The Golden Season (32 page)

The maid reappeared, bobbing another curtsy before informing him that Lady Lydia would be down shortly and asking if he would care for a refreshment. He declined and the maid vanished once again.

He didn’t have to wait long before Lady Lydia arrived. She did not look well. Her famous pansy purple eyes were shadowed beneath with a similar hue and her skin had the pale translucence of sleeplessness. Even the curve of her cheeks looked to be riding on bones too sharp. She essayed a thin smile.

He bowed. “Lady Lydia, I am sorry I did not have a chance to claim a dance last night. A family matter required my attendance.”

“I hope nothing unpleasant?” she said.

He waved his hand languidly, brushing away her concern as she took a seat and folded her hands in her lap.

“Nothing unexpected, simply inconvenient,” he said. He did not answer the query in her expression. If they were to wed, she must learn he led a life separate from hers, one in which she would have no part and which she would not be permitted to question. It was a courtesy he intended to extend to her, too.

“I hear tell the Spencers’ masquerade was graced by an Aurelia as mysterious as she was fabulous,” he said instead. “One making elegant use of a gold- filigreed fan.” He smiled and wagged a knowing finger at her.

He’d thought the compliment would please her, that they would begin trading flirtatious banter, but her answering smile was distracted.

“Yes,” she said. “It is a pity you were not there. You would have approved of my costume.”

This was direct and uninspired, not a bit of coquetry to it. She looked away, touching her fingertips to her temple. This was not going as smoothly as he’d anticipated. His delightfully blithe companion had gone missing, leaving this wan, preoccupied woman who seemed almost impatient with him.

As though her
ennui
were catching, he found he’d lost what little eagerness he’d had for his mission. Perhaps this was for the best. A business arrangement, even between friends, ought to be discussed in a businesslike fashion, sweetened with a few compliments, of course.

“Lady Lydia, I admire you a great deal.” This much was true. “I flatter myself to believe that we have over these last weeks become friends.” Again, true.

She looked neither interested nor anxious. She looked resigned. “Yes, Mr. Smyth. We are friends.”

“Lady Lydia, I would consider myself a most fortunate man—”

“I have no money,” she interrupted flatly.

He stared at her until he became aware that his mouth was slightly ajar. He snapped it shut.

“Before you say anything further, I thought you might like to know this. My fortune is gone. I am without assets, means, or expectations.” She said this without any obvious distress, only a great deal of weariness. “The Eastlake fleet has been taken by pirates, my stocks are worthless, and most of my personal property has been sold off to finance this last Season. My last golden Season,” she finished with an ironical cant to her brow.

His brows drew together in concentration. Lady Lydia Eastlake’s sudden interest in wedlock after years of turning down the
ton
’s most eligible bachelors now made sense. He considered the matter and decided it did not affect his situation.

“I don’t care, Lady Lydia,” he said in his signature drawl. “After I wed, I shall have the wherewithal to buy ten fleets.”

“Oh.”

He began pacing up and down in front of her, head down, picking his way carefully. “You have been most direct with me and in a way that forestalled me from making a proposal that would have rendered me obligated. I appreciate that honesty and I mean to return it to you.” He paused but still did not look at her.

“If I wed before my grandfather dies, I will inherit a great fortune. If I fail to wed before his death, his fortune shall be given to several universities. One in Edinburgh.” He lifted his upper lip in a delicate sneer. “Which would be a great waste of a fortune, don’t you think?”

He cleared his throat and struck a stance. “Lady Lydia, I have come to believe that you and I would suit very well. You come from a noble family, have
éclat
, wit, and address and you are sophisticated.”

For the first time, a hint of amusement lightened her dark eyes. “You have not mentioned my great beauty.”

He’d forgotten it. To him only one woman’s beauty was worth comment. “That goes without saying. You are most beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

He was a little nonplussed by her lack of appreciation, truth be told, but plowed ahead even though he knew he did so with far less suaveness than he was used to conducting himself. “I, too, am imbued with all these qualities—except the noble family, though my antecedents are gentlemen.”

