Love With a Scandalous Lord (22 page)

Years of marriage to the old Sachse had proven Camilla barren. Rhys did not have to concern himself with how his children would feel to know their father
did not love their mother. For that he was grateful. He would find an heir elsewhere in the family.

As he stepped onto the false flooring, he gave Whithaven a brusque nod before turning his attention to the crowd.

“I am new to the title and certain to make many missteps along the way,” he said, “but I am certain of this. I shall love only once and that it shall be forever. It is with honor that I announce my intention to ask Lady Sachse for her hand in marriage.”

Escape! Escape!
It was all Lydia could think. She had to escape. Turning her shoulders this way and that, she wended her way through the crowd until she reached the doors that led into the garden.

She had no strength in her hand as she struggled to turn the knob. No strength in her legs as she stumbled outside. She was trembling and nauseated, while chills cascaded through her. She staggered to the railing and gripped it with icy fingers.

He’d sworn to her that he would never marry. And now he intended to marry Lady Sachse!

Lydia had been such a fool. She’d asked him to teach her what her books didn’t. And he’d taught her how painful a shattered heart could be.

She’d wanted to stay in London to have more time with him. She’d thought if he saw her in lovely ball gowns, if he saw that she was poised and graceful, if he saw that she truly belonged in this world, then he’d cast his doubts aside.

Instead he’d cast her aside.

“Miss Westland? Are you well?”

Lord Sachse. She recognized his voice, heard his
concern for her. Tears stung her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath. She had to get control of herself. She swallowed hard, trying to eliminate the tingling in her jaw. She would not be sick here.

“Yes, my lord, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Are you certain? I saw you leave, and you seemed quite pale.”

“The crowds,” she stammered. “I’m not accustomed to the crowds. In Texas, you can walk forever and not run into anyone. In there, suddenly I felt like the walls, the people, the paintings, everything was closing in on me.”

“I thought perhaps it was the shock of the Duke’s announcement,” he said kindly.

She shook her head quickly. “No, of course not. Why would I care who he intends to marry?”

“I noticed the way you looked at him while you danced.” He cleared his throat. “I must apologize. I am an absolute buffoon, hardly well versed in protocol. Perhaps my bumbling efforts would best be served by bringing you a bit of punch. Then perhaps you would do me the honor of dancing with me.”

She nodded, wondering how in God’s name she would make it through the remainder of the evening. “Yes, yes, to both.” She turned her head slightly, trying to be polite without revealing her tears. “Thank you. And you’re not a buffoon.”

He bowed slightly. “You are most gracious. I won’t be but a moment.”

He dashed off, and she gave her attention back to the garden smothered in darkness. She really didn’t care if he never returned. She was torn between weeping uncontrollably and maintaining a measure of decorum.
Weeping was winning the battle.

“Lydia?”

Oh, God. Rhys. She wouldn’t weep in front of him, wouldn’t let him see how badly he’d hurt her. She would rise to the occasion and show him what a true lady she was.

“Your Grace. Congratulations are in order.” She cursed her voice for quivering.

“A dozen times I’d considered telling you, but I was always at a loss for words,” he said quietly.

“You seemed to have had no trouble finding the words only moments ago when you announced your intention to marry.”

“I know you must think I took advantage—”

She spun around, her fists clenched, her chest aching. “Why her? Why her and not me?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m not simpleminded, Rhys. Explain it to me.”

“I can’t.”

She laughed, a hideous sound that erupted from within her and reached hysterical heights before she managed to control it. “You can’t or you won’t?”

“I won’t.”

She looked past him to where Lord Sachse stood, crystal cup in hand, obviously not certain if he should intrude. She smiled brightly and held out her hand. “My lord, thank you.”

He approached cautiously and gave her the cup. She drank the contents in one long swallow, then ran her tongue around her mouth in a way that she was certain would make Rhys’s gut knot up. She extended the cup to him.

Startled, he took it.

“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I’m going to go have some fun.”

She placed her hand on Sachse’s arm and allowed him to lead her back into the ballroom.

