A Breach of Promise (4 page)

“I fear it is not so simple as that. My feelings toward him are no longer engaged.”

“Is that truly so?” Lady Russell broke into a dubious smile. Although Lydia had spoken with conviction, she failed to meet the elder woman’s astute gaze. “Then my dear, it must be my son’s onus to reengage them.”

Lydia opened her mouth protest but Lady Russell had already risen to her feet with a brisk shake of her voluminous skirts. “Now then, let us get you settled in your rooms. Your betrothed shall be joining us later for supper.”

* * * * *

Certain that Lady Russell would waste no time, Marcus had fully anticipated his mother’s urgent message. Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist spending an hour or two at his club first, though he knew it an idle and childish protest against the inevitable.

“Ah, my youngest son condescends to visit his neglected mother at last,” Lady Russell scolded while tilting her head for the kiss Marcus planted on her cheek.

“Visit? I was under the distinct impression you’d issued a summons. Ouch!” he exclaimed as the smart flick of her fan connected with his wrist.

“Don’t be cheeky.” Ignoring his scowl, Lady Russell simply patted the seat on the silk-damask sofa. “Sit with me, Marcus. We must talk.”

“You mean,
you
must talk and I must listen,” he amended with a sardonic curve of his lips.

“Quite so, dearest,” she said. Marcus had no sooner flipped his coat skirts to sit before Lady Russell turned to fully face her son. “Marcus, you are a fool.”

Having long been his mother’s favorite, the remark came as something of a shock. “An auspicious beginning,” he remarked dryly. “And dismaying to my illusion that the world at large considers me a man of parts.”

“Wicked boy.” She pursed her lips. “You know very well I’m speaking of Lydia. Your betrothal was perfectly arranged years ago to the ideal girl. It confounds me how you have managed to botch it all up!”

“While I confess I’ve been remiss—”

“Remiss! The girl has not laid eyes on you but once since your betrothal party! You’ve been positively nonexistent! How could you be so careless and insensitive?”

“What was left for me to do, Mama? You had already quite taken the burden of finding a wife off my shoulders.”

“So this is just a petty rebellion against me?” Her mouth formed a well-practiced moue. “I had only your best interests at heart, Marcus. You are my youngest son with no fortune to speak of, and no properties to inherit. I found you a suitable girl from good family with a respectable dowry.”

“Placing my future happiness all in your own capable hands.”

She looked injured. “You were never under duress.”

He groaned. “I know, Mama. And I agreed to it, didn’t I?”

“Nevertheless, after I sowed the garden, you failed to tend it.”

“You already know I am resolved to make amends. ‘Tis why I have brought her here.”

“You seem to think this will be easily fixed, but I begin to doubt your success. How do you expect to go on with Lydia, to win her over?”

“Win? Why should I have to win what is already mine?”

“
Was
yours—for the losing. By sheer negligence you have alienated her affections, and now must work to win them back.”

Marcus laughed outright. “I daresay that shan’t be much of a challenge.”

“Don’t be so damned cocksure, Marcus! You take too much for granted, but I suppose I am to blame in having made life far too easy for you.”

“You can’t help yourself, Mama. You’ve always doted on me.” Marcus flashed a devilish grin.

“And you’re abominable for all my efforts!”

“Don’t fret, Mama. All shall be smoothed over anon. I’ll humble myself and charm her. She’ll be beside herself with all the attention I flourish upon her.”

“Marcus. You don’t understand. The girl has character.”

“Character?” Marcus winced. “Is it as bad as all that? Why is it all girls with no claim to pulchritude positively brim with character?”

Lady Russell stared at him for a moment. “You are monstrous!” Marcus warily watched the fan, but she flipped it open only to cool herself. “In no way does Lydia want for looks. She is an exceedingly handsome girl.”

“Of course she is.” His expression belied his words.

“I doubt she’ll have you now anyway. And it serves you right.” The ubiquitous fan snapped shut in emphasis.

