Love With a Scandalous Lord (5 page)

“I don’t want to take a test,” Sabrina grumbled.

“You won’t have to, at least not for a while yet.” But since she couldn’t say the same for herself, she turned her attention back to her books.

With her mother at her side, Lydia descended the stairs, the hem of her gown whispering over the polished wood. Mary had done an exquisite job managing Lydia’s thick, often unruly, blond tresses.

“I was always putting some ladyship’s hair back to rights after she’d visited with His Lordship—before he was His Lordship,” Mary had explained.

Lydia wasn’t quite certain what to make of that comment, although she’d pondered its meaning while she’d prepared for the evening. Obviously the Marquess had
frequent female visitors, and their hair had often become mussed. Maybe when he took them riding in the park, or they sat in the garden sipping tea while the breeze was strong.

She glanced over at her mother. She hadn’t done anything special with her hair, no curls framing her face, no ringlets dangling enticingly along her neck. No bows, ribbons, or tiny silk flowers. She looked to be exactly what she was: a no-nonsense farm woman.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Lydia asked.

“Certainly. Your father gave me detailed directions for finding the drawing room. I think he wanted a few minutes alone with Rhys,” she said.

“I think maybe the ladies are supposed to
join
the gentlemen,” Lydia explained.

They reached the foyer, and her mother raised a brow. “Oh?”

“I simply think that it’s part of their etiquette. And I’m not certain we’re supposed to address Papa’s brother as Rhys. After all, he is a marquess.”

“You’ve been reading your books again,” her mother mused.

“Of course I have.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have the things memorized by now.” She slipped her arm through Lydia’s as she directed her down another wide hallway. “Simply be yourself, Lydia. It’ll take you much farther than all that tripe you’ve been reading.”

“It’s not tripe, Mama. A person’s manners reveal a great deal. I know you agree; otherwise you wouldn’t scold Colton when he belches at the table.”

“I suppose that’s true enough.”

“I do have to confess, though, that I feel a little guilty
for looking forward to this dinner—considering the reason we’re here: the Duke’s failing health.”

Her mother smiled softly. “Don’t feel guilty. Your father and I are well aware that you’ve wanted to come to England for some time. It’s a pity the trip couldn’t have been under different circumstances, but we want you to enjoy your time here as much as possible.”

She squeezed Lydia’s arm. “Honestly, Lydia, although we’ll experience sadness while we’re here, I see no reason for us to be morbid the entire time. I’ll admit I’ve enjoyed seeing certain aspects of the country in which Grayson grew up. It helps me to understand him a little better.”

“I was under the impression you understood each other very well.”

“Where he’s concerned I’m always willing to learn more.”

“Did the Duke tell you anything special when you were visiting him?” Lydia asked.

“No, he slept the entire time we were in the room. Tomorrow I think we’ll all go see him for a short time. It makes it easier on Grayson having all of us here.”

“Maybe the Duke will be awake tomorrow,” Lydia said.

“I hope so. I would like to thank the man for sending his son to me.”

A male servant standing before a door bowed slightly, before he pulled it open. “His Lordship is expecting you.”

Lydia felt as though she were living in a fairy tale. Everyone catering to her whims, anticipating her needs. If only her joy at being there wasn’t tainted by the sorrow her stepfather would experience.

When she spotted Rhys leaning casually against the
elaborate scrollwork that surrounded the massive fireplace, her heart began thundering. He was strikingly handsome, wearing a black jacket over a black waistcoat. Holding a glass, his hand was poised near his lips as though he’d been on the verge of taking a sip and had suddenly decided he’d rather be doing something else.

Like watching her.

She warmed considerably with the attention, acutely aware of his stormy gaze traveling over her, caressing her cheeks, her throat, her bare shoulders—

“My goodness, Lydia, when did you grow up?” her stepfather asked.

She tore her gaze from Rhys. She hadn’t noticed her stepfather greet her mother and was surprised to find him standing beside her. “Father, you know I grew up a long time ago.”

He arched a brow. “Father? This morning I was still Papa.”

The heat of embarrassment crept up her chest, her throat, her face.

“Perhaps it’s the formality of the occasion,” Rhys said.

He moved away from the fireplace and set his glass on a table near a large, gleaming piano. A harp rested beside the piano. Lydia wondered if both instruments were merely for decoration or if the Marquess knew how to play them.

She smiled tentatively, wishing only he and she were in the room. She didn’t relish having an audience who seemed intent on ruining everything—not intentionally, but through ignorance. How could her parents not understand what this moment meant to her and how desperately she wanted to be perceived as a true
lady?

“
Papa
just sounds so Texas,” she admitted.

