The Golden Season (24 page)

“Forgive me for being obtuse, but I do not take your meaning,” he said, his brow furrowing.

“I, too, have been victim of, how did you so succinctly phrase it? ‘Extravagances and poor management, crop failures, a post-war economy, Corn Laws, and my
own
wretched excesses.’ In other words, Captain”—she smiled weakly—“if your family is living in dun territory, I am the next address over.”

“I see.”

He handled the news with far greater aplomb than she.
He
didn’t fall flat on his bum. His brows drew together before quickly smoothing out again. Hardly surprising; Ned was the ideal of self-possessed gentleman. But this time she did not appreciate his deportment. She hated how easily he accepted the end of their never-to-be relationship. But, then, perhaps his heart was not engaged so much as hers.

She had no doubt he had tender feelings for her. But to what extent? As much say, as Eleanor had for her spaniel—which, granted, was a fair amount, but when the dog began soiling the Oriental carpet Eleanor certainly hadn’t resisted moving her to the farm. Or perhaps as much as Sarah seemed to have for Prince Carvelli, over whom she insisted on making such a cake of herself?

There was no sense in speculating. Ned wasn’t going to ask her for her hand, not when he had just told her why he wanted it. At least he wouldn’t unless he felt himself obligated. And she wouldn’t accept it if he did, no matter how much she might be tempted, because when all was said and done, she was no fool.

Such a marriage could be . . . agreeable, even if such a marriage meant a lady must live apart from her friends in unfamiliar surroundings, but only if a lady was certain of her husband’s affection and that she had been asked for her hand in marriage despite her poverty, not because a man felt duty bound to do so. But if a gentleman did not love a lady, wholeheartedly, passionately, and devotedly, it would be horrifying for a lady to marry him knowing that by wedding her, a gentleman was forfeiting his honor and turning his back on those he did love. And then she would be truly alone.

She looked up. He was regarding her intently, waiting for her to speak. “Yes, well. You can appreciate the humor of it, can’t you? Both of us hunting for a spouse who can extradite us from our financial woes and ending up . . . here.” Her bright tone didn’t quite last through her final word. No matter.

She tucked her feet beneath her and pushed off the ground. At once, he was beside her, taking her hand in his, the other still behind his back in a courtly attitude as he lifted her to her feet. She bolted upright and backed away, flustered by a surge of potent attraction.

Dear God. She was
worse
than a trollop.

He stepped forward, following her and lowering his head slightly to better read her expression. He would be looking for some sign that she considered there to be an “understanding” between them and being a gentleman—Lord, she was beginning to loathe that term! It allowed a man to conceal so much beneath a facade—he would be quick to see and quicker still to act if he perceived she did. A gentleman did not lead a young lady into supposing an offer would be forthcoming.

She had to make sure he didn’t see too much of what she felt in her face. And though she had years of practice keeping a pleasant countenance in place, she did not trust herself now. She had never been in love before.

“Well, Captain,” she said conversationally, occupying herself by looking down and brushing uselessly at her ruined skirt. “As disappointed as we both are bound to be, at least some comfort must be taken in the fact that love was never mentioned.”

His head snapped back an incremental degree. Her pulse began galloping.

“And thank heaven no one’s more passionate sentiments were stirred,” she said, trying to sound suave.
Did
he have passionate sentiments for her?

Long seconds passed before he answered. “As you say, ma’am.”

But what if they were? What if he proposed? What would she say?

She did not know, she realized in amazement, and hard on its heels came panic. Would she say
yes
? No.
No
. She would not. Dear God, Sarah’s madness must be contagious. She could not believe she was entertaining such fantastical notions. He needed a rich wife; she required a rich husband. They weren’t two islands, alone and adrift at sea. They had obligations, others who depended on them, and
lives
that precluded their being together. That had been her first thought because it was the obvious thought.

Even if he did love her despite her poverty and asked for her hand, how long would it take before he began to resent his choice and the fact that in marrying her he’d consigned his family to penury? He would never show his resentment, of course, he was a gentleman. But she would always wonder.

