The Golden Season (19 page)

“And, Neddie,” she sniffed bravely, but then courage failed her and she wailed, “They are doing it again tonight!”

“What? How do you know this?”

“I heard them discussing it this evening when they thought they were alone. I would have confronted them, but then . . . well, I didn’t. I’m no good at confronting people and I shan’t be made to feel guilty because I don’t pretend to be what I’m not. I do wish Beatrice had been home, but she is chaperoning Mary at the Vedders’ musicale. Not that Beatrice would have done any differently, but I should have liked the comfort of her presence when I was obliged to come to you.”

She said this last in such a way that Ned felt a villain for his earlier impatience. But, then, reason told him this is exactly what Nadine meant him to feel.

“How long ago did they leave?”

“A few hours.”

Ned’s brows rose. “It took that long to come to me here?”

Nadine looked at him. “It took that long to dress. My heavens, Neddie, I was in no state to be seen in public. I am the Countess of Josten.”

He closed his eyes.

“Are you frightfully angry?”

“No.”

She breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “I
knew
you wouldn’t be. You never are. That’s why I came to you. You always keep yourself so well in hand. You won’t act impulsively. You couldn’t. But you must
act
, Neddie. You mustn’t just sit around here and hope they come back and all will be well. They won’t and it shan’t be. I know. I have tried. So, please,
do
something.”

He always did. He would again.

“Don’t worry, Nadine. I’ll take care of it.”

She didn’t ask him how.

“Will I pass?” Lydia asked, twirling around before Emily.

The gown had arrived from the modiste that morning. Though certain to excite comment, Lydia still was not sure it was the sort of comment she should welcome. It was a bit bold for a spinster. Even one of Lydia’s flamboyance.

For one, there was the color. No gauzy drift of colorless muslin for Lydia. But instead tissue-thin silk in a stunning peacock blue that rustled like the tittle-tattle of gossip—gossip sure to follow her—when she walked. Its puffed sleeves were slashed and inset with shimmering copper-colored satin. The same satin trimmed the bodice and deep flounce embroidered with tourmalines. A tourmaline necklace she’d borrowed from Eleanor hung around her neck and tourmalines hung from her earlobes.

Then there was the cut. The small puffed sleeve sat at the very crest of her shoulders, the neckline plunging in a deep vee, exposing a great deal of pale skin. Perhaps it was a bit more than daring. Perhaps Ned would find it vulgar. Or, she secretly hoped, enticing.

They had spent more time together in the past month than many engaged couples did and he still maintained a strictly respectful proximity. It was beginning to confound her. She’d been kissed before—perhaps too many times, truth be told—and on far less encouragement than she’d given Ned. But the thought of being kissed by Ned made her pulse race. Perhaps, she thought, studying her reflection, tonight that would change.

“You look splendid, Lydia,” Emily confirmed. “But you do not need a dress to achieve that.”

Lydia laughed and twirled again. “Ah, but you are prejudiced, Emily. You see me with loving eyes.”

“It is not
my
affection that lends you such rare looks these days.”

Lydia had no secrets from Emily. She knew quite well to whom Emily referred. “Is it so obvious, then?” she asked.

“Yes,” Emily said.

“Too obvious?” she asked worriedly.

Emily gave a soft smile. “To whom?”

“Do you think he will feel pursued? Like Byron did by Caro Lamb?”

Emily laughed. “Good heavens, no. I cannot imagine you stalking a gentleman into his home,” she said, referring to the infamous visit Caroline Lamb, disguised as a page, had paid on Lord Byron and there attempted to take her own life. Lydia had been as shocked and appalled as the rest of Society by the story.

Caro Lamb should have retained some measure of self-respect, an appreciation of who and what she was. She should have kept something back. But she hadn’t. She had loved hysterically and wholly and tragically and then netted the result of her unreasoning passion and now she was accepted only by those willing to dole out a portion of pity or wanting to indulge their curiosity. She was excluded. Alone.

Lydia would hate being alone like that. Again.

