“I, I don’t know,” Lydia stammered. “Uncle Julius has not explained it to me, and I saw no need to fret about it since it would not be mine. I’ve always known, even without Father’s sudden passing, that it would belong to whomever I marry.” She paused and looked down, but mustered the courage to say, “But that is not all. I am grateful that you wish not to control my money, but I do not know the sum. How is this to work then that you are to go abroad and I am to keep your house at Paxton Hall? Am I to spend your money like a crazed woman? It does not feel right.”
“Do not let that trouble you,” Matthew assured her. “I have a solicitor in London who sees to my business affairs here. Any purchases that must be made—or simply that you wish to make—will be paid by that firm. Only have the bill directed to them.”
“And you do not mind that? That I should spend it in your absence? It seems so strange to me when that is not mine,” Lydia said.
It was Matthew’s turn to feel the sting of embarrassment. He came over from the window to sit beside Lydia on the bed. She instinctively moved away to put some respectful distance between them.
“Lydia, look at me,” Matthew pleaded gently. “Much has changed between us during the years that have taken us from one another. I would very much wish that we could somehow resume the friendship we enjoyed for all of our lives save but these last few years.”
Lydia smiled shyly though she kept her gaze to the floor. “I would like that too.”
“And when I said that ours would not be a traditional marriage,” he added, “I did not mean that I would not see to your care. You will become my wife, and you will have all that it entails. If I had planned to stay in London and our betrothal had been a joyous celebration, then I would have cared for and supported you for the rest of your days. This is no different, at least not in that regard.”
“It does my heart good to hear that,” Lydia replied. “I did not wish this on us, and far be it from me to ever be a burden to you. But I have been fraught with worry these past few days thinking about how I am to care for myself, let alone my sister, when our marriage is only for the sake of our own well-being.”
“Never fear that. For all that anyone is ever to learn, you and I are a happily married couple who are deeply in love. It is only my shipping business that keeps us apart. Is that better?” he asked, and Lydia could hear no resentment or taunt in his tone.
“It is,” she answered. Brightening somewhat, Lydia added, “And who knows? Perhaps in time we may come to actually think of one another fondly and as a true husband and wife.”
Matthew looked at her intently, then slowly shook his head. “I do not mean to cause you any more grief than I already have. But Lydia, that is not possible. I have no interest in marrying, now or ever, and neither to you nor anyone else. As I have made plain, this marriage is only taking place because it is the honorable thing to do and because I have need of a wife for appearance sake. That is all, I’m afraid.”
“And you never want for anything more? What of that family love you spoke of so longingly?” Lydia asked, trying to hide her intense hurt.
“Given the way I was raised, I am not capable of such love, I am sure of it. It is better for everyone that I never attempt to be a loving husband or devoted father,” Matthew explained, his voice taking on a hard edge all of a sudden. “I not only do not know how, but I have no desire to learn.”
Chapter 17
Lady Penelope pored over the contents of Lydia’s letter once again, disbelief flooding her veins. How romantic! Escaping to Scotland to avoid a marriage to a man she did not love! Fleeing with the true desire of her heart, a man she had admired since they were children! It was better than any novel, as far as she was concerned.
“What is that?” the Marchioness of Pembolt demanded, looking at the paper in Penelope’s hand. Before she could answer, her mother pulled it away, turning it this way and that before holding it up to the light to better read the name. “Lady Lydia? Daughter, have you gone mad? What are you doing receiving correspondence from one such as her?”
“What do you mean, Mother?” Penelope demanded. “She is my friend, I’ve known her all of my life!”
“I care not if you’d known her allmylife, you are not to speak to her ever again,” her mother ordered. “Do you not know what people are saying about her? That she is ruined, and has been carrying this Lord Paxton’s child for months now?”
“Mother, that is a vicious lie,” Penelope replied in an astonished whisper. “You were there at Verdurn’s, you know that the Viscount sought Lord Bronson’s permission to court and marry Lydia. How would Lord Bronson have agreed to such a thing if she were… well, as you have said.”
“Why else would the Viscount call off any courtship and sever the relationship entirely if not for the truth of this news?” the Marchioness asked, looking very smug. “He must have only learned of it at the ball. Then the entire disgusting display with the pair of them tumbling about in the grass where no one could see—”
“Mother! Stop it! You know as well as I do that they fell, poor Lydia would have died had it not been for Lord Paxton. And how would she be… carrying his child… as Lord Paxton only returned from the Far East on the day of the ball? It makes no sense!” Penelope argued, her frustration growing. “What would give you cause to speak of her this way?”
“I am only telling you what I have heard for myself,” her mother answered, looking very prim. “Though I believe the talk has merit considering how Lady Lydia has carried on, it matters not whether it is true. If it is what others are saying about her, then that is all that matters.”
Penelope stared at her mother aghast. Tears filled her eyes as she wondered what could have hardened her heart in such a way. Lydia had spent entire summers at this house when they were younger, and Penelope had thought her mother to be very fond of her. Now, she couldn’t be sure. Unless… unless her mother’s affections had to be perpetually earned.
“Is that how you would treat me, Mother?” Penelope asked quietly.
“What are you talking about?” the Marchioness snapped irritably.
“If I were in Lydia’s situation, if I was spoken for and a mishap or misunderstanding occurred—or if another man took it upon himself to speak about me without my consent or your blessing—would you cast me out because others were telling lies about me?”
Neither one spoke. Tears poured down Penelope’s cheeks in slow torrents as she watched her mother’s face. When the woman looked away, Penelope nodded.
“Then I have my answer, I suppose.” Penelope turned to leave the room, but her mother stopped her.
“Penelope, stop,” her mother said firmly. “No, I would not cast you out. You will always be my daughter. But should you prove to act in such a way that Lydia has, being overly familiar with a man she has long known, taking a stroll with him when there was no one to see where they went, you must know that people will talk about you. And once they do, there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
“Save me, Mother? From what? From the sneers of old women who’ve never known a moment’s joy in their lives, who’ve never passed an afternoon with a delightful friend?” Penelope pressed angrily. “Lydia and Lord Paxton are practically as brother and sister, you know that. You are well aware that they have been close childhood friends and had not seen each other before Verdurn’s ball in years.”
