Chapter Twelve
Edmund was standing in a recessed alcove—leaning casually against the wall, ennui likely evident on his face—when Lady Lydia walked into Lord and Lady Talbot’s ballroom.
All it took was one glimpse of her dark, disinterested stare and the soft twist of her lovely mouth for a delicate hum to awaken in his blood.
Pleasure danced through him and he grinned.
He’d known of the lady’s cousin’s wedding in Kent, thanks to the social calendar he’d been provided, and had used the days she was out of town to reconsider the agreement he’d made.
Now that he knew the young woman’s attitude toward marriage, he saw no appeal in playing a role in trapping her.
He’d already requested the proper amount of funds be transferred to Mr. Trevor as repayment of his debt in full.
It would take a bit of time and would have to be carried out in two installments, but once the full funds were paid, they would have no further means of blackmailing him.
Of course, he realized the hypocrisy of his swift switch in loyalty, acknowledging that he never should’ve agreed to the terms in the first place.
He excused himself with the fact that every debutante he’d ever met had been quite passionately seeking a husband.
It hadn’t occurred to him that there might be a young woman with an aversion to matrimony.
He also acknowledged his supreme short-sightedness in making such an assumption, which he excused with the fact that he’d just never fully considered the female perspective on the topic, which only revealed another fault he had to rectify within himself.
Now that he’d excused himself from the plot against her, he was free to pursue Lady Lydia in a more honest fashion.
Starting tonight.
The woman intrigued him in so many ways. He was reasonably certain he wasn’t imagining her attraction to him, but her resistance presented a challenge. She didn’t desire marriage. Neither did he, but he was curious to discover just how averse she was to a casual sort of affair.
After first spying her upon her entrance to the ballroom, he had to shift his position to visually follow her progress through the crowd.
It took only a moment to ascertain that she was not pleased to be in attendance.
Despite the light and joyous atmosphere filling the room, her shoulders were drawn back and down.
Though she moved with practiced grace, her spine was stiff and her profile tense.
It was interesting to be so aware of a person.
To the extent that he so easily sensed the lady’s dark mood.
He’d never experienced such receptiveness to another person. It was another aspect of his curiosity. For some reason, Lady Lydia seemed to awaken a deeper perception in himself.
The older woman with whom she’d arrived—her mother, the Marchioness of Loxmarch—eventually moved off to join three other society matrons.
But not before leaving her daughter with a hard stare and a few muttered words that made the younger woman clench her jaw.
Edmund noted Lady Lydia’s valiant effort to hold her tongue even from a distance.
Though the marchioness had stepped away, her pointed gaze rarely left her daughter, who stood at the edge of the dance floor with a stoic expression that hinted strongly of boredom.
It wasn’t long before her dark gaze started flickering about the room, as though eyeing up an escape.
One of her quick glances swept over Edmund’s position, then darted back to settle on him with a subtle look of consternation.
His body heated under her brief regard, but she did not return the smile he offered. Instead, she arched a fine brow and tilted her chin before she turned sharply away and slipped into the crowd, momentarily disappearing from view.
A moment later, he caught a glimpse of her heading toward a small door near the musicians.
With a swift breath, he angled after her, watching as she slipped through the door long before he could reach it.
The anticipatory hum in his body deepened with the thrill of the chase.
He wanted to feel shame for it—this odd predatory instinct that infused him—but he’d accepted his penchant for wickedness long ago.
When he finally reached the door, he glanced casually about to ensure no one was watching too closely, then he quickly passed through, closing the door behind him.
He found himself in a small, unoccupied but well-lit sitting room.
No Lady Lydia. A door across the room was partially open and led to yet another unoccupied room, this one lit only by the moonlight pouring through the windows. Still, no Lady Lydia.
Edmund noted yet another door, cracked open just a bit to reveal a line of light from beyond. Stepping through, he found himself in a long hallway that extended in both directions, containing several closed doors.
He quietly approached the nearest door, paused to listen, and heard nothing, then tried the handle and discovered it was locked. Then he heard something coming from the far end of the corridor. A soft knocking sound.