To love passionately and wholly and not know whether that love was returned would be terrible. The only thing worse would be to know for a fact it was not. Her thoughts flew unwillingly and unfailingly to Caro Lamb.

She chanced an upward glance. Ned wore a polite and respectful expression, nothing more. She needn’t have worried. Either way, she was not going to know. Unaccountably, her throat closed.

“Isn’t that a blessing?” she asked in a thin voice.

He inclined his head. “Ma’am.”

With each of his deferential replies, her composure became more unraveled. She was at odds with herself. She wanted . . . Oh, damn and blast, she did not know what she wanted! What she did
not
want was to lose his—

“We are still friends, are we not?” Her words tumbled out in a rush. How ironic. Just an hour earlier she had been depressed by the idea that this might be all Ned wanted of her; now the thought of losing his friendship frightened her beyond imagining.

“I beg pardon, Lady Lydia?” His brows drew together, his gaze growing more intense. Or was it just her imagination?

“I wish above all things that we are able to meet again without discomfort or awkwardness and as friends.”

“Friends,” he repeated in an odd voice.

“Yes. I value our camaraderie and I hope you value it, too.”

“Of course.”

His gaze flowed over her face, studying her. Lydia could not tell what he was thinking. She did not want to lose him. If she could not have him as a spouse, she must have his friendship.

“We are surely sophisticated enough that we won’t allow our amusing mutual misunderstanding about each other’s nonexistent wealth to endanger that?” She couldn’t stop herself.

He smiled. “But of course.”

“Mayhap I could even aid you in your quest?” she suggested, desperate for him to say something, anything more than those terrible, polite monosyllables!

A shift of muscles and sinew, so subtle it was barely discernible, announced the return of tension. “Once more, ma’am, I must beg your pardon. I am clearly out of my depths here.”

“I know all the young ladies of the
ton
.” The words tumbled out, unscripted and raw. “I am well acquainted with their families. I know their qualities and their faults and their . . . situations and I might be able to help you avoid—” She trailed off, blushing profusely.

He stepped in to save her. “Avoid a situation similar to this one?” he said with complete composure. At his words, she realized how maggoty and distasteful her impulsive offer had been. She also realized how very much it was something she would decidedly
not
like to do. But what could she say? She’d already offered her assistance.

“Yes.”

“That is extraordinarily kind of you.”

“Yes.” She felt ill.

“I accept,” he said and then nodded thoughtfully. “And in reply to such a magnanimous offer, I can do no less.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

He caught both hands behind his back and paced a short ways away and back again and she noted for the first time that in one of his hands he was clutching a handkerchief. Where had it come from? His sleeve no doubt. But who had given him
that
one? Why was he holding it? What did it mean to him?

“I must offer you the same assistance.” He smiled at her, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that had never been there before. “Hear me out. I know I have not been long in town, but as a gentleman I am liable to hear things that would never reach your ears. Boodle’s is a positive font of information. Please, allow me to be of service. As your friend.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“I insist. If you are going to be so good as to help me . . . How to say this?” he muttered and then laughed. “Oh, why stand on ceremony? As we are such
good
friends now we can speak plainly with each other, can we not?”

Not
. She nodded.

“Excellent!” he said. “So bluntly put, if you are going to hunt me up a bride, I can do no less than find you a groom as well.”

She didn’t want his help finding a husband any more than she wanted to help him find a bride. “No. It’s too much of an imposition, and it seems rather, well”—she cast about anxiously—“rather cynical, doesn’t it?”

“Cynical?” His beautiful gray eyes widened. “Good heavens, Lady Lydia. Pray recall our sophistication. There is nothing cynical about expedience. I will, of course, be strictly mute about your finances.” She might have thought he was mocking her, but she noticed that his hand had fisted so tight around the handkerchief he held she could see the paleness of his knuckles. “So, we are agreed?”

What could she do? She’d backed herself neatly into an untenable situation. “Agreed.”

“Excellent.” He moved toward her, looking down into her upturned face, and whatever he saw there caused his smile to lose its odd vulpine edge.