“Indeed.” She nodded.

“Therefore, Lady Lydia”—he cleared his throat—“it seems to me it would make perfect sense for such compatible people as ourselves to join together in matrimony.”

“It would seem to make sense,” she murmured. “Perfect sense.”

He nodded, abruptly feeling a little glum. “Indeed it does, and seeing as that is so”—he took a deep breath—“Lady Lydia, will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

She did not answer his proposal, instead leaning forward and asking, “You
really
do not care about my lack of wealth? It does not cause you even an instant’s hesitation? I mean this, Mr. Smyth: I do not have any money.” She waved her hand around the room, inviting his scrutiny.

He looked around, once again noting the paucity of . . .
things
. Ah, yes. This, too, made sense. She’d been selling off her famous collection of
objets d’art
. He hurried to reassure her. “It makes no difference at all. You can keep this house and redecorate. Without consideration to cost.”

“I have no other property.”

“I don’t need land, I need a bride.”

“Not a sou in the bank.”

“I’ll have sous enough for half of London.”

“I’ve even sold the brougham with the yellow wheels.”

Well, that was a shame. . . . He sighed. “We’ll just have to buy another.”

She sank back, looking oddly deflated.

“Will you? Marry me, that is?”

She looked around the room, as though seeking inspiration, and his hopes both rose and fell. “Mr. Smyth,” she said, “I am well cognizant of the honor you do me, but I would do you a disservice if I were to claim an affection I do not have.”

He lifted a shoulder in a sad little shrug. “As would I. I do not require your love, Lady Lydia, just your hand and I hope, your friendship, which, if given, shall put us leaps and bounds ahead of most married couples.”

She was quiet a moment, her head bowed over her folded hands. Twice, he thought she might speak, but both times, her first syllables turned into shaky sighs. He did not press her. He had asked. He could not bring himself to do more.

Finally, she lifted her head. “I know time is of the essence, Mr. Smyth, but I need to think. May I give you an answer tomorrow?”

A day. His grandfather might not be alive. On the other hand, he had a special license already in hand. And what other choice did he have? There were not that many women in London who fit his requirements and, of those, he’d paid court to only Lady Lydia. No lady he would consider wedding would accept an offer made under such circumstances. “If I cannot persuade you to a quicker decision.”

“I do not think you can.”

“Then, of course.” He bowed. “I’ll take my leave, hoping your answer will make us both happy.”

It was not until he’d accepted his hat and cane from the maid and stepped out the front door that he admitted he didn’t know which answer would accomplish that.

Lydia sat for long minutes gazing around a room stripped of nearly all decoration, as had been all the rooms in her town house. The Limoges, crystal bowls, gilt mirrors, auxiliary furnishings, silver candelabras, gold plate, bronze and marble statuary and fine paintings, the enameled snuff boxes, brass andirons, and Persian carpets had all been discreetly sold at auction by Terwilliger’s agents.

Stripped of its gilding, one could now see the bare bones of the house, the tall airy windows spaced at regular intervals across the cream-colored walls, the lofty, coved ceiling with its carved plaster medallions, the subtle marquetry in the wooden floor. There was nothing left to distract from either appreciation or criticism of what, at this elemental level, it was.

Childe Smyth had seen only what had been taken, not what was left.

She did not know why she had asked for a day in which to consider his proposal. She would say yes. Of course she would. As he’d said, it made perfect sense. He did not love her, he did not pretend to, but neither did he expect her to love him. He had proposed a marriage of convenience, both parties benefiting equally from the arrangement.

And as he’d said, they were friends. Not great friends, not the sort of friend with whom one might share one’s most intimate thoughts and dreams, confess one’s weakness and fears, discuss and debate things other than fashion and gossip. Not the sort of friend who made one’s heart skip simply by smiling, and whose laughter made one laugh, too. Not the sort of friend whose gray eyes seemed able to see into one’s very soul, and whose caress made one weak, whose voice seemed to pluck at some inner chord, and whose mouth inspired unquenchable desire.

