“Precisely.”
“Then… no, Ambrose, I don’t understand, not at all, though I feared there was something wrong when you didn’t contact me.” Frowning, she glanced around the room as if attempting to gather her thoughts, then regarded him once more, her eyes now bright with a shimmer of tears. “Of what differences do you speak? You know that I love you, and I thought…” Her voice faltered. “You said… you said you loved me too. Was it a lie, then? Are you saying that everything we shared has been a lie?”
Her dismay was convincing. Utterly believable, in fact. But, as the relentless image of her being kissed by the other man slid into Ambrose’s mind, he loaded an imaginary bow, and let the arrow fly. “To be frank, Miss Page, upon consideration I came to realize that it was folly to pursue someone who is, in actuality, an underling, and therefore not suitable to be my countess. There really is nothing more to be said.”
She drew another sharp breath. “Anunderling?” A tear rolled down her cheek and was hastily scrubbed away. “My goodness, that I didnotexpect. Indeed, I never once had the impression that my societal position was abhorrent to you.”
“Not abhorrent, exactly,” he replied. “But unsuitable, as I have already explained.”
“Unsuitable.” She laughed, a painful sound. “Yes, of course. I understand you now. I understand you completely. And having just been soenlightened, it is clear I must take my leave of you.” Clutching her skirts, she moved toward the door, halting as she passed to glare up at him, fury evident in her eyes. Fury, and something else that looked like profound sadness. Misplaced, no doubt.
“But know this, Lord Pendlewood,” she continued, “the loss this day is yours, not mine.” Another tear escaped, to be quickly brushed away. “And I am not, nor will I ever be, anunderling.Indeed, the unworthiness is yours for having so cruelly deceived me. May God forgive you, for I doubt I ever shall!”
Then, with a swish of skirts and leaving a soft swirl of floral scent in her wake, Lydia departed, the sound of a sob making its way back to Ambrose before the door closed behind her.
Unmoving, he closed his eyes and stood in silence, seeking to rationalize what he’d just done. He felt sick. Close to tears himself. He’d been brutal in a way that went totally against his nature. But what choice did he have, after all? He was the one who’d been deceived. So why the hell did he feel as if he’d just made a terrible mistake? He toyed with an urge to go after her, to confront her with what he’d seen and watch her deny it. But she couldn’t deny it, could she? The images of her and her lover in the park danced in his mind even now, giving him comfort.
No, not comfort. He drew no comfort from any of this. It was justification he needed, and those wretched images provided it. Heaving a sigh, he opened his eyes and made his way back to his study. He also needed a drink. Something to take away the bitter taste in his mouth and to ease the dull pain that now occupied heart and mind. As for the rest of the Season, he thought, pouring himself a brandy, he’d spend it accordingly, partaking of the welcome distractions it offered. With time, the terrible sense of loss burdening him would surely dissipate.
“…the loss this day is yours, not mine.”
Ambrose threw the brandy down his throat and poured himself another.
Lydia barely rememberedthe ride home that afternoon. Only when Owens opened the door did she even realize that the carriage had stopped.
“Miss Page,” he said, holding out a hand. “We’re home.”
Lydia regarded him through a haze of shock. “Yes, of course.” She placed her hand in his. “Thank you, Owens.”
He sighed, but said nothing as he helped her out of the carriage. Then, “Wait a moment, miss,” he said, and went up the steps to the front door, opening it for her. Not something he usually did. Lydia regarded him. “Thank you,” she said again, and addressed his obvious, but silent, sympathy as she stepped over the threshold. “I’ll be all right, Owens.”
“I know you will, miss,” he replied, with a solemn smile. “You’re Mr. Page’s daughter.”
Lydia barely staved off an urge to hug the man. “Yes, I am,” she replied, straightening her spine. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“Miss Lydia! Didn’t expect you back quite so soon,” Doyle said, hurrying toward her, parting with a gasp as she drew near. “Oh, my dear, what’s wrong? Are you unwell?”
Lydia fought against another attack of tears.Do I look that bad?“I’m not ill,” she replied, removing her gloves and bonnet and handing them over. “I’ve just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. I’d like some tea, please. In my bedroom.”
“Of course, miss.” Doyle cocked her head. “But are you sure you’re not ailing? Shall I send for someone perhaps?”
“No, that isn’t necessary, Doyle, truly,” Lydia shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not ill. Just out of sorts, that’s all. I doubt I’ll be down for supper, though. I should like to retire early.”
“As you wish, miss,” Doyle replied, looking decidedly unconvinced. “Go and get yourself settled. I’ll be up shortly.”
Lydia headed upstairs and closed the bedroom door behind her. For a few minutes, she simply stood in silence, icy disbelief still coursing through her veins. The world she’d known, the future she’d anticipated, no longer existed and she couldn’t begin to understand why. What had changed?
An underling?
Ambrose had implied she was less than worthy. No, it hadn’t been an implication. It had been a statement. Not in an eternitywould she have expected him to ever say such a thing. What had changed? Lydia frowned as a horrifying suspicion crept into her brain.
Had she been duped from the start? Might it be part of the game that had been arranged? A cruel plot concocted between an earl and a viscount, using Lydia solely for their amusement? No, surely not. Neither Mrs. Dove-Lyon nor Lady Eskdale would be part of such a scheme. Lydia set the ridiculous suspicion aside, leaving her wondering, again, what had changed Ambrose’s mind. Nothing made sense, and she was in desperate need of a reason. It seemed impossible that she’d misunderstood or misread his intent. A sudden spell of dizziness came over her, and she stumbled over to the bed, heaving a shaky sigh as she lay down and curled into a ball.
Maybe she’d call on Lord and Lady Eskdale tomorrow and let them know what had occurred. Then again, no. It would seem like tale-telling. They’d find out soon enough, anyway.
Heaving another sigh, she rolled onto her back and pressed her hand to her forehead. “God help me.”
A short while later, a soft tap came to the door and Doyle entered, a tea tray balanced deftly on her left hand. “Here now, miss,” she said, setting the tray on a small table by the fireplace. “Some tea, and I took the liberty of making some toast. You should eat something. The bread is freshly baked and Milly churned the butter herself. Shall I pour?”
