There on her bed, Lydia saw the shredded remnants of all of her freshly laundered gowns, laid out neatly as though still in their original forms. The tattered shreds had been cut through with scissors, wrought by someone’s hand to wound her deeply.
Chapter 24
Matthew had stalled long enough. Four days had passed since he had put Lydia on a ship bound for home, and he had visited nearly every merchant he conducted business with. Even upon his arrival in London, he had kept to his offices and slept in the apartment above, at least pretending that his work was so important he couldn’t venture all the way to Paxton for even a night.
But now there was nothing keeping him there other than his own reluctance to see Lydia. The fear was still too great, a fear that he would succumb to his feelings for her and confess that he loved her. He could not permit it, not when her happiness depended on avoiding all thoughts of his feelings for her.
Throughout the coach ride to Paxton, he wondered what he might say to her. Instead, he took to the house and hurried to his chambers, feeling very much like the coward he knew he was. He did manage to send word of his arrival to Lydia through the butler and ask that she join him for dinner, but that was all.
“Good evening,” Matthew said to Lydia, who was already seated when he entered the dining room. He looked at her unhappy expression and wondered what had left her so sad, other than his absence.
‘Good evening, My Lord,” she replied softly, not looking up.
Matthew took his seat nearby at the end of the table and only then did he see his mother’s triumphant face looking back at him from the opposite end. He narrowed his eyes, already realizing what must have brought Lydia such anguish.
“Mother. I was not aware you would be at Paxton Hall,” he said somewhat accusingly. “What brings you here?”
“Why, I never left,” she answered in a falsely sweet voice. “Someone had to remain in your absence, and I decided it should be me.”
“Ah. Well, once Lady Paxton—this Lady Paxton, I should say,” he replied, gesturing to Lydia, “returned, then there was no need of your presence here. Did you not find your London apartments adequate?”
“I wouldn’t know, I never saw them,” the Dowager Countess answered.
“Well, we shall correct that first thing in the morning,” Matthew answered darkly, gritting his teeth as he spoke. He softened his gaze and turned to Lydia, who still hadn’t looked up. “And how are you, my dear? Did you miss me?”
Lydia only cast her eyes in his direction to see if he was making sport or not, then clearly deciding that he was truly attempting to be kind, responded slowly, “I’m well, thank you. And yes, I missed you terribly.”
“Good. I have much to tell you about my travels when we retire to the library later,” he promised her.
Reaching beneath the table, he sought her hand and held it tightly for a moment. Matthew held his breath when he felt her cold fingers remain limp and unmoving in his hand, then sighed thankfully when she curled her fingers around his and clung to him tightly before releasing his hand.
As the staff came in bearing covered dishes for the table, Matthew looked around and frowned. “Dearest, I cannot help but notice that you’re… well, you’re wearing one of the house maid’s gowns. I do not know all that much about fashion and style, but is that not uncommon?”
Lydia didn’t answer but continued to look down at her plate. Down the table, Matthew heard his mother snicker as though he had made some sort of joke.
“Is that humorous, Mother?” he said, an accusing tone in his question.
“What’s that? My apologies, I can hardly hear you from all the way over here,” she called out, a certain jab at his choice to sit near to Lydia.
“Well, perhaps if you were not in Lady Paxton’s place at the table, you might be in a better position to hear when someone speaks to you,” Matthew replied angrily. “Fortunately, I’ve found my wife to be a far more pleasant dinner companion and am glad of having her close.”
“Matthew, please. Don’t,” Lydia said under her breath, just loudly enough for him to hear.
That was all it took. Matthew looked from his frightened, grief-stricken wife to the smug look on his mother’s face and pieced enough of it together. Placing his fingertips gently under Lydia’s chin, he lifted her face slowly to look at him.
“Lydia, please tell me. Why are you wearing that?” he asked in a low voice.
“Because someone cut up all of my clothes,” she answered, a single tear sliding down her cheek.
Matthew brushed away the tear with his thumb, caressing her cheek as he did so. “I see. You will have all new things tomorrow, I promise you,” he said lovingly.
Pushing back from his chair, Matthew stood up beside Lydia and looked down at her, the vulnerability he saw igniting a furious rage inside him. At the same time, he was flooded with a sense of defense, a need to protect this beautiful young lady from not only those he knew who might wish her harm, but the entire world.
Leaning down, Matthew kissed Lydia longingly, prompting a disgusted exhale of derision from his mother. At first only for show, he was suddenly delighted to find that he had wanted to do so for such a long time.
When Matthew stood up again, he took Lydia by the hand and helped her stand, then led her from the dining room without a single word. As he passed a footman carrying a water pitcher, he said, “Please bring our plates to my study, if you please.”
“Of course, My Lord,” the footman answered before hurrying to comply.