“I daresay you do as well, Miss Westland,” the Marquess said. “You have a most delightful accent.”

“I’m afraid, my lord,
you
are the one who has an accent.”

“In England, one does not correct one’s betters,” he said.

“We’ll keep that mind if we run across any,” her mother retorted.

Rhys jerked his gaze from Lydia to her mother. Lydia wanted to die of mortification on the spot. Honestly, would it have hurt for her mother to know some of the rules and to abide by them?

“Abbie,” her stepfather warned.

“I kept quiet this morning when that old battle-ax was harping on you. I didn’t come here to be insulted, and I won’t put up with it, Grayson.”

“You’re quite right, Mrs. Rhodes. I apologize. Grayson, will you allow me the honor of escorting your wife into dinner?” he asked.

Lydia couldn’t have been more disappointed if he’d announced she had to eat in the nursery with the children. She wanted his attention, and here he was offering his arm to her mother.

She watched as they led the way out of the room. Rhys bent his head and spoke quietly to her mother, obviously enchanted with her. Yet she’d never opened an etiquette book in her life.

“Lydia?”

Startled, she fought to regain her composure. She glanced up at her stepfather. “I guess you get to escort me to dinner,” she said softly, trying to hide her frus
tration.

“It is truly my honor to do so.”

She rested her hand on his arm. “I can’t believe you grew up surrounded by all this.”

“It was more like
I
surrounded
it
. I was always skirting the edges, attempting to find my way in, but never succeeding.”

“It would be sweet revenge if one of your daughters married an English lord, don’t you think, Papa?” she asked.

Sadness and loss filled his eyes, as he touched his knuckles to her cheek. “Are you thinking you’ll be that daughter?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Remember, Lydia. Simply because something glitters, it does not mean that it’s gold. Fifteen years ago, were I given the opportunity to change places with Lord Blackhurst, I would have gladly done so. Today, I am far too wise to accept such an offer.”

She knew his change of heart had come about because he loved her mother.

But Lydia loved no man. Why not find one here?

R
hys was fairly certain he’d dined on the glazed duck—after all nothing except bones remained on his plate as the footman carried it away. But he could not remember its taste or texture, because ever since he and his guests had sat down to dinner, he’d been unable to distract himself from the enticing Miss Westland.

Had he thought her a child? Dear Lord, but she had alabaster shoulders that begged for a man’s lips to play lightly over them. While
her
lips were incredibly quick to smile. He could well imagine their taste, their softness, their warmth. He clearly envisioned them parted in passion, while her violet eyes smoldered and darkened with desire.

Clearing his throat, he signaled for the next course to be brought to him. He had no business thinking of Grayson’s stepdaughter in any manner other than as a respected guest.

Despite the fact that this evening she resembled an
alluring woman, he didn’t dare overlook the fact she was still an innocent, or that his half-brother had, on more than one occasion during the meal, glowered at Rhys as though he knew the exact path down which his wayward thoughts traveled.

He had little doubt Grayson had adopted some rather savage tendencies while he’d been in Texas. Rhys had no wish to put them to a test.

“Tell me, Miss Westland, do you play the piano?” Rhys asked, suddenly desperate to break through the uncomfortable silence hovering in the dining room.

The woman—no,
the girl
. He had to train his mind to view her as a girl, an innocent, a naïve child. But his mind refused to be trained, refused to see her as anything other than the beguiling young woman she was.

She lifted her napkin and touched it to each corner of her luscious mouth before responding with a hesitant smile. “No, my lord.”

“A pity. The harp?”

She shook her head slightly, her cheeks blossoming into the shade of a faded rose. “No.”

“I’m afraid working the farm hasn’t given the children much time to learn the finer arts,” Grayson explained.

“I see,” Rhys murmured. Taking a sip of wine, he glanced at his brother. “Then you engage in the actual labor yourself?”

“We pay laborers to work in the cotton fields. We hire cowboys to watch over the cattle and drive them to market. But a good deal of what needs to be done, we either do ourselves or we oversee those who do it.”

“The ladies as well?”

“The ladies as well,” Grayson answered, almost in a challenge.

Rhys shifted his gaze to Miss Westland. She was staring at her plate as though she hoped to see the Waterford imprint on the bottom. Mortified. She was clearly mortified.

“I find that dedication admirable,” he said quietly.

She shyly shifted her gaze to his and bestowed upon him a grateful smile that made him wish he’d never instigated the conversation. So sweet, so charitable, so wrong for him.

“Do you read, Miss Westland?” he asked, fighting to keep the formality in the dining room, when he had an irrational urge to lean toward her and ask what he could bestow upon her that would keep the smile gracing her face.

