Chapter Nine
Back in his dimly lit bedchamber at Fairfield House, Bear’s mood did not improve.
He had removed his mask and his tailcoat, but remained in his starched shirt, cravat, and breeches.
The discomfort of his formal clothing helped distract him—at least slightly—from the endless circling of his thoughts.
Gazing out of the window, seeing neither the elegant row of Georgian houses nor the wooded park beyond, Bear counted up the ways in which he had misplayed his hand.
Firstly, he had boorishly and naively coerced Marianne into a corner where she felt ashamed of her family connections.
Secondly, he had kissed her in a public place.
When his mind impishly pointed out that Marianne had been at least complicit—at most a principal player—in the kiss, he rounded on it sharply. Marianne was polite. Too polite to rebuff him to his face. Too polite to make a scene.
He gripped the windowsill and breathed deeply.
Marianne—Lady Brewood—was surely too well bred to countenance marriage to a man who Society knew to be illegitimate. Seeing him side by side with his siblings had been a step too far.
He shook his head, allowing a swell of sadness to exist alongside his self-recrimination. Marianne was a beautiful, intelligent woman. Her only crime had been to marry a man who did not deserve her.
Bear’s list of personal failings ran much longer. In the end, the lure of a run-down country estate was not enough to anchor Marianne to a bastard second son who could not put aside his fear of loud noises.
And she did not even know the details of how he had failed William.
It was all for the best.
Despite this conclusion, Bear could not contemplate getting through the night without a stiff drink.
His sisters had returned from the masked ball some hours later than he, but they had all gone to bed.
The shuffling and giggling from their rooms down the hall had long since ceased.
The big old house was quiet and dark, only Bear was awake.
Only Bear could scarcely stand the discomfort of living inside his own skin.
He crept along the landing, carefully avoiding the floorboards most likely to creak beneath his booted feet.
When he reached the broad staircase, he tracked a path to the left, keeping one hand on the papered wall, all too aware of which steps made the most noise.
Upon reaching the large entrance hall, he sighed with relief.
A lamp glowed from a walnut table, casting a pool of light onto the polished floor which illuminated his way to the library where Harry kept his whiskey.
The only trait Bear willingly admired in his older brother was his discerning taste in single malts.
The library was long, narrow and smelled of leather, books, and cigar smoke.
Bear left the door to the hall open, so he had no need to turn on any of the lamps.
By the time he reached the mahogany drink cabinet, he could see his way thanks to the streetlamp outside, which sent a silvery stream of light filtering in through a gap in the heavy curtains.
He found the malt whiskey, poured himself a generous measure, and drank deeply. As soon as the burning liquid touched the back of his throat, he felt better. In the days since meeting Marianne, he had almost forgotten the solace to be found in a whiskey decanter.
Bear’s fingers reached again for the glass stopper, and he filled up his tumbler, sloshing a little onto the deep-pile Oriental carpet.
“Oops,” he said aloud.
“You want to be careful with that. It’s the road to ruin, as I’m sure you know.”
Bear froze, instantly recognizing the clipped vowels and deep, resonant female voice.
“Lydia,” he said, still facing the drink cabinet. “What are you doing down here?”
“The same as you I expect. Drowning my sorrows.”
Very slowly, Bear swiveled around. Lydia was curled up in a leather wingback chair, her feet tucked beneath the shimmering folds of her peacock-blue gown. She tipped a tumbler half filled with amber liquid toward him, her green eyes shining in the lamplight.
“Cheers,” she said.
Bear wondered for a moment what the etiquette demanded of him. As the future Duchess of Alton, Lydia commanded his respect, in public.
But they were not in public now.
“I did not come here for conversation.”
“No, you did not. I know exactly what you came for.” Lydia sipped her drink, her eyes never leaving his.
Bear knew a swell of impatience. “In truth, Lydia, you know very little about me. And not a day goes by that I don’t give thanks for that.” He drummed his fingers against his glass. “I’ll say goodnight.”
“Oh, don’t be like that. Please, Bear. Sit with me for just a moment.”
Bear had already turned for the door, but something in her voice made him stop. Lydia sounded candid and sincere, like the girl he had once known. Not the measured and controlled woman she had become.
“I can’t imagine we have anything to say to one another.” But he perched on the edge of the sofa and cradled his drink, ignoring her expensive floral scent which wafted toward him.
“I have something to say.” Lydia turned her cat-like gaze upon him, but he refused to look in her direction. “Something I certainly wouldn’t say sober, but my tongue is loosened now.”
Lydia’s fondness for hard liquor had surprised Bear back when they were more than acquaintances. But back then, she had been full of surprises. She had a penchant for climbing trees, he recalled. And a liking for an impoverished younger brother.
Now she had an undeniable affection for Harry’s riches. Although whether husband and wife viewed one another as anything other than socially advantageous, Bear could not guess.
“I want to apologize,” she concluded, so abruptly that Bear choked a little on his whiskey.
He did not ask what she was sorry for.