“Well done,” he whispered with a smile just before he took her into his arms for their dance.

She might have believed him if it weren’t for the fact that she felt such a fool for loving so desperately a man incapable of loving her. Because if he did love her as he claimed, why would he not risk everything for their happiness?

“Dear God, you love her.”

Standing in a corner with his intended beside him so that they could receive well wishes from the guests, he could not help but notice Lydia—no matter where she was or with whom. She had danced every dance since she reentered the ballroom. A different gentleman each time.

Her smile grew, her eyes sparkled, and she laughed lightly. If her heart was breaking, she was doing a splendid job of putting it back together. For which he was grateful. Better to have harmed her a little, than to have broken her completely.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” he replied.

“You’re not going to spend the remainder of your life comparing me to her, are you?”

He actually smiled, although he doubted his expression carried any mirth. “There is no comparison to be made.”

Lydia far outshone the woman standing beside him: in beauty, elegance, grace, humor, kindness, compassion. The list was without end. She possessed
the finest aspects of a lady. Something she had not learned from her books. The intricate weaving of her soul that had created a woman he would love until he died.

“She is a success tonight, Rhys. You should take comfort in that.”

“I fear I nearly broke her.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. She’ll get over you quickly enough.”

“I can only hope.”

As for himself, he would never get over her. She would be his last thought when he took his final breath. Beautiful Lydia who called out his name during the throes of passion.

Sweet Lydia. A dreamer who had fallen in love with a realist.

“He did what?” Lauren asked, sitting up in bed.

“He declared his intention to marry Lady Sachse,” Lydia said, repeating what she’d announced when she’d burst into Lauren’s room only a moment earlier.

Clutching her handkerchief, Lauren sniffed. “I don’t understand.”

“And you think I do? Driving home in the carriage with him and that horrid woman was almost intolerable. I thought I’d suffocate.”

“Lady Sachse is highly thought of.”

“Well, I don’t think much of her.” Lydia dropped into a chair, not softly as a lady ought to, but as someone facing defeat.

Lauren blew her nose and settled back beneath the covers. “My head is so stuffed that I can hardly think.”

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t bother you now—”

“No, no.” Lauren fluttered her hand. “I didn’t mean
that. I’m simply confused. I was absolutely certain that you held his heart.”

Lydia had felt the same. She’d thought all he really needed was time. Time to see that she wore the glitter of London well and that she belonged. Time to realize she belonged with
him
.

“He says because he cares for me so much he won’t marry me. He claims that he’s done something he’s ashamed of, something that would destroy me.”

“That makes no sense,” Lauren said. “If that were the case, why risk harming Lady Sachse?”

“Exactly.”

“So, he must have lied to you about the possibility of scandal. Obviously, Lydia, he’s toyed with you.”

Could that be? Could she be that naïve? He’d frequently mentioned her innocence, but she didn’t feel that he’d taken advantage. For some reason, he would risk hurting Lady Sachse, but not Lydia. Why?

“He toyed with you,” Lauren continued, “and wanted to dash any hope you had of marrying him. Thus, his announcement that he intends to wed Lady Sachse. So you will move on to someone else.”

Yes, that made sense. He wanted her to move on.

“Oh, Lauren, until he made his announcement, tonight was everything I’d ever thought London would be and more. I danced every dance. The gentlemen were charming. The formality. The beautiful gowns. The orchestra. I adored all of it so much more tonight because I was accepted, drawn into the center of it all. I don’t want to leave it.”

“Then don’t. My goodness, Lydia, there are gentlemen aplenty. We shall simply have to find you one more deserving than Harrington. My stepfather can interview them for you.”

“No, Rhys offered to provide that service. I like the idea of forcing him to see that other men find me worthy.”

“That’s a girl!”

Lydia sighed, unable to embrace Lauren’s enthusiasm for the idea. She was trying to be strong, trying to be brave, when all she really wanted to do was crawl into a ball and weep. Strange, how at this moment she recalled the Duchess sitting beside her Duke. The woman had given no indication that she’d abhorred the presence of their guests. She’d maintained her dignity.