Marcus gave a condescending smirk. “Mama, she’ll be eating out of my hand before the night is over.”

* * * * *

“No, no.” Mariah waved away the floral-sprigged, sacque gown. “That print is too matronly and the neckline far too demure. You should wear the canary silk mantua instead. It sets you off to best advantage. You must make a statement, Lydia.”

Lydia protested. “But the canary is cut scandalously low. What manner of statement would that make? That I long for him to ogle my breasts?”

“Precisely.” Mariah winked.

“Why on earth would I want that?”

Mariah gave an impish grin. “I think it would be perfect justice to make him pine for what he has lost.”

“Don’t be scandalous!” Lydia chided. “I shan’t wear the canary. I thought to save it for a
special
occasion.”

“You would not call your first true dinner with your affianced a special occasion?”

“Correction, Mariah. My former affianced. And I really don’t know why you are troubling yourself so over my wardrobe selection. It’s not as if I wish to impress the man.”

“But why not? You must wear your best; flirt with every
other
man at the table, and save that haughty chin tilt of yours especially for Marcus. Make him suffer.”

Remembering her humiliation at her betrothal party, she considered her cousin’s suggestion. “You’re right, Mariah. I must dress to devastate. I’ll wear the canary and I’ll add the stomacher with the seed pearls
and
the Mechlin lace.”

“You will be a vision, Lyddie! And remember, no matter how he should beg or cajole you to change your mind, you must
not
be moved.”

* * * * *

Marcus glanced up at the grand staircase for the umpteenth time. “Bloody hell! Is she intentionally making me wait just to draw out the awkwardness?”

“It would serve you right after six years waiting on her side,” Nicholas drawled.

Marcus scowled and beckoned the footman for a refill. He already met the evening ahead with dread, certain it would stretch out painfully, interminably. Although fortified with several glasses of Madeira—that magical blend of wine and distilled alcohol that normally shifted him quickly into a happy haze—he found his irritation only increasing by the minute.

When his eyes next darted to the top of the stairs, two colorful, silk-clad figures were descending arm in arm. His attention shifted to the taller of the pair with a jolt. Under the candlelight, auburn highlights glinted in her chestnut hair. Though a fan sheltered the lower part of her face, he glimpsed clear, wide-set blue eyes under delicately arched brows. His tactile gaze tracked lower, noting the fine column of her neck meeting shapely shoulders. His gaze lingered longer than gentlemanly along the tops of milky-white breasts—exquisite breasts really—displayed to full advantage in her low-cut gown. His cock stirred with decided interest.

“Who is she?” Nicholas read his thoughts.

“Lydia’s cousin, Lady Morehaven, I presume.” Marcus resisted the powerful urge to raise his quizzing glass, but his eyes still devoured her. “Damn but
that
one’s a veritable Venus Rising.”

His stare lingered with fascination on the soft white mounds of her breasts. He wondered at their softness, how their supple weight would balance in his hands…how they would taste in his mouth. He had become quite a connoisseur of them actually—women’s breasts—as well as boasting of a certain expertise of other…more functional and fascinating female parts. Over the past few years, he’d sampled many women of beauty, intellect, and style that only the Continent seemed to breed. One of the chief perquisites of the Foreign Service was consummate access such voluptuous delights often paid by their governments to entertain foreign diplomats. By consequence, blushing English roses like Lydia no longer held any appeal.

At great reluctance, he shook himself out of his dark fantasy to force his attention back to his betrothed. “Ah, Lydia, just as bland as I recall.” Lord Russell took a final swallow from his glass, handed it to a footman and advanced toward the stairs with indifference, thinking everything about Lydia still appeared some middling shade—neither tall nor short, hair neither light nor dark, and eyes neither blue nor gray.

The two women were halfway down the stairs whispering when the taller of the pair looked fleeting over her fan at Marcus. Her brows met, she averted her gaze and faltered. Was it panic he had seen flash across her face? The brief notion gave him pause. His gaze shifted from one woman to the other with a discomposing uncertainty.