“Oh, yes, I love to read.”

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to honor us with a reading following dinner?”

Her eyes lit up as though he’d just offered her a chest filled with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies.

“I’d like to read aloud very much,” she said.

“Splendid. It has been some years since my mother read to us in the library during the evening. I rather miss it.”

“I suppose Papa missed it as well once he moved to Texas. He always reads to us after supper.”

“Grayson was never included in our little family gathering,” he said.

She jerked back slightly as though he’d slapped her. He didn’t know why he felt a need to talk bluntly, to reveal the ugly side of his family.

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I speak frankly, but I’m having a difficult time seeing your mother as anything except cruel.”

Her outburst intrigued him, not only because it
seemed out of place when she was clearly mortified each time her mother spoke her mind, but because it caused him to realize that her mother might not have been the only one willing to go to battle for Grayson this afternoon or now. He found himself wondering what it would take for Lydia to jump to his defense, and just as quickly he dismissed the fanciful thought. If he had learned one thing over the years it was that he was not prone to receiving loyalty from ladies of quality. And for good reason.

“With the exception of your stepfather, my entire family is cruel.”

“I don’t believe you are,” she said.

“Trust me. I can be most unpleasant when the mood strikes.”

“I don’t recall you having unpleasant moods when you were younger,” Grayson said.

“We all change.”

Blast it
! He didn’t know what had prompted him to say that or why he felt he needed to behave irascibly. If he didn’t want to dine with these people, he need not have invited them to join him.

“I suppose since your father is ill, you’ll have to miss the Season,” Lydia said softly, as though testing his mood.

“The season?” He’d rather been enjoying the milder weather of late. May was upon them. What was there to miss?

She nodded quickly. “In London. The balls—”

“Ah, yes, the Season.” Even if his father were not ill, he doubted he would be welcomed into any homes. The gentlemen might not know who he was, but many of the ladies would recognize him, and none would risk a careless word or an intimate gaze that might reveal
they’d spent time alone in his company. “Yes, I fear I’ll miss it this year.”

And every year hence.

“Lauren suspects this Season will be her last,” she said.

“Lauren?”

“My cousin. Mama’s niece. The Earl of Ravenleigh’s stepdaughter.”

“Ah, yes.” The task of unraveling the intricate weaving of these families was certain to give him a headache. He shifted his attention to Grayson. “Ravenleigh’s brother was one of your mates, was he not?”

“Kit still is, as a matter of fact. Now he represents the law in Texas.”

“Who would have thought such incorrigible young men would do so well? What of Bainbridge?”

“Harry owns a saloon, a pub, so to speak. He provided the whiskey I sent you.”

“You’re indeed fortunate to have such good friends.” He lifted his glass for another sip of wine, suddenly acutely aware that should Grayson ask after his friends, he would have to readily admit he had none.

He couldn’t prevent his gaze from wandering back to Miss Westland. She sat with her head bowed as though she’d been duly chastised. It occurred to him that she’d been attempting to engage him in conversation, and he’d shifted the dialogue away from her to Grayson.

If he put her in his bed, he could communicate with her throughout the night. He was less skilled at dinner conversation.

“Miss Westland, you were saying that your cousin expected this Season to be her last,” he prompted.

She gave him the loveliest of smiles, obviously
pleased he’d paid the slightest bit of attention to her.

“Yes, my lord. She hopes to settle on a gentleman very soon.” She leaned toward him and whispered conspiratorially, “She’s very near to being considered unmarriageable.”

“Lydia!” her mother said sternly.

“Well, she is, Mama. She’s twenty-three.” She looked to him for affirmation. “Don’t you think if she doesn’t choose someone soon, she may lose all hope of choosing anyone at all?”

“I should think if she is half as charming as you, her age will matter not at all. Any man will consider himself most fortunate to be the beneficiary of her affections.”

He saw the shallow rising and lowering of her chest as she fought not to be flustered by his flattery. Much could be said for the modestly low cut of her gown.

“You’re very kind to say so, my lord.”

He almost reminded her that
he
wasn’t kind, only the
words
had been kind, but the warm pleasure in her eyes was as intoxicating as his wine.

“I suppose I have my moments.”

And he needed to ensure he had fewer of them. Miss Westland looking at him as she now was could lure him into forgetting his past mistakes, and in so doing, bring harm to them both.

Lydia sat in the library, mystified. The walls were at least two stories high with a landing along two of them, halfway between the floor and ceiling. A staircase spiraled to the landing. On the second level, a ladder with wheels provided access to the shelves near the ceiling.

And books. She remembered the thrill she’d experienced the first night her stepfather had shared his single
book—
Ivanhoe
. And here an incredible number of leather-bound books lined the shelves.

