Page 27 of Gone with the Rake

Betrothed!

He was betrothed!

As she stood there frozen behind the topiary, she watched Art’s tall figure quietly disappear down the garden path. Eventually, Lady Stanhope swept away as well, leaving Lydia alone in the cold autumn night.

He was betrothed.

What did she expect? For him to remain a bachelor forever?

Lydia began her slow walk back to the ballroom, her feet dragging against the gravel. She needed to inform Honoria of yet another failed attempt at stealing the jewel. She was a failure… At least, when it came to Art, she certainly was. She had never been able to hold her composure in front of him—why had she foolishly thought she would suddenly start now?

Because she hadn’t faced him in over a decade?

If anything, she should have known it would be worse.

She was so cocky, so certain that he was content with his bachelor life. He hadn’t even been a part of the marriage mart in the last ten years, or so she’d heard.

There were no rumors of that sort; he hadn’t attended any respectable balls or dinners. How had he managed to secure a betrothal so quickly? Was it an arranged marriage?

Tears blurred her vision, forcing her to stop and dab at her eyes with trembling fingers. She took several deep breaths, trying to steady herself. What was she doing? She needed to collect her scattered thoughts.

She needed to talk to her friend.

Lydia returned to the ballroom and immediately swept her gaze across the glittering crowd, searching for Honoria.

A flutter of black muslin slipped behind a large fern near one of the windows, and Lydia made her way toward it. She skirted the edges of the room, avoiding any attempts at conversation. Snagging a glass of wine from a passing footman, she finally reached the fern and turned to face the crowd. Lifting the glass to her lips as a shield, she whispered, “I didn’t get it.”

“How come?” Honoria’s calm voice seemed to materialize from nowhere. She needed to stay hidden—it wouldn’t do for a servant to be visible in the ballroom.

“Thorn refused a tryst.”

“That’s… odd?” Honoria added a questioning lilt to the last word as if unsure it was the right one to use.

“He is betrothed,” Lydia breathed, one wave of tension leaving her body only to be replaced by another.

“Betrothed?” Honoria’s surprise sharpened her whisper into something too close to a loud shriek.

“Shh…” Lydia glanced around anxiously, but nobody seemed to be paying her any heed. Or at least, if they were, they were polite enough to pretend not to notice a lady apparently engaged in conversation with a potted fern.

“I’m sorry,” Honoria returned to a low whisper. “I just don’t understand. Who is he betrothed to?”

Lydia shook her head, her hands curling into fists at her sides, her cheeks burning with humiliation. “I don’t know, he didn’t say.” Or at least, I didn’t hear him say it. Lydia’s voice grew fainter with each word, as if her strength was ebbing away.

A long pause stretched between them, until Honoria finally spoke again. “Are you certain he wasn’t lying?”

“You mean am I certain that he refused a tryst with a delectable countess and a known lightskirt during a boring function and came up with a lie to do it? Yes, I am quite certain.” Lydia fisted her trembling hands and began pacing like a caged animal. Three steps forward, three steps back. “And if he is refusing trysts because of his betrothal, it can only mean one thing.”

She stilled suddenly, her gaze distant, unfocused.

“What?” Honoria’s voice seemed to reach her from across a great divide.

“It means that it’s a love match.” The words fell from her lips like stones.

Honoria stepped out from the shadows and placed her hand on Lydia’s shoulder. Lydia shrugged it off immediately. “You can’t be seen, Honor. Go back. And I need to—”

“Come. Let us talk in private.”

Lydia shook her head, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice. “I don’t want to talk. I need to devise a plan. I need to get the ring—”