Chapter Three
Lydia ignored the odd tightening in her belly as she entered the ballroom.
She made it only four steps into the crowd before her cousin and one of her dearest friends, Miss Bridget Martindale, came toward her out of the crowd.
Bridget’s usually bright and amiable expression was tense, her eyes wide with warning as she glanced frantically over her shoulder, then grasped Lydia by the wrist to tug her in the opposite direction from which she’d come.
“Quick,” Bridget urged in a low aside. “Your mother’s been looking for you and she’s not pleased. I avoided her as long as I could, but she just cornered me. I told her you’d gone to fetch some punch.”
With a leap of dread in her chest, Lydia allowed her cousin to forcibly lead her through the room to a far corner where the refreshments were set up. All the while, she scanned the faces around them for her mother’s formidable scowl.
With her exacting expectations and demanding disappointment, the Marchioness of Loxmarch was impossible to please.
The first two years since Lydia’s debut had been chaperoned by her cousin Ralston, the Duke of Lindley’s heir.
Though he’d been strict and conservative in his responsibility toward his sister Eleanor, Lydia, and Bridget, the three young women had easily learned how to evade his watchful eye and enjoy their social engagements despite his scowling presence.
Even more so last year when he’d gotten distracted by a young lady who eventually became his bride by special license—to the absolute shock of most of the ton.
Eleanor had also gotten engaged at the end of the last season and was deep in preparations for her wedding and subsequent honeymoon.
With Eleanor attending far fewer social events this year and Ralston enjoying the first year of marriage with his bride, Bridget and Lydia had found themselves in need of a new escort for this season.
The head of the family, the Duke of Lindley, and his wife were out of the country.
Bridget’s parents, the Baron and Baroness Greenridge, certainly couldn’t be trusted to keep half a watchful eye between them.
Lydia’s father couldn’t be persuaded to take even a small step back from his duties in the House of Lords, and her eldest brother couldn’t be pulled from his favorite pastimes of drinking, gambling, and consorting with ladies of the night.
Which left Lydia’s mother as the only option.
And Lady Loxmarch had decided three seasons of her only daughter receiving not even a single offer of marriage was too much. The marchioness had declared that Lydia would be betrothed by June or else.
Lydia had no idea what the or else might be, but after twenty years as her mother’s daughter, she had no doubt it would be unpleasant.
With her mother so intent upon a successful season, it took significantly more effort to slip away from her mother’s hawklike gaze so she could enjoy a few hours away from the forced socialization required of young ladies at such events.
It seemed the marchioness might be getting keen to Lydia’s frequent disappearances.
Bridget gave a sharp tug of Lydia’s arm, nearly yanking her shoulder out of place, as she pulled them swiftly around a small group of young people engaging in conversation.
“She’s coming,” Bridget hissed with a glance over her shoulder, still pulling Lydia toward the refreshment table which was now only a few steps away.
In any other situation, Lydia would have found her cousin’s theatrics amusing.
But when it came to the marchioness, one could not be dramatic enough.
If Lady Loxmarch even suspected Lydia wasn’t doing her utmost to secure a husband at every single social outing, there would be hell to pay.
Lydia had endured far too many severe tongue lashings since her debut three years ago.
It didn’t change her desire to remain unwed, however, and that was something her mother simply could not accept.
So, the two of them went round after round, neither truly winning.
Bridget managed to grasp a glass of punch and shove it into Lydia’s hand just in time.
“Lydia,” the marchioness’s voice boomed, making several people turn with startled glances. “Lydia, what are you doing cowering in this corner?”
Lydia watched Bridget slip back into the moving crowd with a rueful smile and shrug. She couldn’t be angry. Her cousin had acted as buffer more than she should’ve had to this social season.
Lifting the punch glass for a healthy swallow, Lydia finally turned to meet her mother’s dark stare.
The Marchioness of Loxmarch strode toward her like a seasoned general intent upon the battle ahead.
The lady’s burgundy gown was pleated across her ample breasts like an armored breastplate, her skirts snapped with each step, and the bright magenta ostrich plume stabbed into her formidable coiffure waved like a flag overhead.
Most intimidating, however, was the lady’s eyes.
