“I will not. I am an Indian woman wearing Indian clothes.”
“You are not an Indian woman.” His assertion was ridiculous, given Lydia’s physical features. He spat his words just as Sarla and Will entered the foyer.
“She is,” Will corrected. “Do you take issue with that, my lord? Had you not noticed before this?”
“Lady Lydia has always been a presentable Englishwoman before tonight. This is obscene.”
“Lady Abbington, Lady Howe, and the late Countess of Devon all wore clothing of this style when they married. Are you calling my wife and sisters-in-law obscene?” Will was tired of the repugnant man, but he forced himself not to expel the miscreant from his house and onto his arse. There was more to lose than to gain if he rejected his daughter’s suitor too soon. But it was growing nigh on impossible to advocate any redeeming qualities for Oliver, and Will couldn’t blame Lydia for soundly rejecting Oliver in public and in private. However, he couldn’t afford for Lydia to chase the man away.
“No. Inthatplace, I suppose all ofthemparade about like this.” He waved his hand up and down in Lydia’s direction. “But we are in England. We know better.”
“My lord, this is a formal ensemble for a special occasion. But this style is how I dress when I’m at home. Will you forbid me to be Indian?” Lydia’s voice was soft and falsely innocent. Oliver knew he wouldn’t win with Lydia’s parents staring at him. “Perhaps you would feel better if you understood what I’m wearing. This skirt is aghagra, and the tunic is akurta. My mother and I both wearodhnias a sash that could be a shawl if the air turns cool.”
“I care not what any of that is, Lady Lydia.” Oliver stepped up to offer his arm. He turned his back to her parents and kept his voice low. “Wear this when we marry, and I will burn it. From here on out youwillappear as a civilized viscountess.”
Lydia glanced down at the proffered arm, then up to Oliver’s eyes. “I’ll remain an uncivilized princess.” She walked past Oliver and through the open front door. She slid into the landau, taking a seat before her mother joined her. The women sat beside each other before the men boarded and sat across from them. It would have been more comfortable if they’d sat as couples, but neither Sarla nor Will thought it a good idea. Lydia was glad for it.
The party of four rode in silence along the drive. Then Sarla attempted to draw Oliver into conversation. Once she maneuvered it to be about him, the pugnacious man rambled on until they reached Lyme Regis and the town’s assembly hall.
“I have it on very good authority Prinny intends to remove Liverpool as War Secretary. The Marchioness of Hertford attended a soiree I was at just a month ago and said as much.”
The Prince Regent’s current senior mistress was a staunch Tory, and so was the Earl of Liverpool. Oliver spewed nonsense. While the women held sway over her younger lover, in his mid-forties, the king knew Liverpool was the best person for the job. If anything, the Earl of Liverpool was likely to be the next Prime Minister.
“Interesting,” Will mused.
“Yes. George feels the war is dragging on far too long. I’ve been quite vocal in the House of Lords. He’s taken note of many of my suggestions, passed along by my peers.”
Lydia gazed off to her right, averting her face, so no one could see her expression. While plenty of people informally referred to the Prince Regent as Prinny, Oliver was certainly not in a position to address the king by his first name. Even if they were one-hundred-and-fifty miles apart, and the prince would be no wiser, it was far above his station to be so familiar. She doubted Oliver ever said anything of use, and anything passed along to Prinny was done to mock Oliver.
“Lady Lydia, you will have the chance to dine at the palace once we are wed.” Oliver’s declaration forced her to look at him again. Her uncle, then both cousins were the Earl of Devon. She’d been to the palace on more than one occasion and dined there each time. She was not impressed.
“How nice.” Lydia couldn’t be free of the insufferable man quickly enough. She offered a tight smile to offset some of the sharpness to her words. Oliver hardly looked please, but he wouldn’t remonstrate her where her parents could hear. He would save that for when they were on the dance floor, and she was forced to be near him.
Oliver offered Lydia his hand as she disembarked from the carriage. She had no choice but to accept, for appearances and because her skirts made it risky for her to step down on her own. As if by her thoughts alone, Keith materialized on horseback. She realized his timing was not accidental. He’d followed them.
Lydia, Oliver, and her parents joined the receiving line behind Keith. Lydia’s eyes roamed over his broad back, down to his trim waist and hips. She knew the feel of his muscled buttocks, and she wished to rest her hands there again. As though he sensed her perusal, Keith twisted as though he meant to look at the people already inside, but he met her gaze from the corner of his eye. The left side of Lydia’s mouth twitched as she repressed her smile. She felt no guilt being caught. However, she endeavored to keep Oliver, who stood to her right, from seeing her reaction to Keith.
“His Grace, Lord Keith MacNeil, the Duke of Dorset.”
Keith stepped forward as the majordomo announced him. All in attendance riveted their attention on the entrance. He’d never attended an assembly before. He watched as the flock of mamas tittered and nudged their virgin daughters. He recalled why he’d always avoided them, even as a young man. He’d attended Almack’s in his younger days and been to various balls during the Season. He’d enjoyed none of them, so he hadn’t missed a moment of pretentious socializing while he sailed.
“Lord Oliver Gwyn, Viscount Sackville. Lord and Lady Abbington, and their daughter, Lady Lydia Abbington.”
Lydia scanned the gathering and spied people she knew since childhood. She noticed her attire shocked some, amused others, and confused many. While plenty of people had seen Sarla and her wearodhniover the years, very few ever saw the two women in full traditional clothing. Both she and Sarla preferred it when they were at home and not available to callers.
“Lady Lydia, I request your first dance.” Keith handed her the dance card with her name on it. He’d easily spotted it among the others on the table near the receiving line. He’d already penciled his name on it.
“But—” Oliver tried to object; however, Keith turned his back to his cousin. He would use his standing as a duke to get what he wanted, and he felt not a moment’s hesitation. Oliver wouldn’t make a scene arguing, and few people would correct Keith that Oliver was entitled to the first dance, since it was obvious Oliver had escorted Lydia to the event.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I shall endeavor not to stomp on your toes.”
“I fear not, my lady.” Keith led Lydia to a place among the dancers as they lined up for a quadrille. The couple who formed the other half of their square were married and disinterested in their partners. However, plenty of other people watched as Keith and Lydia danced together. Unbeknownst to them, they’d already begun the rumors. While Lydia’s attire certainly drew attention, and Keith’s mere attendance caused a stir, it was how they moved together. They appeared as though they’d partnered for years. There was an ease and gracefulness between them that came from a level of comfort and trust in their partnership. By the time the dance ended, they were both breathing hard and had eyes only for one another.
Oliver shattered the moment by insisting upon the next dance. The evening progressed with Oliver vying for every other dance, making his intentions clear when he tried to claim Lydia from each of her partners.
“I believe it is now my turn, Lady Lydia.” Oliver veritably snatched her hand from Keith’s, which earned him a menacing growl from his cousin. Oliver gentled his touch but not by much. He tried to hold her too close for their dance, but Lydia’s stiff body made it impossible to draw her into his arms without making it clear he had to yank her to do so.
“You are being very contrary tonight, my dear. It isn’t pleasant. You wouldn’t want anyone to think it’s a sign of your poor breeding.”
