Page 5 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

She had not been.

‘And kept asking me what she should expect and pack, the dear thing.’

She had not.

‘It will be an intimate affair,’ Ashford said. ‘Ten of Lady Phoebe’s nearest and dearest, with all the usual fare: riding, dining, and, on the final night, the masquerade ball.’

‘And none of them will know,’ Lydia said, ‘of our – our engagement?’

Aunt Agatha and Uncle Edmund threw twin glares her, but Ashford was unruffled.

‘I imagine they will suspect us of courting,’ he said, ‘but otherwise, it shall be our secret.’

And with a final bow, he bade them farewell. They remained entirely silent in the library until the sound of the front door was heard closing firmly behind him. Then, Uncle Edmund let out a whoop of joy and Aunt Agatha began chattering excitedly at the top of her voice. Neither of them acknowledged Lydia and she remained entirely silent.

It was not a devastated silence this time, however, but rather a thoughtful one. Matters were not so dark as they had first appeared. She would not be getting married to Ashford, of that she was certain – and neither would she be banished to Aunt Mildred. How, she did not yet know, but she would think of something.

A great deal could be achieved in ten days, after all.

2

Monday – Ten days remaining

‘You oughtn’t marry a fellow you don’t like,’ Pip said firmly. ‘Fact is: nonsense.’

As soon as Lydia could quit her aunt and uncle’s company, she had sent for her brother with utmost urgency. Pip had come at once, without question, as Lydia had known he would. Ever since a bout of influenza had felled both their parents and grandparents the year she turned ten and six, it had been she and Pip against the rest. While Pip, in his gentlemen’s lodgings might not be quite as ruled as Lydia was by Aunt Agatha and Uncle Edmund, he was still beholden to their guardianship.

Not half an hour after she had sent her missive to Duke Street, Pip appeared upon the doorstep and together they had crossed the cobbles of Piccadilly, eschewing Hyde Park – at this hour always thronging with barouches, curricles and strolling dandies – in favour of the quieter Green Park.

‘Although, Grandfather would have been pleased,’ Pip acknowledged.

Lydia’s stomach twinged. Grandfather would likely have cried with happiness to think of his granddaughter as a future duchess, and his instructions would certainly have aligned with Aunt Agatha’s. On this matter, however, Lydia preferred to think of what her grandmother might have advised. As romantic as Grandfather was ambitious, it was Grandmother who had regaled Lydia with stories of their own courtship, a Love at First Sight Affair followed by a madcap dash to the altar. Caring little for the family fortune, she had valued kindness above all else and had – to her very last day – refused to allow status to alter one ounce of her character.

‘I will not marry someone I do not love,’ Lydia said, raising her chin resolutely, ‘not for anyone.’

The chilly, practical alliances made by her aunt and mother – trading independence for social advancement – did not in any way appeal to her. Since Lydia had sufficient wealth and standing to be comfortable, the advantages of marriage, to her mind, lay solely in the heart. Since girlhood she had clung to the dream of romance shown to her by her grandparents and thereafter in stories, novels, theatre. If that was not to be fulfilled … Well, she was not foolish enough to believe a loveless arrangement would be any sort of consolation. She would, by far, rather remain unwed.

‘Might come to care for him,’ Pip said. ‘That’s what they say happens, anyway.’

‘How could I make such a gamble?’ Lydia said. ‘I hardly know him, and he certainly does not know me.’

Yet, somehow, Ashford had decided that she was the one for him. Had felt ‘certain’ of it from their very first meeting. Lydia shook her head to think of it. For far from Love at First Sight, for her, it had been Dislike at First Conversation.

It had occurred at the Alcot ball, just three weeks previous. With Aunt Agatha distracted by their illustrious surroundings, Lydia had been able to escape her chaperonage for a moment. She had heard their hosts kept a most magnificent library and was determined upon finding it. For Lydia was just about sick of the Season, so bitterly disappointed had she been by almost every gentleman to whom she had been introduced. Their flaws might be diverse, but each one displayed an identical condescension when speaking with her, acting as if their conversation alone were a grand favour. Worse, beyond a cursory investigation of Lydia’s key attributes – dowry, family history, accomplishments – they appeared to be medically incapable of asking her a single question. Perusing bookshelves was far more appealing than attempting to jostle a conversation out of whatever Mr Lacklustre Aunt Agatha might conjure up.

Lydia had taken a wrong turning, however, opening a door to find not the library, but a long, darkened corridor. She had taken only a few hesitant steps inside when the door at the other end opened, and two gentlemen began strolling towards her. Lydia froze.

‘His Grace did not approve the match?’ said one gentleman.

‘Another refusal,’ the other confirmed. ‘My father’s standards are quite ridiculous.’

It took Lydia only a moment to identify who was speaking. The Hanworths might not receive vouchers to Almack’s, but they were invited to enough high society parties to make these voices recognizable: the Honourable Mr Brandon, who could be depended upon to cajole even the shyest young debutantes into conversation, and Lord Ashford, whose determined appearance at every ball in town had the ton twittering that he intended to take a wife.

Carefully, Lydia took a few steps backwards. To eavesdrop on a private conversation, between such persons as these, would not be wise. She could only hope that the dim light would prevent their noticing her and then exclaiming all over town that Miss Hanworth was a rotten lurker.

‘Such hypocrisy, Ashford,’ Mr Brandon said, amused. ‘Were you not the gentleman who deemed Miss Mablethorpe ‘hen-witted’?’

Lydia’s back was at the door now, her hand groping for the doorknob, but at this she paused, ears pricking. Miss Mablethorpe was widely considered a diamond of the first water, and the gossip rags frequently identified her as the perfect match for Ashford. Thus far, however, Ashford had kept them all guessing, spreading his attentions so impartially amongst the young ladies of the ton that no one of them was elevated above her contemporaries.