“Ah, then there is hope.” Bertie traced a fingertip over her cheek. “For it means I may yet have a chance with you. I can be just as noble as an earl if I so choose.” He glanced around, eyebrows lifting as his gaze settled on a nearby flowerbed. He went over, plucked a flower, and then presented it to Lydia with a bow. “For you, my lady.”
Lydia took the flower and sniffed it. “Why, thank you, my lord,” she said, curtsying. “But I fear my heart has been stolen already.”
“Oh, Lyddie, I could kick myself.” Bertram’s eyes softened as he cupped her face in his hands and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I should have written, damn it. I hope his lordship knows how lucky he is.”
“I’m the lucky one,” she replied. “Ambrose is a wonderful man. You’ll see when you meet him.”
“It’ll be torture, Lyddie.” Bertram released her and went to stand by the pond. “Excuse me for a moment, will you? I just need a few seconds of quiet.”
“Bertie,” Lydia said, “don’t you think you’re being just a little bit dramat—?”
Quick as a flash, Bertram ducked down, and Lydia heard a splash. “Yessssss,” he said, turning back to her, laughing with triumphant delight as he held out a dripping hand, which nowheld a frog. “See? I still have the knack, even after all this time. Bet your earl can’t do that!”
“I hope you’re right,” she said, stifling her own laughter. “Now put the poor thing back.”
“Marry me, Lyddie,” he said, soberly, as he dropped the frog back in the pond. “We can travel the world together.”
Lydia groaned. “Don’t, Bertie, please. I love Ambrose.”
“You used to love me,” he replied.
“And I still do.”
He huffed. “Don’t youdaresay ‘like a brother’ or I swear I’ll drown myself in the bloody pond.”
“No, not like a brother.” Lydia sighed. “Oh, Bertie, you said it yourself—you’re late to the ball.Toolate, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I’m not giving up,” he said, tugging gently on one of her curls. “Let’s see how things are when I get back to London.”
Lydia smiled. “I’m sure things will be the same.”
“Well, like I also said, don’t get married before I get back.” He presented his arm. “Speaking of which, I really have to go. Come on, let me see you home.”
Chapter Fourteen
Having done hisduty by his unfortunate cousin—expressing his genuine sympathy and paying his respects as required—Ambrose had left Nottingham a couple of days earlier than anticipated. Truth be told, he’d been glad to get away. Being parted from Lydia had made him realize how much she meant to him. So much so, he resolved never to be parted from her again, which in turn meant the time had indeed come to ask that most significant of questions. Upon his return to London, certain of Lydia’s response, he’d taken the liberty of acquiring a special marriage license and chosen a magnificent diamond-cluster ring from his family’s jewelry collection. Then, as the rainy skies cleared and with both items secure in his pocket, he’d called for his carriage and set off to surprise Lydia. The sheer anticipation of seeing her again left him lightheaded, as if he’d had one glass of wine too many. Smiling to himself, he’d gazed out of the carriage window, his mind elsewhere as the cityscape slid by, each clip-clop of the horses’ hooves taking him closer to the woman he loved.
As it turned out, he never got that far.
Indeed, a little more than an hour after setting out on that optimistic venture, Ambrose found himself back in the studyof his Mayfair home, standing stock-still in a patch of brilliant sunlight. Numb with shock, he didn’t quite know where to put himself. It didn’t help that an invisible steel band was squeezing his skull so tight he could barely think straight. Uttering a curse, he strode over to the window and slammed the shutters closed. The afternoon sun was too bright, too damned intrusive. He lingered in darkness for a moment till his eyes adjusted, then went to his desk and lit a solitary candle before going to the bellpull and giving it a tug. Then he collapsed into his favorite armchair by the empty fireplace and closed his eyes.
God, he hurt. To the depths of his soul, he hurt.
Damn you. Damn you to Hell!
A man should learn from experience, he thought, rubbing his temple. For if that man did not pay attention, he risked being doomed to suffer, in an increasingly brutal fashion, the same misfortunes. And this day had turned out to be brutal indeed. A shattering of trust that left him weak limbed. As for his heart, well, it still beat solidly beneath his ribs, but its function now was merely fundamental. It no longer had any emotion attached to it. It had become as a stone: hard and unyielding. Ambrose’s mind, meanwhile, was unrelentless in its vicious activity, playing the same, torturous scene over and over in his head.
Previously, each time he’d driven past the little park at the end of Lydia’s street, he’d admired it. With his love of gardens, he considered it to be a pretty little oasis on the edge of a bustling city. As he’d passed the park earlier that day, however, he’d given it but a fleeting glance through the carriage window. He’d been otherwise preoccupied with thoughts of love and life. But as the reality of what his eyes beheld in that brief moment filtered into his brain, an ominous sense of disbelief washed over him. He glanced back at the park hoping he’d been mistaken.
It couldn’t be. No, it must be someone else.
A rap on the ceiling with his cane brought the carriage to an immediate halt, but he hesitated a moment before opening the door, fearful of what he might find beyond it. Bile burned the back of his throat as he stepped out of the carriage, his legs oddly weak, a knot of dread twisting in his stomach. As he approached the park’s neatly trimmed hedge, he offered up a prayer.
Please God, let me be mistaken, I beg of you.
It had turned out to be a prayer unanswered. In silence, Ambrose stood by the perfectly trimmed hedge and watched the woman he loved accept a flower from the man she was with, laughing and curtsying as she did so. The man then said something to her, cradled her face in his hands, and gazed down at her as if smitten before placing a lingering kiss on her forehead. And in that single, perverse moment, everything Ambrose held true collapsed like a house of cards. Never in a thousand years would he have believed Lydia Page to be capable of such duplicity.
Sick with anguish, he’d turned away, desperately trying to rationalize what he’d seen. Rage clashed with disbelief, part of him demanding he charge into the park and beat the living daylights out of the fellow. But something deep inside held him back. He couldn’t face the actuality of what he’d seen. Of what itmeant. His pride, so recently rejuvenated, had just taken another battering, this one far more destructive. Far more vicious.
