“Oh,” her mother sighed, sounding breathless—which was utterly absurd, for she had known Warwick since he was in leading strings. “That would be lovely, Warwick. Lady Lydia would be pleased to accept. Would you not, dear?”
What was it about the Christmas season that turned everyone’s brain to feathers? Even her own, for shewantedto dance with Warwick, she realized. His eyes had not wavered from hers. He waited, patiently, as though her answer was of the greatest import.
“Yes,” Lydia accepted. “Of course, I will save you a dance, Duke.”
The smile he had been withholding emerged then, and it was broad and mesmerizing and only served to enhance his masculine beauty, which was a feat in itself. She swallowed, thinking back upon that enchanted night in the garden. It could not be possible that he was interested in her. His words returned to her just then.
You are fortunate then, that I am taller than you are, Freckles, and I do not take exception to a lady who is my intellectual equal or better. Save a dance for me.
No. It could not be that the Duke of Warwick, who had only ever seen her as an irritant and a hanger-on, who was the most handsome and eligible bachelor in thebeau monde, wanted her. That he wanted a bluestocking who was too tall for fashion, too opinionated by far, whose nose was decorated with freckles, and who preferred books to needlework and pianoforte any day.
And yet, his regard told her that he was. Against all odds, the Duke of Warwick looked upon her now in the way a man looked upon a woman. Admiring. Wanting.
The echo of her own fierce need sprang forth from somewhere deep within.
“Thank you, my lady,” he told her, his tone soft and admiring. Genuine. With another bow, he turned and left.
Her brother lingered for a moment, his expression contemplative. “Mother.” He bowed again. “Lyd.” Then he hastened after his friend.
Lydia watched them depart, bemused, attempting to muddle through what to make of this most unsettling development.
“Bravo, daughter,” her mother said into the silence, her voice vibrating with maternal pride. “The Duke of Warwick would be quite a feather in your cap.”
Yes, he would. But Lydia didn’t want a matrimonial prize. Indeed, she didn’t even want to be wed. The only reason she stood in the ballroom at that very moment was because her parents had taken her choice away from her. She would do well not to forget that, and above all, not to imagine that a handsome rake like the Duke of Warwick would ever wed the spinster, bluestocking sister of his best friend.
She was Freckles to him, nothing more.
