Page 47

“You are glad.”

“Yes. That it is going forward.” She drew a small breath. “After everything, I did not think it could be anything but a good match. We are, I think, very well suited to argue with one another. And you were kind to me in the library, and at Ashcombe, and in the Park, and I have thought…”

She was smiling. It was a small, uncertain smile, and there was a great deal in it. He saw that she was happy. He saw that she had come out into this passage to give him something, and that she was holding it out with both hands.

For one shameful instant he saw his mother’s satisfaction in her smile. He knew the difference. He spoke before it could stop him.

“You should not gloat, Lady Lydia.”

Her smile lingered for a second. Then she drew her hands together.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My mother’s ploy has worked. You will forgive me if I find it difficult to celebrate her success.” His voice was cool, and he disliked how readily it had become so. “I would not have chosen to marry under these circumstances. Duty is a poor reason for a wedding.”

The color drained from her face. Her hands, which had been clasped, came apart and hung at her sides. The small line between her brows deepened and then, with a visible effort, smoothed away. She did not cry. She did not raise her voice. She looked at him for a long, level moment with her blue-gray eyes wide and bright, and what she said, when she said it, was so quiet that he had to lean to catch it.

“I see.”

Her happiness had been genuine. He had known that before he spoke. From the drawing room came his mother’s voice asking for another cup, and he wanted to call Lydia back, but she was already turning toward the door.

He stood with his hat in his hand in the shadow of another man’s staircase and said nothing at all.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” Lydia went back into the drawing room and closed the door gently. He stood in the passage until a footman asked whether his carriage was wanted. His own calm answer disturbed him. He had done a cruel thing and heard himself sounding merely inconvenienced.

Outside, his mother told the coachman to take them home. Tristan sent the carriage on without him. He walked to Sebastian’s, rehearsing an apology meant for someone else.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mr. Harrington called on Saturday afternoon. Lydia had written the previous evening to tell him about the engagement herself, rather than let him hear it from someone who might enjoy his surprise. He had asked to call instead of taking their planned walk. She received him with her mother at the far end of the drawing room and a tray of tea between them. When he sat down, he did not immediately speak. She wished she had found a way to make the letter kinder without making it less clear.

He sat farther from her than he had on his previous visit. His hat rested on his knee; the brim turned toward the window. She remembered him using it to shade her drawing from a sudden shower of leaves, laughing when a caterpillar landed inside it. He had been easy company. She wished she could say so now without sounding cruel.

“Lady Lydia,” he said. “I have come to offer my congratulations.”

“That is very kind.”

“It is a formality, and I am bad at those.” He turned his hat once and set it back down. “Thank you for writing. I preferred to hear it from you.”

“I hope your sister was not too disappointed about the walk.”

“She has ordered me to take her tomorrow. Apparently, the weather must not be wasted.” He smiled briefly. “I have brought no book. I thought it might be presumptuous.”

“You have never been presumptuous in your life.”

“I have been thinking of beginning.” He looked directly at her. “May I ask you something? I do not think I have the right, but I should like to ask it, and you may tell me to go to the devil.”

“I shall not.”

“Are you certain of it?”

The question sat between them, plain as a stone. Lydia looked at him, at the good hands on the good hat, at the steady eyes with nothing in them to fear. She had thought she knew what she would say. She had rehearsed it in her bedchamber, in the dry, sensible voice that she used for annotations.

“No,” she said.

He looked down at his hat.

“I meant my answer when I gave it,” she continued. “I believe we might be happy together. But I will speak to him again before the wedding.” She looked down at her hands. “You deserve to know that I have not been comparing fortunes or titles. I enjoyed seeing you. I would not have encouraged you otherwise. I am sorry that my feelings have not become what you hoped.”