Bluestockings Do It Better (The Fairchild Cousins #2)

Chapter One

As the door quietly opened behind her, Lydia Balcomb tensed, freezing into stillness. Her expression pursed with irritation and she held her breath as she waited and listened.

Whoever dared to intrude on her solitude had better decide to move on and leave her in peace.

She’d chosen this small, dark sewing room for the very fact that it was tucked into a far corner at the end of a narrow hallway.

It was clearly not intended for use by the overflowing ball guests gathered in the other wing of Lord and Lady Halloway’s mansion.

This was her private little corner for the evening and she didn’t intend to share.

Facing away from the door in the highbacked, oversized armchair with her feet tucked up on the seat, she was fully concealed from the newcomer. As long as they left quickly, her presence would remain unknown. If they continued farther into the room, however, they would inevitably discover her.

Keeping silent, she could just barely hear the hushed sound of steps on the lush carpet as the newcomer continued into the room.

Dammit.

There was no reason anyone should be wandering so far from the revelry of the ballroom. Aside from her own reason, of course.

Her muscles started to ache with the tension of holding herself unmoving while taking slow, shallow breaths.

The longer she went without speaking, the more awkward the situation would become.

If the intruder continued too far into the room, they’d see her, and possibly recognize her, and then she’d be at risk of harmful gossip.

The whole point of disappearing was to…disappear. She had no choice but to speak up.

“This room is occupied,” she said in a clear tone just loud enough to be heard. “Find another.”

There was a sharp catch of breath, then a harshly muttered, “Fuckin’ hell!”

The exclamation was in a rough accent, with a low and textured tone.

Not at all what Lydia would’ve expected of a guest at one of the most elite and fashionable balls of the London social season. Perhaps he was a servant. Or an intruder of a different sort?

No. It was doubtful that a thief would be seeking expensive baubles in the Countess of Halloway’s sewing room. Not unless there was a demand for needles and scrap fabric on the black market.

“I suggest you leave,” she added. “Before someone discovers you where you shouldn’t be.”

There was a pause, then a rumbling laugh. “Perhaps you’re the one who is where she ought not be?”

Lydia scowled.

The man’s words now held the perfect intonation of the upper class. So, who was he? Lord or servant? She was almost curious enough to lean over and peek around the back of her chair. Almost, but not quite. Remaining unseen was still her priority.

“I was here first,” she asserted. “Manners dictate that you move along and leave me undisturbed.”

“Manners are a bore,” he argued, his voice originating from directly behind her chair.

Alarm rippled through Lydia, lifting the hair on her arms and twisting through her belly. No doubt, he could already see the top of her head. How on earth had he gotten so close without making a sound?

Indignant frustration settled heavily over Lydia’s brow. Wasn’t it just like a man to ignore a woman’s demand for solitude and peace? She made no attempt to disguise her bone-deep annoyance, so her expression was likely quite fierce as the intruder stepped around her chair to face her.

Not a servant at all, as she’d initially suspected.

Nor a thief. The man was undeniably a lord.

Fit and tall with broad shoulders and long, muscled limbs, he was well-dressed in the finest black eveningwear with a satin waistcoat and his rich brown hair perfectly tousled.

His facial features were sharply angled where they needed to be strong—along his jaw, his slashing brows, the cut of his cheekbones, and the length of his nose.

And curved where they required a bit of softness—the wave of his hairline, the dimple in the center of his chin, and the arched lines of his lips, currently twisted into an arrogant smirk.

Lydia recognized him immediately, and the awareness already swirling through her shot into distress. Heat rose up beneath her skin and her hands curled defensively around the book in her lap.

Edmund Holt, the Earl of Darlington.

Despite moving through the same society for the last three years, they had never been introduced, but everyone knew of the earl.

The young man was discussed in every circle.

He was whispered about behind fluttering fans as covetous eyes followed his movements.

His name was the first to rise in warnings muttered by cautious mamas.

He was not at all the type of gentleman with whom a young lady of marriageable age should ever associate.

In a word—he was a rake. In a few more, he was wicked, shameless, and undeniably untamed.

The current earl had debuted in society four years ago. In the time since, he’d quickly established himself as an utmost hedonist and sensualist. He was the quintessential handsome playboy and unrepentant womanizer—envied by most men and desired by women of all ages.

