Chapter Eight
Lydia raced toher chamber, not caring that she left behind her a drawing room full of shocked family. Not caring about the stark anguish she had read on Alistair’s handsome face. Each rhythmic thump of her slippers on the carpeted hall mocked her.
Lies.
The man who had proclaimed he admired her mind, who had flirted with her in the moonlight, pursued her in Oxfordshire, who had courted and wooed her with his clever kisses and his facile tongue…that man did not exist.
Lies.
A sob tore from her throat as she ran, heedless of any servant who saw the duchess crying like a little girl, hiking her evening dress about her knees to aid in her humiliated retreat. She had asked him when he announced his intentions of courting her whether or not her dowry had been behind his sudden interest. Instead of answering, he had kissed her, and she, weak, pathetic naïf that she was, had allowed herself to be distracted.
All of it, lies.
How easily she had fallen into his trap, eager for his every kiss and well-practiced seduction. But then, she would have made a ripe partridge for the plucking, considering her sparse selection of suitors and the dismal future awaiting her as a companion. And he was London’s most handsome rake, with a beautiful face and the heart of a knave.
Lies.
The sorrow rose within her like a geyser, threatening to burst forth and consume her. She ran, her lungs burning, and it did not matter. He had dared to tell her he loved her. Had taken her to bed and pretended to find her attractive. His every word echoed in her mind, an endless taunt, embarrassment splitting the sorrow, smashing her heart to bits with the force of a blacksmith’s heavy blow.
I am honest to a fault.
If it has never occurred to you that I like you, Freckles, precisely for who and what you are, then you are a fool.
No one else will do.
Of course, no one else would have done. Clearly, the beautiful Lady Felicity did not possess a dowry rich enough to impress him. Rage hit her next as she reached her chamber door. She had never been given to fits of temper, but one was about to claim her now. With a raw cry of outrage, she kicked her chamber door.
And regretted it instantly, for a different sort of pain than the one clenching her poor heart assaulted her, radiating up her leg. For the first time in her life, she let loose a curse.
“Bloody hell.”
It felt good. It felt rebellious. It felt as if it took away the tiniest bit of the sting of realizing she had been manipulated and lied to by the man she had imagined herself in love with. She threw open the door in the ordinary fashion, limped over the threshold, and slammed it at her back. She took care to lock it and the door adjoining her chamber to the duke’s. She did not require his interference whilst she packed the few possessions she desired to take with her when she left him.
Scrubbing furiously at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand, she paced the chamber, scouring it for dear possessions. She scooped up her books and her writing supplies first. Somewhere between her brother’s shocking revelation and the moment her foot had struck the door, she’d realized that leaving Warwick was the only answer. As her husband, he could force her to remain, but since he already had obtained what he truly wanted from their union, she did not suppose he would be overly motivated to try.
The knob of her door turned. “Lydia, let me in.”
She searched about for a trunk in which she could stow her personal effects. “Go away, Warwick.”
He rapped on the door with enough force to rattle it. “I will not go away, damn you. Let me in so that we can discuss this.”
“I have no wish to discuss anything with you, Your Grace,” she gritted, gratified that she at least kept the tears from her voice. Above all, she did not wish him to know how deeply he had wounded her with his subterfuge.
“Lydia.” The pounding grew louder.
She ignored it. No trunk was to be found, so she whipped back the bed coverings and robbed the sheet from her bed, laying it in the center of the floor. Never let it be said that she was not resourceful, even with a shattered heart drowning in shame.
“Lydia.”
The thread inside her that had been holding her together gave way and snapped. She picked up the nearest object—a vase filled with fresh flowers, and heaved it against the door with all her might. It shattered noisily, water and glass and battered petals raining to the somewhat threadbare carpet.
Her gaze fixated on the carpet, noting it was dreadfully in need of replacement. Everything made sense now—the Spartan furnishings of the townhouse, the lack of honeymoon, the smaller-than-average number of domestics. How could she not have realized that Warwick had been pockets to let?
“Jesus, Lydia, what are you doing in there?” he demanded, sounding hoarse. Frantic.
Perhaps he was afraid she was going to ruin whatever he hadn’t had to sell off prior to their wedding in order to keep his father’s creditors at bay. It would serve him right if she did.
“What does it sound like, Warwick? I am breaking things.” With that, she lobbed a crystal box against the door as well, wincing when it actually dented the portal.Breaking things,she added inwardly,to get even with you for breaking my heart.
