was astonishingly beautiful. There wouldn’t be her like in a decade. Why did he have any doubts? She would mature, and she could be taught to be stronger, taught to be sharper-tongued, taught to enjoy lovemaking in all its forms . . .
“You are a delightful companion,” he assured her and raised her hand for a flirtatious kiss. “A chattering woman soon drives a man to drink.”
He thought about kissing her lips. Lydia’s pretty, full, soft mouth should be tempting him.
Instead, however, he could only think that she’d be shocked, hesitant, and quivering, and that it would be a devil of a bore to have to coax her into relaxing.
He wished he were mobile enough to draw the girl into a secluded spot and test the theory.
What if she turned out to be the sort who wanted the lights out, who was repulsed by intimate experiments?
He’d set up a mistress. It was the accepted solution.
He was looking at Elf again, remembering Lisette. Damn, but he wished Lisette had been real. He could even forgive her for wearing him down to tears if he could have her as his mistress. Trouble was, he’d not want to drag himself away to spend duty time with his lovely, quivering wife . . .
“I think I bore you.”
He snapped his attention back to Lydia, fearing he was actually flushing with guilt. “Not at all.”
She didn’t look hurt, merely honest. “It’s not surprising. I am very young still, and what interests me does not interest you.”
She suddenly seemed a great deal more appealing. “What interests you, then? Tell me.”
“Such a charming couple.”
Elf smiled at Mrs. Dettingford, thinking that the movement of her lips must surely look more like a rictus. “Lord Walgrave and Lady Lydia?” she asked, having long since given up trying to say, “Who?”
“After his tragedy,” said the plump young woman, “it would be so fitting to see him capture the prize of the year!”
“You refer to his father’s death?”
“Of course. So sudden. Such a loss to the nation.”
“It was certainly sudden.”
“And so touching the way his son wore deep mourning for so long. But now he is emerging from the shadow of grief to claim his prize!”
Elf contemplated the satisfaction of throwing a fit and upending a large bowl of pureed fruit over Mrs. Dettingford’s head, but the silly woman was merely the most effusive of the company.
Everyone was delighting at the romance in their midst—London’s premier beauty, won by its most eligible young man.
One who, moreover, had been obligingly injured in some mysterious but doubtless heroic way.
Did none of them see that Lydia was unready for marriage? Did none of them wonder about a “romance” between two people who had never been observed to even speak to each other?
Elf knew she was being unfair, however. She knew Fort had not been in the habit of attending the sort of events where he would meet such a tender young miss. It doubtless wasn’t obvious to others. Others hadn’t been obsessed with the man for months.
She escaped Mrs. Dettingford and moved on to another group, but found that they too were gossiping about the likely match.
Eventually she decided she had been at the picnic long enough and could leave without causing comment. She collected Chastity from an animated conversation with friends, friends who did not seem to harbor doubts about Chastity’s old scandal, thank heavens.
“Oh, I’m completely restored now by Cyn’s noble act,” said Chastity as they made their way over to their hosts to say farewell.
“But no one knows of it.”
“Elf, it’s not like you to be naive. Cyn has a title impetuously bestowed upon him by the monarch. Fort is wounded. A hundred stories are being invented to explain it, each more glorious than the next. They are both heroes, and Cyn just wants to set sail and escape!”
Elf chuckled. “Oh dear. I’ve been so absorbed in other matters, I’m out of touch. Of course, everyone wanted to talk about the heroic tryst under the beech tree.”
Chastity pulled a face. “For what it’s worth, I told him he was being a damned fool.” Then she straightened her face into a smile and thanked Lord Coalport for his kind hospitality.
“Aye, well, it’s turned out very well, Lady Raymore, I won’t deny.” He beamed at Fort and Lydia. “Everything as it should be.”
Elf was speaking to Lady Coalport, who rolled her eyes slightly. “Dear Lydia is the apple of her father’s eye. Our only daughter, you know.”
“She is very beautiful, and charming besides.”
“Yes, the poor child has every gift of the gods.”
Elf couldn’t help but chuckle at the wry tone. Now she knew the source of Lydia’s wit and wisdom. With such a mother, she surely wouldn’t be allowed to do anything rash.
That didn’t mean, however, that an engagement to marry might not be drawn up, with the betrothal to last a year or two.
So be it.
But she had one last thing she had to do.
Tonight.
Fort enjoyed Lydia’s chatter once she ceased being tongue-tied, but he felt less and less inclined to marry her. Oh perhaps in a year or two, but if he had to languish unspoken-for for years, he’d doubtless do something foolish.
If he wasn’t doing something foolish now.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elf laugh at something Lady Coalport said. When had she ever laughed for him? Abruptly, he had an image of her in bed, laughing with him over some fanciful game.
He went so hard, he had to glance down to be sure his long waistcoat covered him decently.
He watched as Elf and Chastity strolled down to the boat. Once they had gone, the afternoon suddenly seemed a great deal less interesting.
Nonsense. He concentrated on Lydia again, wondering why he couldn’t feel any passion toward such a beautiful creature.
“Is something the matter, my lord?”
He feigned a wince. “My leg begins to pain me a little. I think I should summon my carriage and make my slow way home.”
She leaped to her feet. “Oh, of course! I will send a servant.”
In moments she returned accompanied by her parents and a footman. He said his farewells, then set about making a figure of himself by hobbling across the gardens to the road. The footman accompanied him, but so did Lydia.
That would cause talk. Were they trying to force his hand?
By the time he made it to the carriage drive, his leg was truly hurting and he wished he was home in his bed.
What mad impulse had driven him out too soon?
Then he remembered his purpose, and looked at Lydia North.
She was eying him with genuine concern. “Your coach is still not here, my lord, and I’m sure you shouldn’t be standing. Thomas, go and fetch Lord Walgrave a chair.”
The footman hurried off, and for a brief moment they were alone.
Had she deliberately arranged this moment, hoping for a declaration? He’d as good as arranged all the details with her father.
What did he want?
What should he want?
Their talk, and the sense of intelligence and kindness he’d found in her, let him ask the question.
That evening, Elf went to the opera, then on to a supper given by the Duchess of Derby.