Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2) Page 3

  “Four.” Her lips twisted ruefully. “One would almost believe my brother to be searching them out rather than educating himself on history and art.”

  “And your other brothers?”

  “They are both well. Preparations for Harry’s wedding proceed, and Michael is doing well at Eton.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  She smiled. Silence fell between them. The fire crackled, and in the distance he could hear the movements of his staff as they went about their duties outside the study.

  “My sister is also well,” Alexandra finally said.

  He told himself his interest in Lydia was no different than any other who was acquainted with her. “Is she?”

  “Since her return from the Continent, she has cut a broad swathe through the Ton. Papa has had to wade through all the gentlemen wishing to court her.”

  Dull pain lodged in his chest as he made a noncommittal noise. He was too young for heart problems. Maybe it was because he hadn’t eaten.

  He knew Lydia had returned. Three months ago. She’d toured Paris, Venice, and Vienna for a year and a half, and he’d braced himself for seeing her for the first time since her eighteenth birthday ball. He’d needn’t have bothered as it had been, by anyone’s reckoning, anticlimactic. He’d attended a family dinner at Torrence House, and his palms had sweated and his heart had raced, but when she had spied him, her gaze had slid over him with a polite smile as if there were nothing between them. As if she hadn’t said she’d loved him. In the months since her return, she’d spoken all of four words to him, and only then after he’d welcomed her home. Thank you, Lord Roxwaithe.

  “She’ll be at the Fanning ball tonight,” Alexandra said.

  His hands curled into fists. “Along with most of London,” he said as indifferently as he could. “Forgive me, Lady Alexandra, but what brings you to Roxegate?”

  Sitting back in her chair, she asked, “I cannot visit an old family friend?”

  “You have not done so before,” he said bluntly. “How can I assist you?”

  She bit her lip. “My father told me of a report. From Waithe Hall.”

  Of course. The Torrences had peculiar interests. Her brother was interested in medical grotesquery, her sister in tying men in knots, and Alexandra Torrence was interested in the occult.

  “Father won’t expand upon it, but you will, won’t you, Roxwaithe?” She looked at him beseechingly.

  He didn’t know how to respond. At more than one house party, Alexandra searched its rooms and halls for evidence of ghostly visitation. Lord Demartine spoke with pride of the lexicon Alexandra had gathered, and encouraged his eldest daughter in her pursuits. The Torrences were, as he said, uniformly odd.

  They were, however, his family. He and Stephen had leaned heavily on the Torrences when Maxim had died, and when he’d become the earl, Lord Demartine’s council had steered him from disaster too often to count. It was strange Lord Demartine did not wish to encourage Alexandra in this particular pursuit, but he would not go against the Marquis’s wishes. “I am sorry, Lady Alexandra,” he said quietly.

  “It is only it is such an interesting circumstance, and I have a personal connection to Waithe Hall. I already know all the tales and….”

  “Waithe Hall is closed, Alexandra. No doubt it is simply the villagers’ imaginations.”

  “No doubt,” she echoed. “You will tell me, though, should there be any more reports?”

  “I will discuss them with your father, and relay to him any necessary impact to Bentley Close.”

  “That’s not what I—” She sighed. “Thank you, Roxwaithe.” Getting to her feet, she gave him a small smile. “I shall trouble you no further and leave you to your work.”

  Hastily, he rose. “It was no trouble.”

  She gave another smile and turned to leave.

  Unable to stop himself, he said, “Your family are to the Fanning ball tonight?”

  She paused, clearly surprised. He didn’t blame her. “Yes. Will we see you there, my lord?”

  Of course he wouldn't attend. He never attended balls anymore. “Yes,” he said, surprising even himself.

  A frown troubled her brow briefly. “I hope you will seek me out.”

  Remembering his manners, he said, “And that you shall save me a dance.”

  “Of course. No need to see me out,” she said as he stepped from behind his desk.

  He hovered awkwardly. “But—”

  “We are practically family.”