Lydia had never thought that she would hold the Duchess up as an example of proper behavior. Upon reflection, it seemed she’d learned almost as much from the woman as she had from her son.

It was easy to hold up her head when the world was to her liking. Lydia was determined to prove to Rhys that she was not easily defeated when things didn’t go as she’d hoped.

And if at all possible, torment him in the process.

T
rue courtship was not at all as Lydia had envisioned it would be.

She and her aunt had arrived at Rhys’s house shortly after lunch. They were taking a stroll through the garden when the Earl of Langston had arrived. Lydia had been summoned. Her aunt had decided to continue to enjoy the garden. After all, Rhys was Lydia’s stepfather’s brother. She trusted him. As Lydia knew, chaperones meant much more to the English than to the Americans.

The Earl of Langston had been shown to the parlor, where she’d quickly joined him. Now they both sat quietly and properly in plush chairs with a small table between them. He had a delicate teacup set on a saucer balanced on one thigh, his bowler hat on the other.

She couldn’t imagine any man she knew in Texas drinking from a teacup without breaking it, much less balancing it on his thigh. She hadn’t dared to pick up
hers for fear it would rattle and betray her nervousness.

Although it wasn’t the Earl who had her on edge, it was the Duke standing stiffly before the window, his back to them as though he wanted to give them privacy. Privacy for what, she couldn’t imagine. English courting seemed to comprise little more than darting glances at each other and blushing.

She judged the Earl to be not much older than she was, and he was extremely pleasing to look at. His blond hair formed a curly halo around his head. His long sideburns were more peach fuzz than true whiskers. His posture was beyond reproach, his clothes well tailored. If she believed in judging a book by its cover, she’d have to admit the Earl might make a fine husband.

But she found herself wondering how his kisses might compare with those Rhys had bestowed on her. Would the Earl be capable of heating her body with nothing more than a light touch? Did he possess the ability to make her laugh? Or even to smile? Would he over the years fill her with joy?

Or as Rhys had also done, would he anger her beyond reason, betray her heart and call it compassion.

“I say, Miss Westland,” the Earl began in a deep baritone that nearly had her jumping out of her skin, “I’ve often wondered why it was that North America went to war against South America. Perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten me.”

She stared at the man with the raised eyebrow who seemed to be looking down his narrow patrician nose at her. She felt the color rise in her cheeks, because she didn’t have a clue regarding the war to which he was referring.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I don’t recall that particular
war.”

“You don’t say? I rather thought it was all the talk some years back. I remember my father discussing it and mentioning the war’s bitterness was responsible for the assassination of your President Lincoln.”

She angled her head thoughtfully. “Are you referring to the War Between the North and South?”

Smiling brightly, he nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, by Jove, I believe that was it. Why did North America take such an interest in a neighbor so far away?”

It occurred to her that he might be teasing her. Maybe he had a wry sense of humor, but the seriousness in his eyes indicated he was indeed searching for an answer to his question.

“Not North America. The northern states of America. They fought the southern states.”

His smile dwindled. “I’m not quite certain I follow what you’re saying.”

She sighed, unable to determine exactly how involved he wanted the history lesson to be. “Well, the United States is divided into states, as I’m sure you know.”

He neither nodded nor confirmed in any way that he did indeed know that little fact.

“It was a very complicated war. Slavery divided the states, forced those in the South to decide they no longer wanted to be part of the Union, part of the United States. They wanted to establish their own government so they could govern themselves, establish their own laws.”

He began blinking rapidly and shaking his head. “But I distinctly remember it was the North against the South.”

“Yes, the northern states against the southern states.”

“North America against South America.”

She shook her head. “No, not really.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“Good God, man!” Rhys bellowed from his corner, startling Lydia and causing her to issue a tiny screech.

Apparently he’d scared the Earl of Langston as well, because his cup and saucer landed at his feet with a small kerplunk and a faint ringing as china tapped against china. Thank goodness, the thick carpet prevented the pieces from breaking, although Lydia thought the cup might have chipped. The Earl now stared openmouthed at the Duke.

