Chapter Eleven
Edmund walked along Drury Lane, unbothered by the evening drizzle that soon dampened the shoulders of his coat. He needed fresh air and the kind of perspective that couldn’t be achieved in a closed carriage.
After his conversation with Lady Lydia, he’d felt compelled to put a more significant distance between them. The woman set him on edge in a peculiar way.
She was an unusual creature, to be sure.
He couldn’t say he’d ever met a true bluestocking before, let alone conversed with one at any length, but the lady’s intellectual pursuits weren’t what unsettled him.
Nor did the spark of physical attraction she inspired disturb him overly much.
It was just desire—a natural human experience.
Something he’d experienced countless times before for countless women. Nothing strange about that.
It took several blocks to sort through his thoughts and feelings to determine that what concerned him about the lady was that he felt responsible for her.
An uncomfortable conclusion, considering he’d been tasked with her ruination. But true, all the same.
The longer he walked, the more he wondered who had ordered this unconventional seduction.
Someone had gone to great lengths to acquire the leverage needed to manipulate him into seducing Lady Lydia Balcomb.
Who would have cause to risk her future in such a potentially harmful way?
A rival debutante? A scorned suitor, perhaps?
Knowing who was behind it wasn’t at all necessary to accomplishing the task.
The young lady might be more challenging than most, but he had no doubt he’d charm her eventually.
He’d noticed her reaction to him just before the end of intermission.
She was far too inexperienced to properly conceal her body’s response.
He’d seen it. Felt it. Like a hum in the air—a crackling thread of lightning dancing between them.
Knowing her resistance was only skin deep certainly made his job easier. But it did not assist him in understanding the fact that he felt a strange and subtle bond with his witting prey—a contradictory sense of obligation.
Edmund ran a hand over his face. He was overthinking it. This was a simple seduction. The situation might be different from his prior conquests, but as the lady herself had strongly assured—she was just like any other woman.
*
Lydia couldn’t keep herself from scanning the crowds as she and her companions left the theater. She certainly didn’t hope to see Lord Darlington. It was more of a defensive reaction. She didn’t want to be surprised if he chose to approach her again.
When their group made it safely to Viscount Waring’s carriage with no sign of the earl, Lydia most definitely wasn’t disappointed. She was relieved, of course.
On the ride home, however, as Eleanor and her soon-to-be husband whispered to each other on one side of the carriage, Bridget leaned close to Lydia. Her voice was full of titillation and curiosity. “What did he say to you tonight?”
Stiffening, Lydia glanced first to the couple across from them—who clearly had no interest in their conversation—then looked pointedly down at her lap before muttering, “What are you talking about?”
Her cousin sighed. “Don’t play coy. You know I’m talking about your darling Darlington.”
Lydia had to suppress her groan of annoyance at Bridget’s teasing words. When she didn’t immediately answer the other woman’s question, her cousin continued, “Don’t worry. I doubt anyone else noticed him striding down the stairs from the duke’s private box just as intermission was ending.”
Lydia stiffened even more.
“It’s likely only I was astute enough to interpret the look on his face as carnal discomfort.”
“Bridget!” Lydia muttered harshly under her breath.
The other woman shrugged, before leaning closer. “Did he make some sort of scandalous offer? Did he kiss you?” She gasped. “Oh God, if he tried to kiss you and you refused him…” Her expression turned to one of horror. “Only you would be that stupid.”
Thoroughly annoyed and now insulted, Lydia glared at her cousin. “Excuse me?”
“He’s only considered one of the most skillful lovers in London,” Bridget explained adamantly. “I would wager he kisses like a god.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Lydia grumbled even as her mind became flooded with flashing images of the earl’s lips; arched and wicked, curved with amusement and knowledge. She suddenly couldn’t help herself from imagining what it would feel like to have those lips moving over hers.
Bridget sat back with a soft huff and a smug gleam in her eyes. “You’ll have to let me know just how ridiculous I am when he finally gets past your defenses.”
Lydia wanted to argue that that would not happen. But the carriage began to slow as they reached her home in Mayfair. She wanted to disregard her cousin’s certainty as foolish. But that was the problem. Bridget wasn’t foolish at all.
Despite her light-hearted nature, easy-going charm, and exceptional skills in small-talk and flirtation, Bridget was extremely perceptive and astute when it came to assessing people.
Especially men. If her cousin believed Lord Darlington had some sort of inappropriate intentions toward Lydia, it would do her good to heed that as a true possibility.
But there simply had to be some ulterior motive. Nothing else made sense. And she was going to find out what it was.
