She swallowed, tamping down the stupid, fugitive joy in her heart. “Do not attempt to cozen me, Warwick. I am immune to your wiles.”
“I admired your grandfather greatly,” he said, startling her with the thread of tenderness in his voice. “He was a fine man, and he always praised your keen mind.”
Lydia bit her lip to stifle the sudden sob that threatened to tear from her throat and further shame her. One year and two months had come and gone since Grandpapa’s passing, and yet his loss remained as fresh as yesterday. He alone had encouraged her pursuit of knowledge, but to hear he had openly sung her praises to others…why, it touched her deeply.
She sniffled again. “He was a very fine man indeed.”
Long, strong fingers claimed hers, and she felt the shock and the heat of it through her gloves. “You may cry, Freckles. I shan’t think any less of you, and I promise to defend you against any and all attempts by your mother to slay you and put your severed head on a pike.”
A startled laugh escaped her, and she found herself squeezing his fingers. She could not seem to summon her resistance, not when he was being so kind and it felt as if the years and distance between them had fallen away. Once, when she’d trailed Warwick and her brother Rand, she had taken a tumble whilst chasing a butterfly, straight into the pond where they fished. She had been unable to swim, and Warwick dove in after her, plucked her from the watery depths with ease and carried her like a waterlogged babe to the shore.
Why would she think of that long-ago day now, when she had not for many years?
She must shake herself from this madness, turn and leave before she said or did something she would forever regret. Here, in the moonlight, they were Freckles and Warwick. Back in the glittering light of the ballroom, they would return to being strangers, she the bluestocking wallflower and he, the sought-after bachelor.
“Thank you for your kind offer, Your Grace,” she said solemnly, extricating her fingers from his. “But my earlier worries aside, I do not truly think my mother will murder me unless I linger here in the gardens with a hardened rake such as yourself. I really must return before my absence is noted.”
She turned to flee, but was stilled by her name on his lips. At long last.
“Lady Lydia.”
Lydia stopped, her back rigid, but did not dare face him. “Yes?”
“You do not dance often. Why?” He sounded genuinely perplexed.
She closed her eyes, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over her. Could he be that obtuse? “I am not asked. Gentlemen do not, I find as a general rule, enjoy dancing with ladies who are taller and smarter than they are.”
“Ah.” He had drifted closer. She felt his presence behind her, awareness tingling down her spine. “You are fortunate then, that I am taller than you, and I do not take exception to a lady who is my intellectual equal or better. Save a dance for me.”
A foreign thrill swept over her, pooling low in her belly, before self-preservation superseded and she did the only thing she could think of in that moment. She hurried away from him, away from his delicious voice, and far away from the garden of temptation.