“Have you never taken a history lesson?” Rhys demanded to know. “Have you never gazed upon a map?”

“Certainly, Your Grace, I’ve managed to accomplish both.”

“Then how is it you are unable to comprehend what Miss Westland has adequately explained?”

“I…I don’t know.”

She watched in stunned fascination as Rhys withdrew his watch from his pocket, clicked open the lid, glanced at it, and snapped it closed. “Your time is up, sir.”

The Earl bobbed his head like an apple in a bucket of water. “Yes, Your Grace.” He lunged to his feet, looked down at his teacup and up at Lydia, his face reddening. “I’m frightfully sorry.”

She rose as well and smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It was my immense pleasure to visit with you, Miss Westland. Will you do me the honor of allowing me to call upon you again?”

She was on the verge of saying yes when Rhys barked, “No, sir, we will not so honor you.”

“Very good,” the young man said, repeatedly bowing as he scurried out of the room.

When the door closed behind him, Lydia turned to her benefactor. “You were rude!”

“He’s densely slow. I was appalled by his lack of knowledge.”

“Because he doesn’t know the particulars of a war that took place in another country and began nearly two decades ago?”

“You are an extremely intelligent woman, Lydia. I will not have you marry a man who will bore you to tears five minutes after he’s placed his signature upon the marriage documents.”

She took a step toward him, angling her chin. “And you’re going to be the one to determine who will bore me to tears and who will not?”

He took a step nearer to her. “Indeed I shall.”

She took another step closer. “What qualifications will you use to determine that he won’t bore me?”

Another step. “He’ll keep abreast of current affairs.”

She took another step, placing herself close enough that she could almost feel the heat of his body. “And you think that will be enough to keep me entertained?”

“Hardly. He shall also have a thorough knowledge of history, both British and American.”

“Do you intend to give him some sort of examination?”

“Perhaps I will.”

He dropped his gaze to her mouth. She parted her lips slightly and ran her tongue around the inner edge, watching as his eyes darkened and his own lips parted.

“What else must he know?” she asked, surprised by the husky nature of her voice.

“He must know the art…” His voice trailed off.

“Paintings, music, theater,” she mused.

“Of seduction.” He lowered his mouth—

The door opened and he jumped back before his lips could press against hers. Having grown dizzy with anticipation, Lydia was surprised she remained standing as the room spun around her.

“Yes, Rawlings,” Rhys demanded.

Hearing the dignified click of the butler’s steps, she strolled to the window, looked out on the garden, and wished for a fan to cool her heated skin. Why was she so unable to resist him—even when she was furious with him?

“Two more gentlemen have come to call on Miss Westland,” Rawlings said.

She glanced over her shoulder in time to see Rhys lift the men’s cards from the silver tray held by Rawlings.

“Viscount Sandoval,” he read aloud before shaking his head and returning one card to the tray. “We are not at home for anyone less than an earl. You may tell the Earl of Carlyle, however, that we are available, and you may show him in.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“Please send a maid to clean up the spill the previous suitor made. Miss Westland and Carlyle will enjoy their tea by the window.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” He made a very stately exit.

“You’re going to tell the Viscount we’re not at home when we are at home?” she asked incredulously.

“Did your books not explain that it gives no insult when you tell someone you are not at home?”

“I think you’re being rude again.”

“Be that as it may, I am quite serious that we will not
consider anyone of a lesser rank than earl.”

“Even if he’s intelligent?”

“I have a set of standards, Lydia. We shall endeavor to find a man who meets all the requirements, not merely a handful of them.”

“Perhaps you should further enlighten me as to what these qualifications are since I’m the one who’ll be marrying the man.”

A tap on the door, and her discussion with Rhys came to an abrupt halt. The door opened, and Rawlings walked in followed by a young man. He had straight brown hair and bushy side whiskers. His puppy-dog brown eyes spoke of intelligence.

“Carlyle,” Rhys said succinctly. “You are welcome to join Miss Westland by the window.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” He hurried over and smiled brightly at her, obviously assuming he’d passed her benefactor’s first test.

Lydia sat, and he quickly followed suit.