Not that sort of friend.

She buried her face in her hands, tears damping her palms, her back shaking in silent sobs. God, what was she to do?

A light rap on the door brought her head up and she dashed away her tears, dabbing at her cheeks with the hem of her gown. “Come in.”

Her maid opened the door, her last footman being otherwise occupied. Eleanor did not wait to be announced but swept into the room as she handed the maid her bonnet and pelisse. “That will be all,” she told the maid.

Lydia nodded and the maid bobbed a curtsy before retreating and closing the door behind her.

“You look as glum as a cake in a butcher’s shop,” Eleanor said without preamble. “Whatever is the matter? You should be enjoying last night’s triumph. Really, my dear, I didn’t know at the time what you were about when you insisted on leaving in so covert a manner, but this morning your strategy has become apparent and, I must say, I applaud you. So clever!” She sat down beside Lydia and patted her hand.

“What do you mean?” Lydia asked.

“The entire
ton
is abuzz with speculation regarding the identity of Aurelia.”

“Someone will soon piece it together,” Lydia replied without much interest. “Everyone saw me arrive with you.”

“Not so,” Eleanor said. “Neither Emily nor I showed ourselves in the window. Only you. When we arrived, you wore your domino and stayed back while Emily and I entered. And when you were presented as Aurelia, we were not with you. And leaving before your identity was revealed? Genius. No one is talking of anything besides the golden lady.”

She got up and began walking rapidly back and forth, her expression filled with anticipation. “When you do let it slip who you are, Childe Smyth will be falling over himself to ask for your hand.” She gave a ladylike snort of derision. “He will have finally found someone worthy to share the stage with him.”

“What stage is that?” Lydia asked, unable to keep the bitter note from her voice. Was that all her life would amount to, an act upon a stage?

Eleanor swung around, brows raised. “Why, the world stage, Lydia. How odd you are. Are you feeling all right? If not, for heaven’s sake, let my doctor fix you a tisane. You mustn’t look like this, like some pitiful ghost, when Childe Smyth comes calling. And he will.” Her eyes sparkled. “His grandfather is nearing the end.”

“Oh, glad tidings,” Lydia said sharply.

Eleanor’s head snapped back as if she’d been slapped, astonished Lydia would use such a tone with her. Lydia understood. But she did not apologize. Ned had taught her the difference between decency and good manners. Eleanor had gone too far with this gleeful anticipation of an old man’s death.

“You don’t even like Childe Smyth, Eleanor,” she said, “and yet you encourage me to accept his suit.”

Eleanor’s lips twisted with impatience. “I did not
like
my husband and I accepted his suit. That’s hardly the point.”

“What is the point?”

Eleanor sighed and took the chair opposite Lydia, stripping the gloves from her hands, a sure sign she anticipated a lengthy debate and one she did not intend to lose. Laying them on her lap, she fixed Lydia with a hard gaze.

“The point is, Lydia, that you have only one solution to your situation: Marry Childe Smyth. You have no other options. If you do not accept him, you shall lose all those things most valuable to you.”

She’d already done that, she thought as Ned’s face flashed through her mind. “And what do you think those are?”

“Wealth, independence, prestige, and Society.”

When Lydia only returned her regard with empty eyes, Eleanor switched tactic. “Lydia. You surprise me. Why are you acting as if you did not propose this course of action in the first place? You force me to be harsh.” She turned to face Lydia squarely. “You have been raised to enjoy a certain lifestyle that few people have even imagined. You have never known anything else,” she said. “It is not simply a question of having the wherewithal to purchase whatever takes your fancy. Many people can do that. It is the position in Society that your wealth has bequeathed you that is irreplaceable.

“Your wealth has allowed you independence and Society’s tolerance of that independence. Because you are the fabulously
wealthy
Lady Lydia Eastlake, all doors are open to you despite your lack of an acceptable chaperone or sponsor. You have entrée to the best Society, the finest arts, luxurious travel, and myriad experiences you would never have known as simply Lady Lydia Eastlake.