Chapter Thirty-Five
In recent years, the Countess of Mandeville’s ball had become one of the last great hurrahs of the London Season.
Attended by nearly everyone who was anyone, it had come to represent a start to the closing of the social season and had been the setting of several betrothal announcements each year.
Almost to the point that many young misses were starting to beg their parents to put off any official statement of impending engagements until the auspicious evening of the Mandeville ball, as popular rumor noted it to be an omen of a happy future.
Lydia had managed to avoid attending the ball the last two years. As soon as she’d learned of the mythology surrounding the event her debut season, she’d feigned an ill stomach. The second year, it was a twisted ankle.
That one earned her mother’s suspicion, but there was little she could do when her daughter was so obviously in pain. By that time, her mother had become well-aware of her eldest daughter’s penchant for escaping and avoiding important social events.
This year, however, Lydia’s lack of an excuse should have drawn her mother’s suspicions. But the marchioness didn’t question it.
For tonight’s performance, Lydia chose a gown of violet silk. It was far more vibrant than the many pastel debutante gowns her mother always insisted she wear. Though the marchioness narrowed her gaze at her when she came down from her room, Lady Loxmarch said nothing and then turned away.
Lydia’s throat tightened.
Had her mother been informed by her secret solicitor that her blackmail hadn’t worked?
It might explain her poor mood. But if she was the one behind the plot, Lydia had no doubt she was already plotting another avenue of manipulation and deceit to get her only daughter trapped in unwanted matrimony.
Lydia clenched her teeth and turned her gaze out the window lest she be tempted to confront her mother on her suspected perfidy there and then.
*
They detoured briefly to collect Bridget, who greeted them with her usual pleasant exuberance as she settled beside Lydia. As soon as the marchioness glanced away, she gave Lydia a keen look that silently asked if she was ready for what the night would bring.
Lydia simply nodded before turning her attention back to the window. Her cousin would know she was lying. But Bridget also knew well enough not to try to stop her from going through with it.
Approaching the Mandeville mansion, Lydia nearly groaned out loud.
Vehicles lined the street going in both directions as guests arrived in droves.
It took almost thirty minutes before it was their turn to disembark from the carriage, then another twenty minutes in the receiving line.
By the time they entered the enormous ballroom, the space was already a crush.
Several heads turned in their direction as they were announced.
Lydia’s stomach lurched.
But quickly enough, the crowd’s interest shifted elsewhere, and Bridget linked arms with her as they dutifully followed the marchioness into the ballroom. Lady Loxmarch led them on a circle about the room, before reaching her apparent destination near the dance floor.
The musicians were playing a lively country dance. The revelry of the dancers and the many people laughing and talking around them stood out in sharp juxtaposition to the tension and discomfort seething within Lydia.
Bridget was quickly claimed for the next dance, giving Lydia an apologetic look as she was swept away.
Though she appreciated her cousin’s support and loyalty, any behavior out of the ordinary would be suspect. And Bridget was not one to stand along the wall during a party.
By the third dance, Lady Loxmarch had begun to make short sounds of annoyance in between her bouts of small-talk with other matrons who milled about watching their daughters on the dance floor.
At the start of the fourth dance, the marchioness leaned toward Lydia to whisper, “Why haven’t you danced yet?”
“I haven’t been asked, Mother. And I can’t very well go ask someone myself.” She’d tried that once and failed.
The marchioness harrumphed. “You must make yourself appear more available. More…enticing.”
Lydia’s lips twisted. “Shall I leap onto a table and flash a bit of ankle?”
“Lydia.” Her mother’s face reddened, and her look of censure was sharp enough to cut glass. “It is time for you to take your future seriously, young lady.” Her voice snapped like a whip. “Or you will turn to dust on the shelf.”
“Why must I remain on a shelf?” Lydia asked stubbornly. “Why can’t I just live?”
Lady Loxmarch snorted. “There is no life for a woman alone.”
“Maybe not the life you see. But there are countless independent women doing as they please in the world.”