“It has taken a great deal of time for you to say that to me.”
“Well, you weren’t here for most of that time.” Lydia shrugged. “And when you were here, you made it very clear that you wanted nothing to do with me.”
Bear spoke through clenched teeth, “I do not pretend anything that is not true.”
“And I can understand that.” Lydia’s voice rose. “But I don’t think you have ever paused to wonder why I did what I did. I loved you once, Bear. At least I thought I did. We were both young.” She roughly pushed back her hair. “Why would I give that up?”
Bear carefully placed his glass on the edge of a writing table. “Harry’s money, Harry’s title, Harry’s standing in Society.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Have I missed anything?”
“Yes.” Lydia briefly rested her head on the palm of her hand and Bear realized, to his surprise, that she was battling some emotion. “You have omitted my father’s once-imminent bankruptcy.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece.
“I didn’t know about that,” Bear admitted.
“Hardly anyone did.” Lydia bit down on her lip. “Hardly anyone needed to.”
“Because Harry swooped in and saved the day,” Bear finished for her, realizing how it had all come about. Knowledge settled inside him.
“He didn’t exactly need my dowry,” Lydia said wryly. “In fact, he was the one to settle a sum upon my father, in a reversal of the usual procedure.” She turned her face so that it was in shadow.
Bear picked up his glass and took another drink. Maybe a year ago he would have berated Lydia for making this decision. He might have taken her hands inside his and told her they could have found a way to be happy.
But now, he knew that he and Lydia would never have been happy. When she had the choice, she had picked wealth and security. And deep down, he could not blame her for that.
Most importantly of all, Lydia’s choice had left Bear free to meet and marry Marianne.
There was only one thing he could say.
“Thank you for telling me.” He leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs, allowing some of the tension in his shoulders to relax.
Lydia took a breath. “I might regret it in the morning.” Her voice had become clipped and authoritative once again. “But maybe, when we pass on the stairs, you will greet me with a little less coldness?”
“Maybe I will.” He nodded his agreement.
“But we can never be friends. In fact, it would be better if you left now, just as you planned to.”
Bear raised his eyebrows. “Are you throwing me out of my own library?”
“No.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “I’m asking you to leave. Because if Harry finds us here together, he will be dreadfully angry with me.”
Bear digested this for a moment. His mind was befuddled with tiredness and whiskey. “Why?”
Lydia laughed, but there was no joy in her expression. “Why do you think? He suspects my true feelings. He’s always been intimidated by you.”
He heard her words but could not make sense of them.
His golden brother, Harry, the one who could do no wrong, was intimidated by him?
Bear also laughed without mirth. “I think you must be mistaken.”
Lydia shook her head. “I know you can’t see it. But he is. You’ve always been stronger, faster, smarter. He’s jealous. That’s why I knew he would marry me.” She dropped her head, having the grace to look abashed. “Because he wanted something that you had.”
He’s jealous!
This was such a novel perspective on his older brother that Bear needed time to process it. He got to his feet, leaving his half-empty glass on the table. “It’s a sorry tale, Lydia. I hope for your sake that it isn’t true.”
Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, telling him all he needed to know.
“And I hope there is some happiness in your future,” he added, meaning it.
“I hope the same for you,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on the swirls of the carpet.
He walked back to his bedchamber in a daze. Instead of self-recrimination, his head now whirred with a very different train of thought.
All these years, I’ve had it wrong.
The idea that Harry did not look down upon his younger brother was enough for Bear to feel he stood on shifting sands. To go further and think that Harry was jealous, was enough to make him reel.
And Lydia’s motivations were not as cold and avaricious as he’d once thought. His mind was easier on that score. He had not loaned his youthful heart to someone without one.
Bear closed the door to his bedchamber and leaned back against the panel.
It had been an evening of revelations. Of highs and lows.
What if I have it wrong about Marianne as well?
Made half stupid by weariness, Bear blinked as he pondered the facts. Marianne had been happy when they sat together on the bench. That was not his imagination, she had told him so herself.
Tears of happiness.
She had spoken with warmth about their future. They had been about to dance.
Could one chance meeting with his sisters have undone all of that?
No, he concluded, shaking his head at his own idiocy. It could not.
So where had she gone? Bear himself had walked all along the colonnade and searched every corner of the pavilion. There was no sign at all of Marianne.
She must have returned to her carriage and left, for there was no sign of the carriage either.
But maybe she had not left by choice? Perhaps she was taken ill? Or maybe word had reached her that her little boy was unwell?
Bear pressed his lips together, resolved to leave this futile self-pity behind him. From now on, he would cease to think in terms of black and white, with darkness ever ready and waiting to envelope him.
Instead, he would think more positively and leave the door open to happiness, just as Clara had urged. He would dare to dream.
Filled with resolve, Bear pulled off his leather boots. He had dismissed his valet for the evening, but tomorrow he would accept every last one of his ministrations.
Tomorrow, Bear would call upon Lady Clementine Sedgewick.