More blue than gray, the dark orbs were hard and unforgiving, even when she was in a restful mood—which she most certainly was not at the moment.
Lowering her glass, Lydia smiled. “Hello, Mother. Are you having a fine evening?”
Ignoring Lydia’s greeting and polite inquiry, the marchioness repeated her question. “What are you doing?”
“Just claiming a moment of respite,” she replied, attempting a light tone.
“Respite?” the marchioness retorted. “Respite from what? I haven’t seen you take a single step upon the dance floor.”
Lydia’s jaw ached with the effort to resist gnashing her teeth. “It’s rather difficult to dance when one hasn’t a partner.”
Lady Loxmarch ignored that reply as well. “In fact, I’ve barely seen you at all this evening. Where have you been spending your time?”
Lydia tilted her head. “I’ve been about.”
The marchioness narrowed her gaze. “Avoiding your obligations, as usual. You’ve had two fruitless seasons to do as you pleased. Such nonsense is in the past. This year, you shall end the season with a promised husband or I shall know why.”
Lydia forced the rush of denials back down her throat. Arguing with her mother did no good. The marchioness saw only one perspective—her own.
“Now, where has your ungrateful cousin gone off to?” As Lady Loxmarch gazed out over the crowd, Lydia tipped back the rest of the punch in her glass, wishing it was something far stronger.
“That girl has spent nearly every dance with a partner, surely she could spare one of her eager young men for you.”
Lydia cringed down to her soul. “No, Mother. I will not take one of Bridget’s suitors.”
The marchioness pinned her with a hard stare. “Do you intend to find one of your own, then?”
Lydia’s reply was with a tight jaw. “I shall do my best.”
Lady Loxmarch nodded, satisfied for the moment.
Either her daughter’s duress wasn’t noted or she didn’t care.
Just when Lydia thought the lecture was finished, her mother added sternly, “You had best take care, my dear, that your avoidant behavior isn’t noted.
When a young woman disappears for lengths at a time, people are liable to assume the worst.”
“The worst?” Lydia retorted sullenly. “And what would that be? That I have interests beyond inane social chatter and husband hunting?”
Hard blue eyes sharpened. “Do not feign naivete with me. You are willful and contrary and decidedly frustrating. But you are not a fool. Young women have been ruined by far less infractions than what you seem insistent upon committing.”
Lydia would’ve loved to question exactly what infractions she was guilty of beyond wishing to do the things she enjoyed and having no desire to wed. But there was no point. Such inquiries only incensed her mother further.
Instead, she gave a firm nod and turned to make her way back toward the dance floor.
Though she was tempted to stride directly to the alcove where the wallflowers were gathered, she resisted.
Lifting her chin with what pride she retained, she scanned the surrounding crowd for a gentleman—any blasted gentleman—who might be persuaded to partner her in a dance so she could satisfy her mother.
Most of the men in her vicinity, and those who happened to be passing by, avoided her gaze with such purpose and vigor it was comical.
She couldn’t blame them. She was very likely the last woman any of them wished to partner with.
In the last two years, she hadn’t bothered doing anything to hide her true nature.
Any man who happened to engage in conversation with her quickly discovered that she was horrid at small talk.
She much preferred to debate topics of interest in full depth.
In fact, it was one of her favorite pastimes.
Unfortunately, it was not an activity that was appreciated in the ballrooms and drawing rooms of polite society.
She didn’t care that people saw her pursuits as unattractive. She didn’t care that they called her a bluestocking in a derisive tone. They thought they were insulting her. They weren’t.
She yearned for opportunities to deepen her knowledge on history, philosophy, social and political topics.
Such things were not considered appropriate pursuits for polite young ladies.
But she didn’t have it in her to find joy in embroidery or fashion or the dreams that many young ladies conjured for their futures.
Not that she scorned such interests.
She believed girls and women should be allowed to explore their intellectual passions in whatever way felt right and brought the most joy.
Some women truly enjoyed more domestic pursuits.
Others found their bliss in the outdoors—gardening or hunting.
Others preferred engaging in salons of a more intellectual nature.
Lydia fiercely supported the concept that all avenues of interest and self-betterment should be available to women as much as they are to men.
Yet, her own life did not support that.