It couldn’t possibly be.

Lydia glanced over her fan into the deep, dark, depths of her girlhood fantasies and faltered. “Lud, he is magnificent!” she whispered half to herself. “I can’t believe I had nearly forgotten him.” She thought she’d successfully banished her feeling, but upon seeing him again, his appeal was magnified tenfold, causing her stomach to do flips.

Marcus was no longer the young man she remembered, but a mature and urbane gentleman of fashion. He was elegantly dressed in an evening coat of midnight-blue velvet trimmed in silver, with satin breeches and a silver-embroidered waistcoat. Cascades of lace spilled at his throat and from his cuffs almost to his fingertips, which held the requisite, ornamental snuffbox.

“A magnificent cad, you mean. He’s positively gaping at your bosom, Lyddie!” Mariah said in a scandalized whisper. “I swear he’s undressing you with his eyes!”

Lydia’s lip twitched. “How lurid you sound. I really must censure your reading material.”

“There can be no doubt you have his attention
now
,” Mariah giggled.

“Then it’s too bad my breasts can’t speak. Hush now!” she said. “We’re almost close enough he’ll hear us.”

Though she tried to hide it, the idea that she’d captured Marcus’ attention made Lydia’s rebellious pulse quicken. He had shattered her hopes and broken her heart with callous indifference, yet she realized with dismay that the cad still affected her.

She’d fantasized about this meeting for weeks and how she would greet him with practiced hauteur, but now that the actual moment had arrived, her heart rose to her throat.

Marcus met them at the bottom of the stairs, with a courtly show of leg and a flourishing bow. Rising, he looked from Lydia to Mariah with a slight frown wrinkling his brow.

Reading his perplexity, Lydia halted. “Lud,” she breathed between lips frozen in a smile.

Mariah nudged her ribs with a bony elbow. “What is it, Lyddie?”

“He doesn’t even know me.”

“You can’t mean it!” Mariah said.

“It’s true,” she hissed. “Just note the marks of his uncertainty—the subtle arch of his brow, the twitch in his jaw, and how his gaze tracks back and forth between us.”

“Lackaday, you are right!” Mariah shielded another giggle behind her fan.

“I am indeed,” Lydia whispered back to her cousin. She directed Marcus her most winsome smile. “Now let us see how Mr. Dashing Diplomat worms his way out of this!”

Chapter Four

Marcus was stunned by the notion that the goddess might actually be Lydia, but reaching the bottom of the stairs, neither woman moved to receive him. Instead, they exchanged a conspiratorial smile.
What the devil game are they playing?

Saved by his instincts, Marcus grasped Needham by the elbow. “Nicholas, I should like very much for you to meet my betrothed and her lovely cousin. Ladies,” he turned to the pair, “may I present my good friend and personal secretary, Mr. Nicholas Needham.”

Marcus awaited the next move with narrowed eyes and found himself trumped again when both women dropped into a silent curtsey. Marcus countered the play by sweeping an ambiguous gesture that might have indicated either woman. “Nick, I present my betrothed, Miss Lydia Trent.”

Nick regarded both ladies with expectation, whereby Lydia stepped forward with a triumphant look and brilliant smile. “Mr. Needham, my cousin, Lady Mariah Morehaven,” she completed the introduction the gaping Marcus had aborted.

Nicholas cast his friend a quizzical look that went unanswered. With a half shrug, he extended his arm to Mariah. “I would be most honored to be your supper escort, Lady Morehaven.”

Mariah smiled shyly and placed her hand on his sleeve. “It is my pleasure to accept, Mr. Needham.”

“Miss Trent?” Marcus at last recovered his senses to offer his arm, but when Lydia extended her hand, he brought it first to his mouth. “I am truly bedazzled. It appears my awkward little duckling has become the most exquisite swan.”

Her eyes widened. She snatched her hand away. “You take liberties, Lord Marcus —with both my name and my person.”