The enormity of her reaction hit him with the force of a blow straight to his chest. He nearly doubled over from the magnitude of it. “Lydia, please.” He caught her hand in his, squeezing her unresponsive fingers. “Let us speak alone after our guests have gone. I will tell you anything you wish to know.”
She tore away from his grasp, standing. Her gray eyes were accusing, hurt, ripping him to shreds. “I do not think I wish to speak to you now.” With the regal air of the duchess she now was, she addressed the room at large. “Thank you all for joining us this evening, but I fear the time has come for me to take my leave of you. I bid you good evening.”
“Lydia,” Rand and Alistair called out in unison.
“I do not wish to speak to either of you,” she clipped. “I bid good evening to you all.”
“Lydia, dearest daughter,” the duchess attempted, trying to waylay her without success.
Lydia was too nimble, too tall, too quick. Too determined. “I must go,” she said.
In a flurry of bold, red skirts, she left.
Alistair stood, not caring for appearances, not caring for anything or anyone but Lydia. “I love her, you bloody fool,” he grated, glaring at Rand. “I hope you are happy.” He turned to the rest, giving an exaggerated bow. “I bid you good evening.”
He ran after the woman he loved. Freckles. His duchess. His wife.
Lydia.
Dear God, he hoped it would not be too little, too late.
