“I don’t see the need. I am going to enjoy my birthday ball—”
“The need? Need has nothing to do with it. Well, yes, there are some who need to find a husband during their Season but not always.”
“I believe it is more the rule than the exception.”
“Please, Lydia, I am trying to educate you about the ways of the world.” He stepped back to her side, and they continued down the path. “A Season is all about balls and concerts. Seeing and meeting new acquaintances. It’s full of frivolity and flirting.”
“You want me to flirt with you?”
“No, of course not. It wouldn’t be seemly. Everyone knows that we mean to be married.”
“Then you want me to flirt with other men.”
“No, of course not.”
“Barley, I am confused.”
“Well, that is because you are not listening. As I was saying, you need to kick up your heels. Live a little before you take on your domestic role.” And then, under his breath, as if Lydia was not meant to hear, he added, “Sow some wild oats.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly now. You want to kick up your heels and live a little.”
“That is not what I said.”
“Yes, but it is what you meant.”
The heavy silence lasted several steps. It was broken when Barley cleared his throat—in discomfort. “I think we should hold off a little longer. Until you are twenty, at least.”
“I don’t believe we have that luxury, Barley. Though we might not need to be married right away, our engagement should give you enough authority to question Mr. Drury’s management. A right to an opinion—”
“Your opinion.”
“Yes, of course, unless you have gained some sort of knowledge in crop rotation of which I am unaware.”
“I don’t even know what that means.” Again, he sighed heavily. “I will have to think about it.”
Lydia stopped in her tracks. “Do you not wish to marry me?”
“Really, Lydia, not wishing to be pushed around is not the same as not wishing to be married. I have control of my own life, thank you very much—even if my purse strings are tied around your waist.… Oh, I do beg your pardon; I did not mean to mention any part of your body … err, umm, person. I should have said bodice … or wrist … or something else of that nature.”
Lydia ignored the reddening of his complexion, amused by his sense of delicacy. “Why don’t I have the papers drawn up, just in case?”
“In case of what?”
“You decide that an announcement will serve us best, after all.”
“Perhaps. Yes, we could start the process. Iron out the wrinkles, as Mrs. Candor would say.”
Lydia had not heard Barley’s housekeeper use any such expression before, but then she hadn’t spent a lot of time with Mrs. Candor. That, too, would change when Lydia moved into Wilder Hill Manor. A cold, drafty, massive place without a single marble statue … and dusty books—such a disheartening thought.
“Yes. We can iron them out.” Lydia planned to arrange a life interest for her mother and sister at Roseberry. They needed to be secure in knowing that they could stay at Roseberry for as long as they wished—something her father had failed to consider.
“Indeed. You will be twenty soon enough. It will come quickly.” He lifted his head, staring at the empty sky, and nodded in agreement to some internal thought. “Two years should be sufficient.”
“Sufficient?”
Dropping his gaze back to Lydia, he smiled. It was full of charm and humor; the very reasons Lydia knew that their lifelong union would be comfortable. “Yes, places to go, people to see.”
Returning his smile with one of her own, Lydia shrugged. “Fine,” she acquiesced. “A two-year engagement is not overly long.”
“Engagement?”
“Isn’t that the purpose of the contract?”
“Yes, yes, of course it is.”
“And then, once the paperwork is out of the way, you can offer your hand. At the ball, perhaps?” She lifted her cheeks even farther and tried to look wistful.
Barley’s frown returned. “Please, Lydia, you are trying to control everything again. You will have to wait until I deem the time appropriate.”
“No announcement at the ball?”
“We shall see.”
“But I really do need you to help me in this disagreement with Uncle Arthur, Barley.”
“I think you should be concentrating your efforts on this lawyer chap, your Mr. Lynch. He’s the one with the true power—control over the money is key. And this here fellow he’s sent around … Newbury?”
“Newton.”
“Yes, quite. He’s the one—sounds sensible enough. Work on him, Lydia. There’s your answer.”
Lydia dropped her smile. “So it would seem.” Then she brightened. “I say, Barley, why don’t we take advantage of Mr. Newton’s presence? Yes. We can start working on the marriage contract right away.… Hmm, let’s see. Why don’t you come over tomorrow afternoon around two o’clock? I’ll forgo my usual constitutional; this is far more important, and I do like to be impulsive.” She ignored Barley’s snort of derision. “Yes, that would work.… Oh, are you free tomorrow at two?”
“Might as well take the bull by the horns. Tomorrow it is.”
Lydia watched Lord Aldershot wend his way out of the garden, taking the west gate to the stables. She wasn’t too sure that she liked the analogy. A bull? Was she the bull or its horns? Neither sounded flattering.
Glancing at the conservatory wall, she was glad to note that the strange shadow had disappeared—and again dismissed it as a consequence of a distracted mind.
*
The tableau that greeted Lydia when she returned to the drawing room had changed little since her departure a quarter of an hour earlier. However, there was an addition. Robert Newton was now on the settee that she had vacated, and Cousin Elaine sat beside him—holding up Ivy’s needlework.
“Just a little cut, right here, if you don’t mind, Mr. Newton. It is vastly important to get the length exact.”
The accommodating gentleman proceeded to open a penny knife from his pocket—despite the presence of a pair of scissors on the table beside Elaine.
Giggling, her cousin leaned closer in an overt display of flirtation. Lydia found it most irritating. Elaine had been setting her cap at every handsome bachelor she encountered since she was fifteen, but this bachelor was Lydia’s. Yes, hers … her … Mr. Newton was here on business. This vulgar display was inappropriate.
Lydia’s mother was the first to speak.
“Ah, there you are, Lydia. Mr. Newton was looking to speak with you—you are very popular today, I must say. I told him you would be but a moment, and, look, here you are.”
Mama did have a tendency to ramble or blather, but even this speech was a little too vacuous for her. Was she nervous? Or was that a sparkle of excitement? And her eyes, why was she moving them about so oddly—from Cousin Elaine to Mr. Newton and back again? Surely she wasn’t intimating an attraction between them?