Not that it would happen. It wouldn’t. Because she would not ever behave in a manner that saw her ostracized from Society. More important, she would marry wisely, a man of standing, someone whose rank matched those of her friends, someone whose wealth enabled a life amongst the
beau monde
.

Someone like Ned.

There was nothing unwise in loving Ned Lockton. It was wise
and
wonderful. Realizing this fact anew, relief swept through her, as it always did when she thought of it, clearing away her unwarranted and mysterious unease.

She nearly twirled again but caught Emily’s eye. Her expression had gone from approbation to concern.

“What is it, Emily?”

“Nothing,” Emily replied.

“Something is amiss. I can see it in your face. Won’t you reconsider and come with me tonight? I should so like your company.”

“No, no, dear,” Emily said. “I much prefer to stay here. My lumbago, you know. Besides, Eleanor likes to play chaperone in my stead. She rather enjoys showing you off, I think.”

“That is not the point, Emily. I should enjoy
your
company.”

It was no good, Lydia knew. Ever since Lady Pickler’s luncheon, Emily had refused to accompany Lydia to the many private soirees and balls to which she’d been invited. She would plead a headache or fatigue or some other excuse. Lydia knew better. Emily did not dare test her compulsion to take things. She would rather die than put Lydia in an untenable situation.

“Please?”

“No, Lydia. I am far more comfortable staying here and so should you be with my decision.”

“Then at least tell me what thought caused you to look so unhappy.”

She hesitated. “It’s silly.”

“I hope so, but I will only be able to reassure you if you confide in me as I always do to you.”

Emily gave her a quick smile. “Very well. I was wishing that things could stay as they were and that you weren’t obliged to marry. See how silly?”

“But I thought you wanted to dandle my babies?” Lydia said, surprised.

“I do!” Emily exclaimed. “But I don’t want you to have to marry.”

“Most people find the two situations compatible,” Lydia said, attempting a light tone. “One marries; then one has a child.”

For a heartbeat, Emily didn’t speak. Then she whispered, “Sometimes.”

Something in Emily’s voice made Lydia glance up sharply. She knew little of the particulars of Emily’s marriage to Bernard Cod. Emily seemed far more willing to speak of her years at Brislington than those she’d been married and Lydia had not ever pressed her for more than she’d been willing to impart. All she knew was that Emily’s husband had been a banker who’d purportedly cheated his clients and was cruel enough to commit his wife to an asylum and there abandon her.

Had Emily been a mother? If so, what had happened to her child? Had Cod been alive, Lydia would suppose the child would be with him. In cases of separation the father always retained sole custody of his progeny. But Cod was dead.

“Emily?” she prompted gently. “Do you have a child?”

For a long moment Emily was silent, her expression distant with bittersweet recollection. Finally she murmured, “No. She died before she was born. Almost twenty years ago.”

Lydia crossed to Emily’s side and put an arm around her waist, drawing her gently toward the settee. She sat down and bade Emily do the same and only then said, “I am sorry.”

“I am, too.” Emily’s smile trembled a second until, with an obvious effort, she shook off her melancholy. “But it was a long time ago. Still, you will understand my trepidation. My marriage was not happy.”

“I am so sorry you were forced into a marriage you didn’t want—”

“I wasn’t forced.”

Lydia started. Though Emily had never said as much, she had always assumed that the unfailingly gentle woman had been pressured into an unwanted marriage with an abominable man. To hear this was not so surprised her.

Emily glanced at her and smiled ruefully. “It is true that my parents were elderly when I made my debut and most anxious to see me settled in my own home before they died. But they cautioned me against accepting Cod. I thought it was snobbery on their part, because Cod’s family wasn’t as genteel as my own. If only I had listened.” She broke off and started again. “He didn’t seem—He was handsome and attentive and self-confident. . . . In short, all the things I was not. I fell in love with him my first Season out and nothing mattered but I be allowed to wed him. My father, unhappy with my choice, had papers drawn up that would guarantee me a yearly annuity and a settlement, but Cod would not sign them. I didn’t care. I begged my father to consent. I threatened to elope if he did not.” She looked down at her hands again.