“Carlyle, Miss Westland and I were just discussing America’s civil war. Are you familiar with it?”

“Indeed I am, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to share with us what you know.”

“Certainly.”

While Rhys positioned himself before the fireplace, Lydia smiled at her latest suitor, as though she truly cared about the different reasons that had caused a fracture in her country. His eagerness was charming. His knowledge immense. And when he was sitting, it was almost—almost, not quite—impossible to tell that when he stood, he barely reached Lydia’s shoulder.

As her latest suitor turned to leave the room, Lydia closed her eyes. She’d bounced back and forth between the chairs by the window and those in the center of the room. Now she was again in the middle of the room where her afternoon had started.

“We are no longer home, Rawlings,” Lydia heard Rhys say from the doorway.

Thank God for small favors
was all she could think as, with a sigh, she leaned back and rubbed her temples. She’d had four more visitors after Carlyle. One obviously had an affinity for eating foods heavily spiced with garlic. One had been more interested in stuffing the little cakes into his mouth than carrying on a conversation. One had been aged—“like fine wine,” he’d joked upon introduction—and had held a horn to his ear to improve his hearing. One had spoken passionately about the girl he wanted to marry if only his obligations to his family didn’t require him to marry someone who could help replenish the family coffers.

“Is your head hurting?” Rhys asked quietly.

She moaned in the affirmative. “I never knew courtship could be such a pain.”

Although he moved silently through the room, she felt his presence behind her before he placed his hands over hers at her temple.

“Lower your hands,” he ordered.

“And why should I do that?”

“Because I can help make your headache go away.”

She placed her hands on her lap, and he moved his fingers in a slow circular motion against her temples.

“Where does it hurt?” he asked.

“Everywhere.”

He skimmed his hands along the sides of her face,
stopping momentarily at the sensitive spots below her ears, before stopping at the base of her neck. He began slowly, gently kneading the tight muscles that sloped down to her shoulders. The change in the pressure and the angle of his hands told her that he’d knelt behind her.

“I would meet with more success at eliminating your pain if you would not object to me taking your hair down. Mary can put it up before you join your aunt.”

She didn’t particularly want his hands to stop working their magic as he removed her pins, but she imagined he could do a great deal more for her if her hair wasn’t fashionably tidy. She decided his statement must have been rhetorical, because before she could give him permission, he’d already begun to pluck her pins free with one hand while the other continued to squeeze and rub.

She recalled a challenge her stepfather had once issued to the children to rub their tummies and pat their heads. They’d all fallen over laughing at their efforts. She had a feeling Rhys would excel at that task.

Her hair began to fall, and the simplicity of not having it piled elaborately on her head eased her headache somewhat. Rhys burying his fingers into her hair and stroking her scalp caused the pain to abate even further.

And when he moved her hair aside and placed his lips against the silky curve of her neck, all the pain vanished.

“You’re very good,” she said lethargically, as her entire body seemed to melt into the chair.

His hands continued to knead her head, rub her temples, and stroke her ears, while his hot mouth and tongue traveled up and down her neck.

“Is this helping?”

“Definitely. You should consider hiring yourself out.”

His hands stilled, and his mouth hovered over her skin. “Pardon?”

“You’re much better than a headache draught.”

The door suddenly opened, and his fingers flinched against her scalp. Lydia turned her head to see Lady and Lord Sachse standing in the doorway.

“Well, my, my,” Lady Sachse said, “I suppose I was wrong when I told Rawlings we had no need to have our arrival properly announced.”

Rhys glowered at Camilla. He’d thought her continual habit of showing up uninvited had ended when he’d walked out of her house. He extricated his hands from within the wonderful abundant thickness of Lydia’s curls and pushed himself to his feet. “Lydia had a headache after an afternoon of dealing with suitors.”

“Well, then, I look forward to head pains after we’re wed,” Camilla said as she stepped more fully into the room. She angled her head. “Stop shooting darts at me with your eyes, Rhys. It doesn’t become you. And you, my dear, needn’t bother to pin up your hair. It’s really quite beautiful.”