*
Seated at her escritoire, finally alone in the morning room, Lydia sealed a long letter to Shelley. With all that had transpired the day before, they had not had an opportunity to discuss the particulars of the ball arrangements. Shelley had offered to help, but without instructions, her friend would be stymied.
Lydia would post the letter in Spelding herself if she thought she could slip away without Cora’s being aware of her intent. While Lydia greatly enjoyed Cora’s company and was pleased to find her friend buoyant and at ease once again, she was less than pleased with the other results of their adventure.
Cora had taken it upon herself to accompany Lydia anywhere and everywhere beyond the confines of the manor. That had included Lydia’s lovely solitary walk just after luncheon, which had been neither lovely, due to the rain, nor solitary, due to Cora’s presence. Worse still, Lydia was now peeking around corners in anticipation of seeing Les or Morley peeking back. Left to her own devices, Lydia would have put the whole incident behind her, but returning to the subject continually was a bit wearing: whispered recollections at breakfast, speculation on the culprit in a quiet conversation in the drawing room … and then throughout her daily promenade. If this continued, Lydia would soon be shrieking in utter frustration—with the delicacy and grace insisted upon by Miss Melvina, of course.
Still, if Lydia was fair, the adventure had been but two days previous, and Cora was only being protective. It might take as much as a week before the high emotions faded completely … for all three of them. Lydia counted Robert in this select group. And as she allowed her mind to drift in his direction, yet again, Lydia became aware of a commotion just beyond the door of the morning room. Standing in anticipation, she was unexpectedly disappointed when Shodster announced Barley.
“Oh,” she said with great intelligence. She dipped her curtsy slower than was her norm, giving her time to hide her reaction. When she lifted her eyes to those of the gentleman who would one day be her husband, she was startled by his looks. Not that his glare and hard-set mouth were terribly unusual; she had seen that glower before. Nor was his confrontational stance extraordinary, either. She had known Barley a long time.
No, it was the color of his hair, for rather than a rich brown, as she had thought previously, it seemed muddy. And his nose … why had she never noticed how very sharp and unappealing it was? And his manner of dress was … overly elegant, his waistcoat an unnecessarily bright red. Strange that she had not noticed these proclivities before.
“There you are, Barley,” she said, blinking away her distracting thoughts. Waving toward the settee near the fireplace, Lydia crossed the room. But when she perched on the edge of her seat, Barley had still not moved.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“That is a strange question since this is my home and where I live.”
“Why were you not in Bath?”
Lydia rose, feeling the tension in the room increasing still further. And while she might not understand its underlying cause, she would not be put to disadvantage. “I might ask the same of you.”
“What are you on about? You were not there, and Mr. Lynch was certain that you were not expected. We had no appointment. I rode all the way to town and back in the rain—as you insisted—and for what? Nothing. I am greatly disturbed by your lack of consideration. What would it have taken for you to let me know that your plans had changed? We are neighbors, after all.”
“This seems like a lot of thunder for something that is two days old. I was in Bath, Lord Aldershot, as arranged. It was you who failed to show. And why is of great interest to me.”
“You are the most ridiculous of young women, Lydia, but I would never have expected such blatant prevarication. I was most decidedly there. In Bath. To discuss our marriage contract. At one. Precisely. You were not.”
“Today? Of course not. It is Saturday—the twenty-ninth.”
“Indeed. All day, as is the norm.” The tones of mockery and derision were excessive.
Pursing her lips for a moment, Lydia breathed through her nose, trying to gain control of her pique—extreme pique … fully warranted, deserved, and … and proper pique!
“Our appointment in Bath,” Lydia said in slow deliberate tones—as if dealing with an idiot! “With the lawyer to discuss and sign our marriage contract was arranged for Thursday the twenty-seventh. At one, precisely.”
“You said Saturday.”
“No, I did not.” Lydia continued to stare at Barley, not backing down one iota.
Perhaps it was the clipped manner in which these words were spoken or perhaps it was the glare that accompanied them, it hardly mattered, for there was something in her words or look that took Barley aback. He shook his head in a sharp, jerky motion, and then his shoulders relaxed, and he sighed.
“Oh, Lydia, what am I to do? I was certain our meeting was today. I ordered a new carriage on the strength of it. I am in an awkward position now.”
“Counting your chickens before they are hatched?” Lydia, a great advocate of the adage “forgive and forget,” found that she was not yet ready to forgive when there had been no apology. And forgetting was equally difficult—being called ridiculous greatly rankled. She was absolutely certain that Robert would never describe her in such a manner.
“’Fraid so. Can you write Lynch and arrange another appointment—soon?”
An unequivocal no was on the tip of her tongue when Lydia realized that Barley was still falling in with her plans.… And yet she was not as relieved as one might expect. “I will see what I can do.”
“Excellent. Yes. That will be fine. The carriage maker does not need to see the glint of my money yet, does he? Oh, wait until you see it, Lydia. The seat is so high I’ll need a ladder to climb onto it. Oh, yes, and I might need a little more blunt than we discussed on the signing of the contract. Can’t have such a bang-up curricle being pulled by a mismatched set. No, indeed.”
Barley was certainly warming to the idea of using her money. “Curricle? You ordered a curricle?” Lydia sighed and wondered if Robert had ever felt the need to kick up a lark or drive a ridiculous carriage. Looking away, lest Barley see the look of disapproval in her eyes, Lydia spied the letter for Shelley on her writing desk.