Lydia had certainly had no reason to become acquainted with the earl. And though she’d seen him at a distance on rare occasions, she would assume they did not often attend the same events about town and would never have any cause to become acquainted with each other.

Yet, somehow, during one of the grandest balls of the season in a mansion larger than most, he’d wandered into the one place she’d figured she could spend a few hours alone.

And instead of leaving when she gave him the opportunity, he was now standing in front of her, dressed to perfection—as men like him often were—with an arched brow and a tilted smile angling his lips.

Lydia was rarely at a loss for words, but when her gaze met his magnetic stare, an odd thing happened inside her. She’d say she froze, but the sensation was far too hot. She wasn’t stunned so much as…thrown?

He was handsome, she had to admit. But such things did not typically affect her.

Her scowl deepened and his half smile widened, slow and wicked.

The tremor that rolled through her body was entirely unwanted and unprecedented. She was getting a sense of how he’d developed his reputation. She steeled herself.

“Well, hello,” he said, pleasure in his voice.

“Don’t bother,” she replied curtly.

A slashing brow arched above his golden gaze. “Excuse me?”

“Certainly,” she answered quickly with a firm nod, “you’re excused. You may go.”

The handsome, rakish lord chuckled. Then he shifted his stance, allowing his weight to settle into one muscled leg as he crossed his arms casually over his chest and lowered his chin.

The position allowed him to look at her from beneath the shadow of his dark brows, giving his gaze a mysterious gleam.

Great. She was getting that look. The one of curious, condescending amusement. The one that suggested he thought he’d just discovered some wonderful little oddity.

Having no intention of indulging the misconception, Lydia tapped her book and eyed him sharply. “Surely, you realize I came here to be alone. Something I cannot do with you standing there.”

He ignored the directive just as he’d done the first. “What is your name?”

“Lady Solitude,” she answered pertly.

His gaze sparked as he tipped his head in a short bow. “A pleasure. I am Lord Darling—”

“I know who you are and what you are,” Lydia interrupted, her tone flat. “Which is why I know you cannot possibly have any reason to continue conversing with me.”

His brows lifted. “What I am?”

“A rake.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed with a flash of teeth. “So, you’ve heard of my exploits.”

“The world has heard of your exploits,” she replied as she slowly tilted her head back to keep her gaze on him. “You’re hardly discreet.”

“I am when I need to be,” he answered in that intimate tone again. “Shall I prove it?”

Her palms tingled. “No.”

The man chuckled, a graveled sound of genuine amusement. “You would begrudge me a bit of conversation because of my reputation?”

Lydia gave a tortured sigh. “Begrudge? No. Deny? Yes, since it requires my participation, which I’ve no wish to provide.”

“Why not?” he asked. “I’ve been told I can be a very diverting conversationalist.”

“While that may be true for some,” she noted drily as she lifted her book once again, “I clearly prefer a different type of diversion. And you’re keeping me from it.”

Undaunted, the man glanced to the book in her lap. “What could you possibly be reading that’s more entertaining than me?”

Instinctively, Lydia covered the small volume with her hand and gave a sigh of growing frustration. “You cannot stay. Surely, you recognize the impropriety of this scenario. Considering your reputation, if someone were to come upon us right now, they would reach only one conclusion.”

His smile lifted again and the gleam in his eyes brightened. “And what conclusion is that?”

She narrowed her gaze at the rakish lord and replied, “An incorrect one.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he countered smoothly, his voice dipping into something intimate and challenging.

She was incredulous. Did he truly think to attempt seduction? She’d never experienced such a direct assault before. The man was as wicked as everyone claimed.

Lydia held firm with a condescending look. “Yes. It does.”

He shrugged and the seductive tone left his voice as quickly as it had arrived. “Are you always this stubbornly disagreeable?”

“Yes,” she answered.

He chuckled again and turned away. Lydia thought she’d finally convinced him to leave but quickly realized her error.

Instead of walking to the door, he grabbed a nearby armchair and turned it toward her before taking a seat.

The man lounged comfortably in the corner of the chair, resting his elbow on the curved arm as he crossed one ankle over the opposite knee.

Then he propped his fist beneath his chin and stared back at her, his expression appearing genuinely curious. “Why is that, I wonder?”