It was shameful.
His gaze lit on her when he entered the drawing room. God, she was beautiful, and the mere sight of her left his chest feeling simultaneously full and hollow, as if she gave him everything yet had the uncanny power to take it all away. She sat calmly amongst her mother, Rand’s wife, and her younger sister. Lady Cecily was currently putting her pianoforte skills to good use. The chit was skilled and lovely, and Alistair had no doubt she would find a match easily enough, if one were the sort of gentleman who enjoyed such trivialities.
He far preferred an auburn-haired siren with a sharp mind, long legs, perfect curves, and a mouth that was temptation incarnate. The sort of lady who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind or berate a duke, a lady who stared into the heavens with wonder yet could name each constellation. His wife. The woman he loved. The very woman he would tell the truth to tonight when they were alone. He could only hope she would find it in her heart to understand and forgive him.
And maybe, if he were truly fortunate, one day love him as much as he loved her.
She bestowed a pleased smile of welcoming upon him that made him feel as though he were the only one present in the room. He grinned back at her like the lovesick fool he was, and took his place at her side, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. Violets hung in the air. He wanted to kiss her so much he nearly did right there before her entire family. With great effort, he held himself in check.
“Darling,” he whispered so that only she could hear, “I missed you.”
She giggled and gave him a good-natured swat. “Silver-tongued scoundrel,” she murmured without heat. “We were separated for a mere half hour, no more.”
“The longest half hour of my life.”
A smile played about her lips. “Behave.”
Duly chastised, he listened to Lady Cecily play. After an eternity passed, she stood to applause, none more rigorous than that emerging from the Duchess of Revelstoke, who was clearly a proud mama.
“That was lovely, Cecily,” her grace said with a sniff. “Was it not, Rand? Be a good brother and tell her how well she plays so she may have the confidence to play in larger gatherings. Nothing will win a husband as surely as your gift with the pianoforte, my dear.”
Warwick stifled a snort. He rather begged to differ on that assertion, but as he was not the appropriate audience for Lady Cecily’s skills, it was a moot point. Alistair looked to Rand, who was not looking in his youngest sister’s direction. Instead, he pinned Alistair with the glare of a predator sizing up his prey, determining the appropriate time to strike.
Bloody hell.
He knew his friend all too well, and what was about to happen could not be good. “Yes, Aylesford,” he goaded, for if anyone was to strike first, it would be he. “Be a good brother.”
“A good brother, you say?” Rand cocked his head, pretending to consider Alistair’s words as the rest of the company gazed on in alarmed confusion. “Ah, yes. But I am not one, am I? If I had been, Lydia would not be wed to your sorry hide right now. Would she, Warwick? I should have seen through your lies and uncovered what I now know before your nuptials. Now it is too late, but I can still right the wrongs you’ve done her.”
He felt Lydia’s gaze on him, sensed the questions and tension rising within her. But they had come too far to stop now. Dread, cold and sickly, unfurled within him. His hands felt like ice, his face frozen, his heart pounding.
“What lies are you speaking about?” he asked quietly.
“Aylesford,” Revelstoke interjected.
“Good heavens, Rand,” huffed the duchess simultaneously, sounding ruffled. “What can you be about? Do cease this nonsense at once.”
“Aylesford,” cautioned his wife, her countenance growing worried.
“I have discovered,” Rand said slowly, his gaze going to Lydia, “that you were indebted up to your eyebrows. That your father owed nearly all he had to the cent-per-centers, and only a handsome dowry would rescue you from utter penury. All of that would be the truth, would it not, Warwick?”
“It would,” he agreed tightly. There it was, then, sparing him the duty of confessing himself. “Shall I thank you now or later, Aylesford?”
“Alistair.”
He turned at the tortured, almost pleading note in Lydia’s voice, and faced her. “Lydia, love. I can explain,” he said quietly, hoping she would wait. Would allow him to speak to her without an audience, reveal everything and let her cast her judgment as she saw fit.
She searched his gaze, the happy flush leaching from her skin and leaving her a pale husk of the bold beauty he could not wrest his eyes from all evening long. The transformation cut him with the precision of an assassin’s blade, deep and true, finding its mark.
“Is it true?” she demanded, a tremor in her voice that even she—redoubtable as she was—could not suppress.
He would not prevaricate, as it would do him more harm than good. But how could he feign protest, offer glib reassurances, when she looked at him as if he had crushed the very heart of her beneath his boot heel?
“Yes,” he admitted, his jaw tightening so much that pain radiated through his teeth. It was not enough penance. No amount of suffering on his behalf would be. How could he rectify the isolation he saw in her expression, the pain?
The loathing?
“My God.” Her nostrils flared, her hand going to her mouth as though she were about to be ill.