“Oh?” Her mother’s brows arched. “Are you referencing the ladies who attend those luncheon lectures you’re so fond of? Have you never noticed how many of them are widows? Or wives to men who generously fund their little hobbies?”
“Not all—”
“Right. There are a few poor, unmarried girls who’ve been taken under the wing of an appreciative matron—who is again, funded by her husband.
” The marchioness turned away, casting her stare out over the ballroom.
“The time is long past for you to stop being na?ve, my dear. You want independence? Find a husband who will give it to you.”
Lydia couldn’t speak. Something dark and heavy burned in her chest and the prick of fire danced behind her eyes.
Her mother was right. This was the world they lived in.
And it infuriated her.
She was a fool, and she’d always been a fool. She could never have the life she wanted. Not without the permission of someone else.
As soon as the marchioness became engaged in conversation that claimed her full focus, Lydia turned and strode into the crowd.
The heat of anger flowed from her core in waves, drawing a flush to her face and a rushing in her ears.
Her eyes began to blur and her breath grew tight as she fought through the crush of people.
But going against the flow of the crowd’s movement into the ballroom was not an easy feat.
As the pressure inside her built, so did her panic.
She was trapped.
Trapped in a ballroom full of people.
Trapped in a world that didn’t understand her.
Trapped in a life not made for her.
She didn’t even see Darlington until he stepped right in front of her. Her feet and her heart stopped together when she recognized his trim, fit form, the rakish bend of his head, and his unrepentantly wicked smile. Blinking, she tried to meet his gaze.
His expression shifted instantly. “What is it?” he whispered darkly.
Lydia swallowed, but the lump in her throat prevented the formation of words.
As a group of people passed close by, Lydia was jostled off balance. She would’ve stumbled right onto the dance floor if Darlington hadn’t been there, slipping a hand around her waist as he grasped her hand to steady her.
“Let’s dance,” he murmured and, without pause, the movement of his timely rescue shifted them into the position of the waltz. Not waiting for her acquiescence, he spun them onto the dance floor with assurance and grace and no small amount of brute force.
Though Lydia had not danced since her debut, she’d been properly trained and her body fell easily into the memory of the necessary steps.
After no more than a minute or two, her breath began to settle back down into a rhythm that matched the music.
Her heart rate soon followed, and the burning tightness inside her slowly eased.
Her gaze clear once again, she lifted her focus to meet his eyes. Warm and lit from within, glinting with some genuine emotion she refused to analyze.
Immediately, her heart leapt into her throat and her stomach twisted.
But what she felt wasn’t the distrust and frustration and disappointment of his original deception. This was far, far worse.
It was connection and comfort and…the most terrifying emotional longing.
Her eyes pricked again, but when she would’ve slid her gaze to the side, he gave her a stern look.
“Don’t.” Then he smiled—a soft, gentle smile—and lowered his chin. The warm, intimate texture of his voice resonated within her. “Don’t think. Don’t worry. Don’t question. Just dance with me.”
Lydia lowered her gaze to the visible pulse beneath the corner of his jaw, above his expertly tied neckcloth. It was a far safer focal point than his penetrating eyes, or his sensual, smiling mouth.
Then she let herself go. She freed her mind from its antagonistic concerns and released her body from the tension trying to claim her. And lastly, she liberated her heart from the aching confines of social and familial pressure that always felt like the proverbial albatross around her neck.
When all that was gone, she was then forced to acknowledge the pressure she put on herself.
For years, she’d not allowed herself a moment of softness lest any ground she’d gained be swept away from her.
It had been so long since she’d felt safe enough in her position to just…
relax. Though it was terrifying to do so, she allowed herself a moment.
A moment to let go of her near-desperate need to avoid conformity—to resist unwanted expectation.
And she danced.
Allowing herself to be led was something with which she’d never been comfortable.
Her dancing master had often grown infuriated with her tendencies to try to take over the direction of the dance.
