Page 30 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

They hurried down the hall and back out onto the lawn.

‘Docile?’ Lydia whispered.

‘Not good,’ Pip said fervently. ‘Not good at all.’

‘He is worse than I – more than I …’

She did not have the words.

‘A villain with a moustache,’ Pip summarized. ‘The most dangerous sort.’

‘And to think I felt sorry for him,’ Lydia marvelled. ‘I thought he might actually … care for me.’

Her face burnt with mortification. She could not believe she had been so foolish.

Polite laughter tinkled lightly over them as they approached the billiards lawn and she remembered that she was meant to have changed her hat. Lydia reached up and plucked more feathers off her hat, discarding them in a convenient bush. One, two, three, four. She did it so violently that some of the velvet came loose with it, and Lydia could feel a new breeze on her head that was suggestive of a hole.

‘Perfectly done,’ Pip said.

‘There you are!’ Lady Phoebe said. ‘All of you.’

They turned to see Ashford and Sir Waldo striding out onto the lawn behind them. Neither one was looking at the other.

Lydia had to fight to keep a glare from her face. How dare he! How dare he throw her life into such disorder and not even tell her why. He needed capital, did he? Why, he was no better than a common fortune hunter, and she had wasted time feeling sorry for him, had worried she was humiliating him unfairly – had questioned her intentions, her motives, her memory!

‘It is your turn, Miss Hanworth!’ Lady Phoebe called out merrily.

Lydia accepted her mallet, approaching the ball which had been left at a little distance. She examined it carefully, then hit it with a resounding smack and impeccable aim. It flew directly towards Ashford, forcing him to jump backwards with an undignified yelp, only partially avoiding the ball which hit him on the thigh rather than her original, far more painful, planned spot.

‘Goodness!’

‘By Jove, that’s a hit!’ Sir Waldo said enthusiastically.

‘I’m not certain it’s the right game, though,’ Dacre murmured.

Standing upright with a wince, Ashford forced a laugh. ‘Have I offended you, Miss Hanworth?’

‘I am sorry, my lord,’ Lydia said, smiling her toothiest smile.

‘All is forgiven,’ he said, ‘as long as you promise to aim for the hoops in future.’

‘I promise,’ she said sweetly, and added, in the privacy of her own mind: to make your life a living hell.

9

‘The yellow, tonight, Jane,’ Lydia declared as she entered her chambers.

‘I’m not sure the yellow is … suitable,’ Jane said. Although now fully aware of Lydia’s intentions to disgust Ashford, this dress was a step too far for the lady’s maid.

‘The yellow,’ Lydia affirmed, grimly.

‘Perhaps I could do something with it – take away the trimming, perhaps, there is so much of it …’

Jane, the daughter of a seamstress, could perform miracles with a needle and Lydia had no doubt she might be able to improve the dress if she set her mind to it. Alas, improvement was not on Lydia’s agenda.

‘It is absolutely perfect as it is.’

It was a gown of sickly yellow, cut in a style not seen in the ton for at least ten years past, and it might well have been designed to emphasize Lydia’s very worst qualities: the colour brought out her sallowness of skin, the puff-capped sleeves broadened her shoulders, and the white feathered edging paid distinct homage to the goose. It was sufficient to render any gentleman distinctly nauseous, and so shockingly unflattering as to give Ashford cause, surely, to regret the day he was born.