First Miss Grissom and now…
To admit he’d been betrayed for the second time was simply beyond his ability. That’s when it occurred to him that he didn’t have to admit it at all. At least, not to any of his peers. There were no other witnesses to what had just occurred.
Only him.
Grasping at that fragile straw, he’d headed back to his carriage, pausing at the door as the sound of laughter drifted outof the park. A man’s laughter. After that, Ambrose remembered nothing. He had no memory of climbing into his carriage or giving his driver instructions to return home, though he’d obviously done so. The entire drive back was also lost to memory, buried beneath an avalanche of soul-crushing disbelief and shock.
Now, in the quiet darkness of his study, Ambrose closed his eyes and gripped the arms of his chair.
As he had so many times in the past hour, he wondered who the man was. Obviously someone who knew Lydia very well. Ambrose couldn’t help but wonderhowwell. Had their affair been going on the whole time? It seemed likely, given the familiarity they shared.
What was I to you, then? A title? Was that it?He gritted his teeth.All the things you said. Lies, all lies. Damn you!
How could he have been so blind? And not just him, which actually gave him a smidgen of comfort. Everyone who’d met Miss Page believed her to be a delight. She’d even managed to fool Bessie Dove-Lyon, who was notoriously savvy when it came to reading people. With that thought, a tiny sliver of doubt wormed its way into Ambrose’s head, causing him to wonder if he’d misunderstood what he’d seen. He pondered a moment and then silently berated himself for chasing a false hope. If Miss Page and her companion were merely friends, why had she never introduced the fellow? Besides, their little pantomime—the plucking of the flower, the bowing, the curtsying—was undoubtedly mocking Society. As for that kiss, it had been intimate to the point of publicly inappropriate. And the man’s shout of laughter. Triumphant. Bombastic, even. The now familiar, sickening sense of betrayal swamped Ambrose once more.
“Pull yourself together, Pendlewood,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. He needed to calm down, to gain control overthe anger and bitterness that currently consumed him. Ending his relationship with Lydi—withMiss Page—must appear to be solely his decision, thus saving his pride. Frowning, he played out a scenario in his head.
Due to his cousin’s bereavement, he’d been out of town, mingling with family and peers, a circumstance that had allowed him to step back and view his courtship of Miss Page from afar. As a result, a change of mind and heart had occurred. Due to her societal status, the young lady was, he’d decided, unsuitable as a potential countess and the mother of his children. Nor was her inheritance enough to persuade him otherwise. He did not need her money, after all.
He nodded.Yes, it’s a believable scenario. Unlike Miss Grissom, Miss Page has no idea she’s been caught in the act, so she’ll not be expecting me to end our liaison, nor will she ever know the actual reason behind it.
The images in the park arose again in his mind and he sucked in a breath. Everything was still horribly raw, but he was determined to rally. There’d be no running off to Elgin Park. Not this time. No, this time he’d step out into Society as if nothing untoward had happened, other than his pursuit of Miss Page had come to an end. Maybe he’d send her a letter of regret. Or maybe he’d simply cast her aside by ignoring her. He owed her nothing, after all.
To hell with you,Miss—
“You rang, my lord?”
Startled, Ambrose blinked the burn of tears away. Lost in thought, he hadn’t heard the door open. “Yes, Crabtree, I did. I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day and, until further notice, you will tell callers that I am not at home and you’re not certain when I’ll be back. Absolutely no exceptions. Not even the bloody Prince Regent, should he decide to visit. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, my lord,” Crabtree replied, frowning as his gaze flicked briefly to the shuttered window. “Are you quite well, my lord? Is there anything I can bring you? Some tea, perhaps?”
“I have a bit of a headache, that’s all, but no, nothing, thank you.” Ambrose shifted his gaze to the empty fireplace. “I repeat, no disturbances. If I need anything, I’ll ring.”
“Very good, my lord.” A floorboard creaked softly as the butler left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Inhaling deeply, Ambrose closed his eyes once more and tried to settle his turbulent thoughts. In an unbidden moment of weakness, he considered writing a letter to Miss Page outlining, with false regret, his decision to break off their relationship. But his resentment and anger shoved the notion aside. He owed the girl nothing, least of all his consideration. No, he’d take a couple of days to compose himself, then he’d get back in the proverbial saddle for the rest of the Season, pride intact. Brave face, and all that.
And to Hell with you, Miss Page.
Chapter Fifteen
Perhaps, Lydia thought,pacing back and forth by the parlor window, she was over-reacting. It was a funeral, after all. A sad event that might easily have demanded more of Ambrose’s time. To be away a full week longer than expected was, however, a little excessive, was it not? Especially since there had been no word. Then again, she mused, no news was good news. If something untoward had occurred, she would surely have been notified by now. Even as that thought crossed her mind, the front doorbell jingled, and Lydia’s heart leapt. She paused her pacing and looked at the parlor door.Could it be him?Ears straining, Lydia held her breath, her hopes sinking as the muted sound of female voices drifted into the room; Doyle’s and that of another woman.
Harriet?
Apprehension fluttered beneath Lydia’s ribs, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Moments later, the parlor door opened. “Lady Eskdale to see you, Miss Lydia,” Doyle announced, standing to the side as Harriet entered.
“Lydia, my dear.” Harriet moved into the room and glanced briefly over her shoulder, apparently waiting till the door closed before continuing. “Are you quite well?”
“Harriet, how lovely to see you,” Lydia replied, her apprehension growing. “And yes, perfectly well, thank you, other than being a bit worried about Ambrose. He should have returned from Nottingham by now, but I haven’t heard a word.”
“Ah, I see.” Frowning, Harriet cleared her throat. “I took the liberty of asking your maid to bring us some tea, dearest. I’m a little parched.” Something in Harriet’s voice, the look on her face, implied concern. As did the preorder of tea.
“What is it, Harriet?” Lydia toyed with the locket at her throat. “Has something happened to Ambrose?”
“No, not that I’m aware of,” she replied, tapping her spectacles more firmly onto her nose. “It was you I was concerned about, actually.”
“Me?” Lydia shook her head. “Why?’
