Marcus entered the drawing room with the deliberate gait of one who had over-imbibed and surveyed the occupants with an unfocused stare. “Sh-shampagne,” he cried when he finally lit upon Lydia, as if suddenly recalling the evening’s true purpose. “We must have champagne to toast the blushing rose that has now become my betrothed.”
His lingering gaze sent a hot flush creeping from the base of Lydia’s neck to the tip of her nose, and when Marcus smiled, her breath seized as abruptly in her throat as her fingers on the spinet keyboard. To be the object of his full attention, even for this brief moment, was akin to the sun appearing from behind a dark and dismal cloud to blaze its full radiance upon her. And in that moment under the giddy glow of his smile, Lydia thought she could forgive him anything.
Following the congratulatory toasts, Marcus’ much-relieved and overly indulgent parents suggested the newly affianced couple stroll the gardens. When Marcus offered his arm, a wave of panic flooded Lydia. All the pretty speeches and coquettish looks she had rehearsed before her mirror evaporated. Marcus’ abstraction only added to her discomfiture.
“So the deed is done at last.” He broke the tense silence. “Our families are surely congratulating themselves on the success of their mutual machinations.”
Lydia’s throat went dry at his edge of resentment. “Y-you did not wish this engagement?”
“Did you?” he asked, but then failed to await her response. Marcus’ unsteady steps slowed. “It’s not like they ever gave us a choice, is it, my pet?” He chucked her under the chin. “Here you are, barely out of the schoolroom, with no experience of life. As for me, they wish to clip my bloody wings before I ever take flight. What a damnable life to have it all mapped out at another’s whim,” he added as if to himself.
No. She hadn’t imagined the bitterness. The knot in her stomach tightened. “You don’t have to, you know—marry me.” She closed her eyes and choked out the words.
Marcus’ laugh was a low, mirthless sound. “But there you are wrong, my sweet. As a younger son without a pot to piss in, I must do precisely as my family demands of me.” They had reached the huge oak where an old wooden swing was suspended. Without asking her leave, Marcus seized her by the waist and hoisted her onto the seat. He stepped back with another laugh. “There. You are dressed in virginal white and look upon me with wide, plaintive eyes. Proof positive that our scheming parents would plan weddings when you are naught but a mere child.”
He threw himself to the ground by her dangling feet and turned his attention to the pilfered champagne. He popped the cork and covered the bottle with his eager mouth to catch the effervescent explosion.
Her eyes burned at his scorn. “I’m not, you know,” Lydia said.
“Not what?” He took several long gulps from the bottle.
“A child.”
“No?” He offered her the bottle. “I noticed you had none earlier.”
“Papa says I am too young to drink.”
Marcus smirked. “As I said, a child.”
Lydia’s ire rose to inflame her cheeks. Her gaze darted from Marcus to the bottle.
“What Papa doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” When he taunted her once more with the bottle, Lydia hesitated only a moment before snatching it from his grasp.
Her first sip was tentative. The peculiar combination of sweet and acidic effervescence tickled her nose and throat. Marcus regarded her with surprise when she broke into a throaty giggle. “The bubbles, they tickle my nose!”
“It’ll tickle elsewhere too if you give it half a chance,” he encouraged with a grin.
She took several more draughts. A longer moment of silence stretched between them. She took another fortifying drink. “Do you wish to break it off?” she asked and reached a toe to the ground, idly pushing off to set the swing gliding and slanted a look at him, internally bracing herself for his answer.
Propped back on his elbow, Marcus looked up at her and drawled, “A gentleman wouldn’t do such a thing.”
It was not what she’d expected him to answer. His gaze followed the gentle ebb and flow of the swing. Sprawled as he was on the ground at her feet, she was aware that his position afforded a clear view of her ankles, and with the forward motion, an occasional glimpse of her calves. The attentiveness of his stare told her he had realized the same thing.
The swing by now had ceased its motion. Lydia took another long drink. She no longer felt the chill in the air and her limbs tingled. Suddenly and uncharacteristically emboldened, she raised her skirts a few inches, as if to get them off the ground. Locking eyes with Marcus, she extended her pink-slippered foot to push off again, but he stole the breath from her body when he seized her ankle.
“What are you doing?” Her breathless giggle was inspired more by nerves than champagne.
Marcus held her, his eyes darkening with an unfamiliar stare that made her breath come back in a rush. If he anticipated her protest, it never came.