An immense desk stood at one end of the room. A sitting area occupied the area in front of the huge fireplace that dominated the lower portion of one wall.

She imagined all the nights when the residents of the manor curled up in a chair before a cozy fire and selected readings to their heart’s content. The abundance of good fortune visited upon these people was overwhelming.

Yet in spite of all the finery and possessions that surrounded them, she had yet to see the Marquess offer even a hint of a smile. He sat in a chair across from her, while her parents shared the sofa beside her chair. The Marquess looked dreadfully bored while he listened to her stepfather explaining various aspects of his cattle venture.

Lydia heard the click of the door opening behind her but refused to turn around, to give any indication her curiosity was piqued. A true lady did not exhibit vulgar curiosity.

The Marquess simply raised his hand and motioned for someone to enter, barely taking his gaze from her stepfather. He hadn’t glanced at Lydia since they’d entered the room. Feeling plain and uninteresting, she wished she’d never agreed to spend the evening in his company.

She became aware of several quiet footsteps and a hushed whisper. She glanced over her shoulder to see half a dozen young servants surrounding her brother and sister. In her surprise, she blurted, “What are you doing here?”

“
They
said we were supposed to come,” Sabrina answered, pointing her finger toward the servants.

“I must apologize, Miss Westland. When I asked if you would read, I neglected to clarify that my servants would be joining us,” the Marquess said. “I hope you don’t mind. The younger ones, in particular, enjoy listening.”

“No, of course, I don’t mind,” she said, forcing herself to smile. She’d hoped to dazzle him with her reading, but she hadn’t expected a large audience.

“Did you pass the test, Lyd?” Sabrina asked as she skipped forward and wedged herself in the large chair, worming her way between Lydia and the side of the chair.

“What test?” her mother asked.

Heat suffused Lydia’s face, and she thought she finally had Rhys’s undivided attention. At this moment, she didn’t want it. She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Lyd was taking a test tonight,” Sabrina announced.

Lydia wanted to die of mortification, when Rhys’s gaze intensified as though he wanted to decipher this strange announcement.

“She was studying her books before dinner—”

Lydia interrupted Sabrina. “Speaking of books, I’m ready to begin reading at any time.”

The Marquess took a book from the table beside him, stood, crossed over, and handed it to her.

She glanced at it and then up at him. “Mark Twain. I would have thought you’d prefer British authors.”

“I find his works revealing. If you’ll excuse me, I wish to spend some time with my father now. I truly appreciate your willingness to read to my servants. A chapter or two should suffice for them this evening.”

Disappointment rammed into her with the realization that she was obviously being dismissed. “I’m
happy to oblige.”

He stepped back, and the servants quickly gathered in front of her, sitting on the thick, lush carpet at her feet.

“I’ll join you if you’ve no objection,” her stepfather said.

“None at all,” the Marquess murmured. He bowed slightly. “Ladies, it was my pleasure to dine with you this evening. Now, I bid you good night.”

She watched him stride from the room. Her stepfather brushed a kiss across her mother’s cheek before following his brother out.

“His Lordship got as far as chapter ten last night,” a young man said, his voice riffed with impatience.

Lydia glanced down on him. He was probably only a year or two older than Colton, but his brown eyes looked much older. “His Lordship reads to you?”

“Every night,” he answered. The other servants bobbed their heads. A couple of the girls looked to be only a few years older than Sabrina.

“William came and got us when it was time to come,” Sabrina said, as though the boy sitting beside her, the one who had recently spoken, was the most wondrous of creations. “He told us about the readings.”

“That I did,” the boy said.

“Well, I’ll try to do as fine a job as His Lordship.”

Lydia opened the book to the page that had been marked with a bit of silk, and wondered what sort of man could appear to be so distant, and yet take the time to read to his servants?

Rhys sat in the dimly lit room, the flame in the lamp resting on the table beside his father’s bed burning low.
The draperies were drawn closed, as though someone feared a spot of moonlight might serve to make the room less gloomy. And that simply would not do under the circumstances—to give any indication at all that they were not on the verge of mourning.

He’d hoped for a few minutes alone with his father, but he could not fault Grayson for wanting more time with the old man. After all, for all intents and purposes, he’d been exiled these past fifteen years. He had a great deal of catching up to do, and their father’s lucid moments were few.

Grayson sat in a chair on the opposite side of the bed. They had not spoken since leaving the library, and Grayson’s gaze seldom shifted from their father’s face. Rhys found it difficult to draw comfort from the awkward situation.

But then, comfort was as foreign to him as the land upon which his brother now resided.