She gazed back mutely, miserable and confused. Uncertainty flickered in his expression and he moved even closer, so close she could feel the slight brush of his breath on her cheeks. He raised his free hand as if to touch her and despite herself, she held her breath, hoping he would.

“Of course, we could just dispense with—”

Whatever Ned had been about to suggest they dispense with was forever lost in a riot of giggling exploding from the hedge a second before a girl broke from the eastern entrance and tumbled into the center, an exceptionally handsome young redheaded lad puffing hard on her heels.

“Jenny, please! You promised! One kiss!” the young man declared.

Jenny Pickler, still laughing, swung about to answer and caught sight of Ned, impeccable as always, and Lydia, her hair down around her shoulders, her skirts ripped and dirtied. Jenny’s mouth fell open.

“Lady . . .
Lydia
?”

Lydia, finally, after a hiatus of nearly an hour, found her dignity and recovered her too long absent poise. “Yes, Miss Pickler.” She lifted a dark winged brow at the very young and flustered gentleman. “Sir?”

“Ma’am.” He bowed deeply.

“Yes. Well. A fine day, is it not?”

“Indeed, Lady Lydia,” Jenny stuttered.

She plastered a brilliant, regal smile on her face. “Then good day to you,” she said, and with a sense of enormous relief, sailed out of the maze.

Left behind, Ned watched her depart, the swish of her mangled skirts in no way lessening her regality. He withdrew his hand from behind his back and idly unfolded the bloodstained handkerchief pressed tightly to his palm.

“Captain, your hand!” Jenny Pickler gasped. “However did you injure it?’

He glanced around, his gaze finding the girl and her red-faced swain.

“Eh? Oh,” he said. “I was attempting to restrain an overwhelming need to express my . . . friendship for a certain person.”

“Friendship?” Jenny Pickler echoed, nonplussed by his odd tone when he used the word and the sight of the jagged tear in Ned’s palm.

“Yes. Some would have found a different name for the sentiment—perhaps passion—but a lady I hold in high esteem has informed me that it was not in fact what I was feeling, and I would not argue with her.”

“Captain,” Jenny Pickler said. “I do not take your meaning.”

“No, Miss Pickler,” he replied calmly. “Neither does she.” His gaze drifted to the shifting youngster behind her. “For God’s sake, Pip, straighten your cravat.”

And with a bow to Jenny Pickler, he left.

Lydia retired early that night, but sleep eluded her. Her thoughts kept tumbling over one another, the phantom prospect of happiness with Ned fighting for precedence against the looming potential for isolation and loneliness. She had never lacked for courage, never refused to acknowledge a thing because she did not want it to be so. One took what one had and made do, or in fact did better than make do, as had she.

Restlessly, she turned where she lay. What was she supposed to do? What had she hoped would happen? She still didn’t know. The news that Ned’s family’s pockets were to let had deeply shaken her. She had taken his wealth for granted, then fallen in love with him. How could she do otherwise? He was everything she admired, everything she respected. His nobility was one of genuine character, not manners; the things he had seen and done had importance and merit. His masculinity was unaffected and forceful. He was everything she wanted . . . except rich.

She sat up and jerked her blanket tightly around herself and huddled with her chin on her knees, glowering out at the darkness with futile resentment. Was she supposed to have told Ned it didn’t matter to her that he had no money and then hoped that he felt the same? It would have been a lie. Wouldn’t it?

Even if he did return her love and proposed marriage, what was she supposed to have done then? Leave everything she knew behind? Her friends, her position in Society, her lifestyle? Abandon the retinue of retainers and craftsmen and artisans that relied on her? While her concern for them might be based on reasoning that was somewhat spurious, it also had some basis in fact.

She didn’t
know
any other way to live. Her brief years in Wilshire had been telling. The isolation and loneliness there had driven home that with her parents’ deaths she had lost everyone who cared about her and all her connections to the world. Which is why Emily’s plight had resonated so deeply with her. It only made sense that after Eleanor had brought her to London, she had gone about collecting a sort of makeshift family with a fervor that would have been amusing had it not been pitiful.