“And so we married. You know enough of my history to guess how terribly wrong I was about Cod’s character. Within a year of my parents’ deaths he had gone through my inheritance on schemes to grow wealthy that never materialized. He became increasingly obsessed with the accumulation of wealth. I learned later that he had begun to defraud his clients.”

Her voice quavered and steadied. “He grew bored with me. He grew . . . most critical and dismissive. Then I became pregnant and soon after”—Emily stopped, took a deep breath as one preparing to face something horrible—“I had the accident that resulted in my losing the child. And after that, I . . . lost my way. I began to pilfer little things. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. And he sent me to Brislington.”

Lydia could not bear the unhappiness in Emily’s face. She reached out and clasped her hand. “I am so sorry. You deserve so much better.”

Emily squeezed her hand, releasing a long, unsteady sigh. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and when she opened them, they’d cleared. “You have been so happy as you are, Lydia. I know marriage is your only viable course now. I understand that, but I want you to be cautious. Consider carefully in choosing a husband, and do not be unduly influenced by romantic notions.”

Lydia nodded in agreement. Emily spoke wisely, of course, but she could not ignore the “romantic notions” that fluttered in her heart every time she thought of Ned Lockton. But then, she did not have to. Ned had an exemplary character and she was the one with everything to gain from the association—companionship, affection, family, a noble name, and wealth, of course.

“Make certain you are well compensated for marrying. Insist on an allowance in writing and a settlement that can assure your independence when he dies. Captain Lockton seems a very gallant and amiable gentleman, but still, take nothing for granted. Men’s hearts are inconstant and the promises they make are unreliable. Only independent wealth can guarantee security, my dear.” Emily gave another small sigh and smiled wanly. “But you already know this, don’t you?”

Lydia smiled weakly. For the first time, she wondered if she truly did.

Happily, by the time Eleanor had arrived to pick Lydia up in her carriage and they had made their way through traffic crush in front of Young’s house in Cavendish Square and the doorman had hastened down the mansion’s marble steps to light their way, and the majordomo had announced her name as a hundred pairs of admiring eyes had turned to where she stood shimmering beneath the glow of a thousand beeswax tapers, Lydia’s high spirits had been restored.

She greeted her host and hostess, curtsying and moving on to the crowded floor beyond, eagerly searching for one tall, broad-shouldered figure. He was always easy to spot with his dark gold head of hair and his imposing height. Although in the last weeks she hadn’t needed to search him out as he’d always come forward to greet her as soon as she arrived. But tonight he was not immediately apparent.

Her enthusiasm faded, her spirits dampened. So much of her enjoyment of the social whirl now came from knowing that Ned would be wherever she was going, awaiting her with a warm look of admiration, his manner attentive, his comments designed to tease a smile or provoke discussion.

But in the last few days she found her gaze wandering more and more to his mouth, wondering what it would feel like pressed to hers. Or dwelling on his hands, long-fingered and strong, recalling how easily they’d encompassed her waist. Or on his shoulders, remembering how solid and broad and warm they had felt when he had held her in Roubalais’s shop.

Ned never hinted that he had recognized her from that encounter. She was glad, of course. She had, after all, been pawning her jewelry. But she could not help but think that had their situations been reversed she would have found something about him familiar. The shape of his mouth, the scent of him, the timbre of his voice . . .

Why the blazes hasn’t he kissed me
? Or at least told me he
wanted
to kiss me? It plagued her, this itch, this frustration, this sense of burgeoning need. Need? She was not thinking of taking a lover, she reminded herself. She was considering a kiss.

Unfortunately, Ned showed no signs of a similar consideration. He was all that was composed and gentlemanly. Indeed, there was no evidence he had any trouble controlling his ardor. No evidence there was any ardor to control.

Damn.

“Lydia.” Eleanor appeared at her side. She looked out of sorts, her usual cool demeanor ruffled. “What ever are you doing standing here staring into space? A lady never waits for a gentleman. Come away before you make yourself even more obvious than you already have.”