Chapter Seven
The next fortnightproved the happiest, most charmed of Lydia’s life. She and Alistair enjoyed a honeymoon at his townhouse, and while it was not the ordinary way of things for a newly married couple, she could find no fault in it. They were not at home to anyone. No social calls, no visitors, no balls or soirees as the Season had yet to begin. Instead, they spent their days talking, laughing, and making love.
Love, Lydia thought with a secretive smile as she put the finishing touches on her toilette for dinner that night. She wore her hair in a loose fashion, piled at her crown with curls framing her face, a simple evening gown of claret red, her bosom on display for her husband’s benefit. He possessed an equal fondness for her bosom, her legs, her hair, and her wit. Of the four, Lydia had only ever been proud of the last. Her bosom was too small, her legs too long, and her hair a dull, uninspiring shade of not-quite-red and not-quite-brown.
Her husband had informed her that her bosom was perfection, her legs drove him mad, and her hair was the most bewitching shade of auburn. None of it was, as her cynical inner scientist initially suspected, rooted in meaningless flattery. No, Alistair actually loved the very parts of her she had always detested most. He made her feel wanted, desirable, and beautiful… He made her feel the same coursing joy that she felt when she gazed upon the night sky and marveled at its brilliance and its endless, innate secrets. He made her feel powerful and awestruck all at once.
She had not imagined it possible for another person to complete her. Indeed, before their marriage, she had not realized she was half in need of a whole, even if she could so clearly see now that Alistair—love—was precisely what she had been lacking. It still thrilled her to think of his confession the night of their wedding.
Love was an emotion she had never expected to succumb to, and it was certainly the last thing she had expected from the Duke of Warwick. Yet, he surprised her almost daily as he revealed all the facets of himself.
With a deep, steadying breath, Lydia gave her reflection one last survey in the glass before heading down to dinner. Tonight was to be a night of firsts. Not only was it the first night that she and Alistair would officially welcome guests to their home as a married couple, but it was also the first night that she would tell him that she loved him too.
She had been too scared to say the words before now, too uncertain if what she felt for him was even real. Infatuation, after all, was one thing when it came to a gentleman of his impeccable looks. Love, however, seemed altogether foreign for a pragmatic soul like herself.
But time—and Alistair—could change everything.
And she was desperately, hopelessly in love with her husband. She just hoped that he would accept the gift of her heart and treat it with tender care.
For the firsttime in a fortnight, Alistair had been forced to share his wife, and though it had been with family, that didn’t render the obvious signaling of their honeymoon’s end any more palatable. He had to admit that not having her to himself rather left him feeling out of sorts, like a bear who’d been unceremoniously rousted from hibernation.
Of course, he knew that all good things must necessarily conclude, as in one’s glorious post-nuptial phase, which had been a series of laughing, loving, kissing, bedding, and occasionally pausing for sustenance. But logic had no place in his mind these days, at least not when it came to Lydia.
So he suffered through a stilted session of obligatory port with his father-in-law and Rand following dinner, the glare and brooding silence his friend continued to direct his way rather disconcerting. Rand had been well-pleased with his marriage to Lydia. But since his own nuptials had occurred not long thereafter, Alistair had seen precious little of his friend.
“My daughter seems quite happy, Warwick,” Revelstoke said suddenly into the quiet before puffing on a cigar. “I am well pleased the two of you wed at last.”
“It is my fondest wish to make her the happiest woman alive,” he said, for it was the truth.
“Utter rot,” Rand growled, finally breaking his silence. “You’re a heartless bastard who took advantage of a bluestocking who was on the shelf. Do not pretend to have a care for my sister’s happiness.”
Alistair stiffened, eying his sometime friend. Surely, he had not just so openly dishonored him? “I beg your pardon?”
Rand refused to look away or abandon his cause. Instead, he stared Alistair down. “Have not your debts all been paid?”
He had discovered the truth.
Guilt hit him like a fist to the gut.
“They were my father’s debts,” he gritted.
“The sins of the father,” Rand sneered. “You did not answer my question. Did you not use my sister’s dowry to settle the damn debts? Did you truly think I would never uncover the truth?”
Of course, he had, for it had either been that or face losing all, even if doing so had left him feeling sick. The time had come for him to confide in Lydia about his father’s debts, and he knew it.
Her generous dowry had settled all with plenty to spare, meaning he could begin rebuilding his estates. He should have told her before now, and he recognized his error with a twist in his gut. Part of him had been too selfish to mar their bliss with such a heavy revelation, but part of him was terrified to jeopardize the relationship blossoming between them by revealing the truth.
He clenched his jaw, forced himself to answer, “Yes, I used a portion of the dowry to settle my father’s debts, but if you dare to suggest that my intentions toward my wife are anything other than pure, you may as well name your second.”
“Aylesford,” Revelstoke bit out, using Rand’s courtesy title in a sure sign of displeasure. “Warwick. You will both cease posturing. Though you may be men grown, I am older and wiser, and believe me when I assure you no good will come of further such discourse this evening. Let us return to the ladies so we can once more recall that we are gentlemen.”
Grimly, Alistair stood. “Yes, let us rejoin the ladies before any graver errors are committed here.”
He stalked from the chamber, the fury filling him as much for himself as for Rand. After all, he could not say he would act or think any differently were he in his friend’s boots. He knew as well, his conscience needling him with increasing persistence, that he should have been honest with Lydia and with Rand from the beginning. That he should have told them both about the debts and his need of a dowry. He would have done so had he not feared that it would ruin any chance he’d ever possessed of making her his duchess.
Losing Lydia was not something he could have withstood.
So, he had remained silent. Had swallowed his self-loathing. Had married her, made love to her, shared the happiest moments of his entire bloody life with her. All whilst he had been living a lie.