  They were. Lord Demartine was more of a father to him than his ever had been.

  “Good day, my lord.” Alexandra left, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Slowly, he lowered himself into his chair. He never went to balls anymore. Hell, had he even responded to the invitation?

  He rang for his secretary and Rajitha was, as always, prompt in his response. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Rajitha, did I respond to the Fanning invite?”

  It took Rajitha but a moment to respond. “No, my lord.”

  “In that case, do so now in the affirmative and extend my apologies to Lady Fanning for the lateness of my reply.”

  “Yes, my lord. Do you require anything further?”

  “Not at the moment. Thank you, Rajitha.”

  The secretary offered a short bow and departed.

  Leaning back in his chair, Oliver stared again out the window. Why he'd agreed to go to the ball baffled him. He’d been to a handful of gatherings in the last year, and none in the past three months. He had been busy, and he hadn’t wanted to make things awkward for her. For Lydia. After the dinner where she’d ignored him, he’d barely seen her, mostly by design. She clearly had no wish to renew their friendship and he had no desire to force his presence where it wasn’t wanted. She’d obviously realised her actions on her eighteenth birthday had been a mistake and if her determined pursuit of other men was any indication, she had realised all she had felt was a crush. Theirs had always been an unusual friendship, and it was always a given she would grow out of it. It was for the best, really. No doubt one day soon he would be holding the invitation to her wedding.

  Belatedly, he looked down at his fist. How odd. The paper within it was crushed. Methodically, he smoothed the paper, making it line up with the others on his desk.

  The ball tonight could be interesting. Perhaps he should start the search for a bride. Lydia was cutting a swathe through the ton, perhaps he could do the same. He would be thirty-five on his next birthday and though he had Stephen as his heir, his brother also had yet to marry and set up his nursery.

  He stared down at the creased paper. It would be fine to see her tonight. Maybe they would even share a dance and, maybe, they would again be friends. Maybe she would tell him of her adventures, and she would laugh and tease him as she always had, and things would be…normal.

  Shaking himself, he turned back to his work. Maybe was a dangerous word. Maybe was hope and desire, and could lead to disappointment as much as anything. He would attend the ball and maybe, if he was lucky, it would be unremarkable.

  Chapter Two

  From the balcony, Lydia stared into darkness. Behind her, the sounds of the Fanning ball drifted into the night; laughter and music, crystal clinking and conversation. A warm breeze lifted the curls lying against her nape, playing her hair gently against her skin.

  Closing her eyes, she allowed London to wash over her. She’d enjoyed her time on the Continent immensely but she’d missed the country of her birth, and now she’d returned she took every opportunity to soak in that which made England. There was nothing quite like the capital on a summer’s eve, with the threat of a thunderstorm brewing in the distance and the scent of honeysuckle and lilies carried on the breeze.

  “Here you are.” Lord Matthew Whitton leaned one shoulder against the door jamb, a rakish smirk on his handsome face.

  Placing her elbows against the balustrade, she returned his smile. All evening they’d sent each other glances and it
seemed the game they’d played had now come to a head. “Here I am.”

  “I thought to offer you my arm and a dance, Lady Lydia.”

  “Did you?” Amusement filled as he frowned, clearly not expecting such a dismissive response. However, he recovered quickly, his face once more wreathed with a rakish grin.

  “I did, but I am much taken with this interaction instead,” he said. “There is nothing more beautiful than a lady bathed in moonlight.”

  “Any lady, sir? One would think a certain specificity in this situation would be warranted.”

  A frown touched his brow before it smoothed again, his smile seductive. “Of course I am referring to you, Lady Lydia. There is none in London who can rival your beauty.”

  “Only London? Fie, I did hope for a greater reach.”

  Again, consternation. Inwardly, she sighed. She found her countrymen had not the skill of the French or the wit of the Viennese.