Unfortunately, the gentleman did not make a single appearance over the next couple of days. And then the entire extended Fairchild family was off to the Kent countryside for Eleanor’s wedding, where Lydia had far more important things to concern herself with than a suddenly elusive rake.
As expected, the wedding went perfectly.
The ceremony was tender and sweet. Everyone was properly seated for the grand breakfast. Eleanor glowed beside her new husband.
The Viscount and Viscountess of Waring made a striking pair and managed to slip away from the festivities to travel to Waring’s estate in the next county without any undue drama.
After helping Eleanor dress in a more comfortable gown for traveling, the cousins hugged their good-byes and watched from Eleanor’s bedroom window as the couple walked across the courtyard to Waring’s carriage.
Bridget sighed heavily beside her. A dreamy, heartfelt sound. “They’re going to be very happy, aren’t they?”
It was more an observation than a question, but Lydia felt compelled to reply in a fervent whisper, “I hope so.”
Bridget’s dark hazel eyes slid to Lydia and a smile tilted her mouth. “Are you becoming a romantic, cousin?”
With a shocked expression, Lydia huffed. “Never.”
Bridget’s grin was dubious. “Pretty soon you’ll start reconsidering Darlington’s attention.
If that gentleman ever attempts to seduce you in earnest—” She stopped suddenly with a loud gasp, and her eyes widened to a comic degree.
“He already has, hasn’t he? Why didn’t you tell me?
” Then she gasped again. “Lydia. Rose. Balcomb. You want him.”
Lydia cringed at the accusation she couldn’t completely refute. Bridget knew her far too well. Her cousin gave a short, joyful laugh. “This is bloody fantastic!”
“No. It’s not. And I don’t want the man. I just…feel certain things when he’s near.”
Her attempt at minimizing the revelation was ineffective. Bridget was already too invested and had clearly embraced the idea.
“Like you want his hands all over your body and his mouth sealed to yours?” the other woman queried with a sly grin.
Lydia’s spine tensed. “Good Lord, Bridget! The things you say sometimes.”
“Trust me, there are a lot more scandalous things I could say,” her cousin drawled with a knowing gleam. “I’m trying to respect your innocence.”
Lydia snorted. “It doesn’t matter. I shall not be engaging with the man anymore.”
Her cousin nudged her with her elbow. “But you were engaging with him?”
“Only because he wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“Because he wants you. Desperately!”
Despite the tremor Bridget’s ridiculous words triggered in her core, Lydia rolled her eyes. “I doubt it.”
“Why?” her cousin argued stubbornly. “You’re lovely, clever, confident, interesting, and loyal. Darlington would be blessed to win you.”
Lydia smiled. “Thank you. But I’d rather not be some man’s prize.”
“But it’s Darlington,” Bridget stressed incredulously. “You won’t even consider that he might be worth coveting?”
Lydia narrowed her gaze at the phrase that had first come up almost a year ago when Eleanor was struggling to clarify her own feelings for the viscount.
“Don’t you dare start thinking this situation is anything at all like Eleanor’s,” she warned firmly.
Bridget’s only reply was a wide grin.
The rest of the celebration was passably pleasant.
Lydia’s two older brothers managed to behave themselves until the evening when Eleanor’s brother Ralston gave them a stern lecture about over-imbibing, which sent them both out to the nearest tavern.
And Lydia’s mother limited her glares of disapproval to less than a dozen, no doubt because they were amongst the greater Fairchild family, which meant Lydia’s prospects for husband-hunting at such an event were limited.
Unfortunately, however, that meant the marchioness had no intention of allowing them to linger in the country any longer than necessary. They returned to London the day after the wedding to ensure they were in attendance at one of the most popular balls of the season.
Lydia didn’t want to wonder if Darlington would be there.
But it was a persistent question in her mind as she prepared for the evening.
It was unbelievably frustrating to find herself wondering if he’d like the sage-colored gown she chose or if he’d bother her again with an invitation to dance.
Or if he’d once again dare to suggest that he could free her from some sort of sensual repression.
Just the thought of the last had her tensing and twitching beneath her short stays.
She was not repressed. She’d gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that she lived as liberated a life as possible.
That didn’t mean she was completely free, of course.
Not like a man could be. But she was not so sheltered as most young ladies.
She’d read things and…understood things.
Even if she hadn’t had any personal experience, that didn’t mean she was repressed.
And even if she was, there was no way she could ever take Darlington up on his offer.
Could she?
No. Of course not. But somehow, after just a few encounters, the man had managed to disrupt her carefully cultivated attitude of disinterest. As she and her mother left for the ball, she felt a shivering anticipation in her blood and made a silent vow that she would not become bespelled by the earl.
She did not trust his interest and would not indulge in anything it made her feel.