Curious, he strode toward it and found that the hallway turned at the end, leading to a pair of windowed doors with moonlight pouring through. One of the doors was not securely fastened and the occasional shifting of air caused it to bump against the casement.
Opening the door slowly on silent hinges, he stepped out into a small, glass-walled conservatory.
The floor was stone tile and a wealth of flowering plants and trees grew in lush bowers and raised beds.
Not just the walls, but the ceiling itself was also glass, allowing the light of the night sky to flood the place in a silvery glow.
Since it was a warm evening, a couple of the glass casements had been opened to allow a natural flow of air through the place.
Without doubt, the woman knew the best places to hide.
He knew she was there, of course. Somewhere…tucked in amongst the lush greenery and flowering scents. He couldn’t imagine she had enough light here to read or sketch, and he was suddenly deeply curious to know what she’d do out here all alone.
He hoped she was alone, anyway.
The unexpected thought that she might be meeting a lover in such a place gave rise to a tense burning pressure in his chest. Surely, not.
What he’d come to know about the woman did not support such a possibility, yet he couldn’t help imagining some dull, scholarly fellow—his brains filled with knowledge and quotable excerpts from mighty tomes—holding the lady stiffly in his arms as he pressed chaste kisses to her cheeks and forehead.
On the verge of a strange protective jealousy, Edmund managed to amuse himself instead. He doubted Lady Lydia would tolerate such inefficacy in a chosen lover. Her expectations were likely to be quite high, as they should be.
After allowing the door to close silently behind him, Edmund stood for a moment, listening for movement, breath, anything. All was deathly quiet.
Until he heard just the subtlest whisper of silk. It was a sound that instantly raised the temperature of his blood as he associated the sound with sensual undressing and intimate caresses.
He continued toward the sound, slowly, hoping to see her before she noted his presence.
His failure was evident when a deep, feminine sigh flowed through the night foliage. “You must be mad, Darlington,” the lady whispered sternly, “to think it at all acceptable to follow me here.”
Angling toward the sound of her voice, Edmund caught sight of a faint outline in the shadows.
A female figure seated on a corner bench, her spine relaxed against the wall, her feet lifted onto the seat as her arms draped around her bent knees.
She looked almost girlish. Like a child caught in a daydream.
But it was night, not day. And she was no child.
“You might be right, my lady,” he began in a smooth, lowered tone. “But if I’m driven by a particular madness, what drives you to seek out these dark, distant corners?”
She snorted. “I believe I’ve answered that question. More than once.”
“You enjoy solitude,” he confirmed with a nod, taking a slow step closer to her. “I’m asking why?”
She sighed again and lowered her feet to the floor.
Though her back remained in a gentle curve and her head tipped against the wall, she gazed up in his direction.
With his sight adjusting to the darkness, he was able to visualize vague impressions of her features.
Her jawline. The shadow of her pert nose. Her dusky lips and dark, starlit eyes.
“When disappointment is inevitable,” she finally answered quietly, “I’ve found it’s easier to embrace it than fight it.” She gave a low, throaty laugh that held no humor. “I suppose that makes me a coward.”
Continuing forward, Edmund asked, “The world out there is so terribly flawed that you can find nothing of value in it?”
She began shaking her head after his first few words. “No,” she whispered. “Not the world.”
In a flash of intuition, he understood. It was not her being disappointed in the world. It was the world being disappointed in her.
He was stunned. And then he felt a bit angry.
Whereas he had more than twenty years of life as a butcher’s son that declared him utterly unfit for his current position, she’d literally been born to it. Who in hell had made this fascinating woman believe herself to be inadequate?
Taking a breath and a chance, he strode toward her, slowly but with intent.
The bench she sat upon was easily wide enough for two or even three people, but the lady had positioned herself right in the center.
She watched his approach with a tense form and a wary, sparkling gaze, as if daring him to take a seat.
He realized she didn’t really think he would, and when he did, she was quickly forced to scoot to the side or end up pressed rather intimately against him.