  Eventually, comprehension lit his gaze that she sought to further their game. “I am covered in blushes to have been so gauche as to suggest such, my lady. I have not yet been further than our own fair country, and so did not think to compare beauties in other lands. Forgive me.”

  “But of course, sir. It is an easy mistake to make.”

  He grinned broadly. “You are quite jolly, aren’t you?”

  Disappointment filled her. “Lord Matthew, you do not abandon a flirtation in the middle. When you do make it to Paris and beyond, the ladies will be most disappointed.”

  “I have other skills.”

  “Oh?” She watched as he came closer.

  Raising his hand, he lifted a curl from her nape and twined it around his finger. “Shall I show you?”

  “It is of supreme discourtesy to offer such a thing and then not display it.”

  The corner of his lip lifted. “So shall I?”

  Her response was to simply raise a brow.

  Slowly, he bent his head and his lips brushed hers, gentle and sweet. What would be his next move? Would he believe, because she’d agreed to a kiss, she’d agree to more? Or was he a sensible boy, and realise a woman agreeing to a kiss meant just that?

  It seemed he was a sensible boy. His lips moved against hers, long dark lashes resting against his cheeks. It was so unfair. Why did men always have the beautiful lashes? Her own were stubby things, such she’d taken to darkening them with beeswax and soot as her French lady’s maid had shown her in Paris.

  With a sigh, Lord Matthew pulled back, his arms still caging her to the balustrade. “That was pleasant,” he said softly.

  It was pleasant. Lord Matthew was a pleasant enough fellow, and he seemed to understand the game with minimal prodding. He was at most two years her elder and the heir to the Earl of Cornell. Her family would be pleased should she announce he courted her. There was absolutely no reason she shouldn’t fall in love with him.

  The loud clearing of a throat interrupted them. Lord Matthew hastily pushed himself from her, his charming smile fading as he paled. Lydia couldn’t fault him his reaction. The Earl of Roxwaithe in a cold temper was a terrifying sight.

  Jaw clenched, Oliver stood rigid, blocking the entrance to the house. Dark brows drew further over cold grey eyes, noting Lord Matthew still stood closer to her than was proper, while full lips tightened into a displeased line. Long golden brown hair was clubbed back at his nape, and a close-cropped beard shadowed his strong jaw. An immaculately tailored coat clung to wide shoulders that tapered to narrow hips, and buff-coloured breeches covered powerful thighs. She knew, in the past, he’d spent time at Peterson’s Gymnasium because whenever she had mentioned it, his cheeks would ruddy and he’d become bashful, so she’d made sure to mention it often. He was half a foot taller than she, towering over most men, and with his hands behind his back, there was little to distract from the awesome breadth of him.

  Heart racing, she wet her lips. Damn him, the sight of him still made her weak.

  Coldly, Oliver said, “I was unaware you knew Lady Lydia, Whitton.”

  “I, ah—” Throwing her a helpless glance, Lord Matthew edged toward the French doors.

  Without removing her gaze from Oliver, Lydia said, “I’ll see you back in the ball room, my lord.”

  “Yes. Thank you,” Lord Matthew said gratefully, bowing and departing in haste. He had to edge around Oliver, who stood his ground and watched him silently, eyes glinting in the low light.

  When they were alone, she said, “Good evening, Roxwaithe. Are you enjoying the ball?”

  “What were you doing with that boy?” he said without preamble.

  She shrugged. “Playing.”

  His expression became colder. “That is your explanation?”

  “I wasn’t aware I had anything to explain.”

  “He does not even stay to protect you or ensure your safety. You chose poorly, Lydia.”

  She sighed. “It was a dalliance, nothing more.”

  “Even worse. As your elder—”

  She gave a staccato laugh. “Oh yes, please. Do tell me as my elder what I should do.”

  “As your elder,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “It behooves me to warn you against playing fast and loose with your reputation.”

  “It is mine to do with as I please, and no concern of yours.”

  “Whatever occurred on the Continent, it is different in London.”