She always shrugged off his criticisms, seeing no reason to submit to his direction when the dance inspired her to go a different way.
With the earl, however, she felt…unfettered. She didn’t need to lead, because he seemed to just know where she wished to go. And after a while, she even stopped thinking about the next step, intrinsically trusting that wherever he wished to take her, she would be alright.
It was a lovely feeling—the letting go. The not constantly fighting against the tide.
“Lydia.”
The way he said her name—dark and graveled and so close—sent thrills along her spine and swirled sparks of desire and yearning in her belly.
Her lashes fluttered as she met his heavy-lidded stare.
There was something intent and subtly mysterious in his amber eyes. It intrigued her and very gently worried her.
Lydia heard the note of concern in his tone.
Even as she questioned it, the strains of the musicians’ instruments began to flow through her awareness.
And then occasional voices pierced through the audial haze.
Glancing around, she was shocked to realize they were still spinning about in the center of a crowded ballroom.
Tension gripped her once again. How on earth had she forgotten?
Her gaze frantically moved about the room, noting how many people were staring back as they whispered behind their hands, eyes glazed with malicious delight, lips twisted with poisoned gossip.
She saw her mother, glaring at her from the matrons’ corner.
Of course. This isn’t how the marchioness wanted this to happen. The ruination was supposed to be private, known only to the family so she could better control its outcome.
But it was just a dance.
Between a notorious rake and an undesirable bluestocking.
There was no way to avoid the attention. It was not cause for a full-blown scandal by any means, but certainly cause for speculation and whispers. Something her mother would hate.
“Go. Now.”
Bridget passed by with her partner and whispered the words quickly to Lydia.
As their gazes met, Bridget slid hers to a point beyond the dance floor.
There stood their cousin Ralston, the Marquess of Redington, and the de facto head of their generation of the illustrious and extensive Fairchild family.
His wife, Charlotte, was beside him, a curious frown tugging her brows.
Ralston, however, was not at all curious. He was intent, staring fiercely at Darlington and Lydia.
Their plan was fully in motion.
Lydia took a shallow breath. “I think we should—”
“Discreetly exit the ballroom?” Edmund finished.
“If that’s even possible.”
His jaw bunched and his gaze peered intently into hers. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
She nodded.
He was silent for a moment then started to direct them toward the edge of the dance floor. “Your cousin. The marquess. He will keep an eye on you, correct?”
Lydia chuckled. “I do believe I’ve gotten his attention.”
“I’ll take you to that spot over there”—he directed her attention with the focus of his gaze to a short wall between two doorways—“then bow and take my leave. You should follow two minutes later. Everyone else will see us part ways. Your cousin will follow you. Find me in the library.” His smile tilted as a sparkle of amusement entered his gaze. “I assume you know where it is.”
Her lips twisted upward. “Of course.”
With her agreement, he put the plan in motion. There was nothing she needed to do but follow his direction. Something strange moved about in her chest as he left her standing alone and she watched him walk away then disappear through the doors of the ballroom.
A few deep breaths brought her back to herself enough to notice that many of the people who’d been watching their dance curiously were now focused on other things. She also noted Ralston slowly making his way toward her.
With unhurried steps, she circled her way through the crowd to the ballroom doors which led onto the wide-open landing at the top of the house’s grand central staircase. There were still plenty of people coming and going up and down the stairs, but it was nowhere near the crush of the ballroom.
As casually as she could manage, she continued across the landing to a broad hallway that led into a long gallery. Enormous portraits lined both walls with two fireplaces on each side and three chandeliers lighting the room.
Despite the portrait gallery clearly being open to guests of the ball, it was currently empty, allowing Lydia to glide swiftly to a pair of double doors at the far end. One of them was slightly ajar. A glance over her shoulder showed no one behind her. Yet.
But if she knew Ralston at all, she knew her cousin would not ignore his duty to ensure she was well and safe after the little performance in the ballroom. She reckoned they had about five minutes before they’d be discovered.