Chapter Three
Lydia didn’t knowwhich fact was more unsettling: that the Duke of Warwick had sought her out each day of the house party thus far or that Jane, her abigail and the woman tasked with guarding her virtue for the moment, had fallen asleep.
They sat in a small parlor in one of the innumerable rooms of Abingdon House. Jane’s snores cut into the awkward silence that had descended upon the unexpectedtête-à-tête. Jane was no longer a stickler for propriety, and while Lydia was fond of her, The abigail’s ineffectual presence was more than disconcerting today. It was downright dismaying.
She refused to think of why Jane’s tendency to doze off in the corner had never bothered her before now.
Warwick, being the rake he was, noticed the moment he was no longer under scrutiny. “Your maid appears to be sleeping,” he observed, his voice low and intimate.
She flushed, keeping her eyes on Jane rather than on Warwick. He was unbearably handsome this morning, and looking upon him stirred a fresh ache deep within her, the sort of ache she had no wish to feel toward him. Most decidedly, an ache that would only land her in trouble from which there was no extrication.
“She is not sleeping,” she improvised, lest he develop any wicked ideas. “She is praying.”
“Ah, I see.” He sounded amused. “Her…piety is to be commended.”
Another snore sounded across the room.Blast.Lydia firmed her lips. Warwick startled her by rising from his seat and quickly lowering his tall, lean frame at her side on the settee. She stared at his strong thigh, clad in perfectly fitted breeches, touching her gown.
“Warwick, you are crowding me,” she grumbled. “It is unseemly for you to be sitting so near. Go back to your chair at once.”
He ignored her, as had become his habit. If anything, he seemed to sidle closer. She once again caught a whiff of the decadent scent of his shaving soap, and though it grieved her to admit, she took an extra-deep breath on its account.
“How can it be unseemly when your maid chaperones us so well?” An unrepentant grin livened his voice.
She picked at the fall of her skirt, still not wanting to look upon him, particularly at this proximity. Last evening, he had claimed his dance at the welcome ball, and while there had been little opportunity for private conversation, he had gazed upon her with such concentration whenever their paths had crossed during the minuet, she had nearly tripped over her hem in her distraction. He had looked upon her with a smoldering sort of need that puzzled her as much as it thrilled her, all against her better judgment.
“Jane is an excellent chaperone,” she felt obliged to defend. That much, at least, was true. Ordinarily, Lydia had no need of a chaperone at all. Until now. “If she is fatigued, it is merely because I have required her to chaperone me far more in the last few days as I spend time with friends than I ordinarily do. The poor dear is not to be blamed.”
His fingers closed over hers, stilling them. “Gentlemen friends, Freckles?”
Something in his tone—an underlying hardness—had her turning her head to meet his gaze, even as she noted that she was once again Freckles rather than Lady Lydia. “Yes, Warwick.Gentlemenfriends. Your disbelief is quite insulting.”
She didn’t add that she was surprised herself by the sudden attention. Particularly when she was competing with the lovely—and infamously wealthy—Winter sisters. Then again, her dowry was quite handsome, and the reason for this house party was clear—an entrée for the Winter sisters into polite society.
Many of the gentlemen in attendance were searching for wealthy brides. Likely, her invitation had stemmed from her brother Rand, who, as the heir to a duke, would be quite a prize for any Winter daughter to snare. In spite of his rakish ways.
Little did they know, Rand could not be tamed.
Warwick’s jaw clenched, then. “Is your maid this slipshod with all yourfriends?”
Yet another snore, this one louder than the last, rumbled across the room.
Lydia thought for a moment. “Slipshod is rather an unkind choice of word, Warwick. She loves me like a daughter.”
The duke gave an indelicate snort that was at odds with his effortless masculine elegance. “I do think granddaughter would be more apt. Listen here, Freckles, if she is snoring through all your suitors, something must be done.”
He sounded rather indignant.
Lydia considered him, wondering why on earth he should become so bothered by the somewhat lackluster performance of her maid as a chaperone. Why, it almost seemed as if he were jealous, but that was absurd. Wasn’t it? Of course, it was. He was who he was, after all, and she was a wallflower bluestocking who, barring recent developments, almost no one noticed.
Even so, the notion of the sought-after Duke of Warwick being jealous of other suitors vying for her hand pleased her.
“Would you like me to wake Jane?” she asked innocently, baiting him. “After all, your reputation is far more infamous than any of my other suitors, as you say.”
“No,” he bit out, giving her fingers a squeeze of warning. “Do not wake her. Who are these other suitors you speak of, Freckles?”
“Viscount Tottingham.” His was the first name that came to mind.
Warwick scowled. “Tottingham is a coxcomb with a penchant for losing all his blunt at the tables. He is in desperate need of a wealthy bride thanks to his own foibles, which is why he is in attendance here.”