  “You have no notion of what occurred on the Continent.”

  His jaw worked. “I see,” he said stiffly.

  “I’m not sure you do,” she retorted. Let him think the worst of her. Let. Him.

  Glancing beyond her, he seemingly collected himself. “Regardless of what occurred, you are in London, amongst society. What was permissible in Paris is not here.”

  “Why are you saying such things to me, as if I do not know the rules? I know them as well as you.”

  His lips twisted. “Yes. You know them so well you allow a boy to maul you in full view of the ballroom.”

  “He wasn’t mauling me.”

  “From where I stood, he was certainly mauling you.”

  “How, pray, was he mauling me? He had both hands on the balustrade.” Damnation, but he had no right to interfere. None.

  “He was caging you.”

  “He was not,” she retorted.

  “I thought he was attacking you!”

  “Well, he wasn’t!”

  The words hung in the night air. Chest heaving, he stared at her, his grey eyes tumultuous. Her chest hurt. How was it they were yelling at each other? Where had it gone so wrong?

  Oh, she remembered. When he had rejected her.

  “I apologise,” he said.

  She turned her face away, willing the tears that burned her eyes to do the same. “Is that all you have to say?”

  The gentle breeze picked again at the hair on her nape. In the distance, people laughed and music played.

  “I apologise profusely,” he finally said.

  Bitterness twisted her lips. “Thank you for your condescension, Roxwaithe. I appreciate it greatly.”

  He frowned. “You’re calling me Roxwaithe.”

  “It is your name. What else should you be called?”

  Glancing away, he shrugged.

  No. No, he could not do this to her. She would not feel guilty. She wouldn’t. “Roxwaithe,” she stressed. “Is there aught else you wish to chide me on? My gown, perhaps? The length of my bodice? Perhaps my hair is incorrectly arranged.”

  His expression hardened. “No. Simply the company you keep.”

  “Ah, something that has absolutely nothing to do with you. Well done.”

  He opened his mouth as if he would retort then pressed his lips together. Bowing sharply, he turned on his heel and, before she could say another word, left the balcony.

  Crossing her arms, she stared after him. She wanted to storm after him, grab him and demand he pay her attention, but such action had never done her much good, had it? He’d decided to ignore
her, and heaven forbid anyone try to change Oliver Farlisle’s mind once he’d decided something. It was just like when she’d come back from the Continent. He’d avoided her until he’d been forced to greet her, and then it had been with such an air of disinterest, it had been all she could do to scrounge disinterest in return.

  Digging her fingers into her biceps, she forced herself to remain where she was. She’d been so certain they were meant for each other, and the night of her eighteenth birthday had seemed the perfect occasion to show him she was ready. She’d kissed him and, inexperienced though she had been, she’d felt him respond. But then he’d pushed her from him, and the horrified look on his face had almost destroyed her.

  When her father had discovered them and sent her to her mother as if she were a child, she’d been so ashamed she’d simply done as he’d commanded. Her mother had been surprised to see her, but when her father had also appeared and, after a few moments of furious whispering, promptly decamped, her mother had turned to her with a wry comprehension.

  “So, your father interrupted something,” her mother had said.

  Pressing her lips together, Lydia hadn’t responded.

  “Lydia?” her mother had prompted.

  Digging her fingers into her biceps, she’d stared at the floor.

  Her mother had sighed. “Lydia, were you kissing Lord Roxwaithe?”

  Still she hadn’t answered.

  “Did you kiss him or did he kiss you?”

  “What does that matter?” she’d burst out.

  “It matters.” Her mother had waited.

  “I kissed him,” she’d finally admitted.

  Her mother had sighed again. “I thought so.” Her mother had come closer to sit beside her, taking her hand. “Lydia, you cannot force someone to feel as you do.”

  “I am not forcing him to feel anything. He loves me.”

  “As a sister—”

  “No. He loves me.”

  Her mother had shook her head. “Even if he does, he’s not ready and you cannot force him.”