Love With a Scandalous Lord (2 page)

A
s the dark crimson coach sped along the narrow country lane, Lydia Westland gazed out the window and fought to maintain an air of casual indifference, to give the impression that traveling in a coach bearing a ducal crest was an everyday occurrence for her, to be taken in stride. When in fact, it was the most exciting adventure of her life.

With a contented sigh, she settled back against the plush interior padding. Traveling back home had never been this comfortable or elegant. She couldn’t help but be impressed by the pomp and ceremony.

The coachman’s beautiful crimson coat was adorned with silver braid. His white trousers fit snugly and stopped just below his knee, leaving his white stockings and black shoes clearly visible. Beneath his hat, he wore a white wig. As did the two footmen who stood on the back of the vehicle. She was amazed they didn’t fall off.

As the coach passed beneath a massive archway supported by two stone columns, her heart picked up its tempo to beat in rhythm with the pounding hooves of the six gray horses that led the way. The well-built vehicle smoothly turned onto another road where magnificent towering elms lined both sides like a regiment of well-trained soldiers. Dappled sunlight broke through the abundant leaves overhead to create a breathtaking scene.

“I’d forgotten how large Harrington is,” her stepfather said quietly.

Lydia darted a glance his way. The lines in his beloved face had deepened since the new Marquess of Blackhurst had sent a cable to inform him of their father’s failing health. She ached for her stepfather and all the sorrow he would endure in the following days.

Grayson Rhodes had been a constant in her life for almost as long as she could remember. She was seven when he’d arrived at her family’s farm to help them harvest cotton shortly after the War Between the North and South had ended. His hair had been a little blonder then, his face considerably paler. Now it clearly revealed where the sun and wind had staked claim to it. More tan, more weathered.

The distinguished lilt of his voice had intrigued her and been a bit more pronounced then than it was now. His impeccable manners had fascinated her. They alone had remained steadfast through the years, while every other aspect of him had changed. His shoulders had broadened, his hands had roughened, and every time he looked at the woman sitting beside him, Lydia knew his love for her mother had grown stronger.

He was unlike anyone else she’d ever known. In spite of the unfortunate circumstances that had brought
him to their door, he was incredibly worldly. She’d hung on his every word, badgered him with questions regarding his homeland, and prayed for the day when he might decide to return, taking his new family with him.

Remorse swamped her because her prayers had at last been answered, but not as she’d hoped. She hadn’t wanted her stepfather to suffer simply so she could live in a fantasy world for a brief time. She felt guilty because she harbored any joy at all regarding this trip. But she’d wanted to travel to England ever since he’d first regaled her with stories of brave knights and damsels in need of rescue.

She’d often thought she needed rescuing from dull Fortune, Texas, where each day melted into the next with seasons separated only by planting and harvesting.

Unlike London where the Season had an entirely different connotation. It evoked images of gilded balls and beautiful gowns from Worth’s. Etiquette. Elegant manners. Rituals. Traditions. Here courtship was much more intriguing and complicated than anything she’d experienced back home.

Her cousin Lauren, older by three years, had written lengthy letters to Lydia describing her exciting Seasons. She’d gone into great detail regarding the various men of distinction who had called on her. Dukes, marquesses, earls, barons. Men with titles other than mister. Lydia found it all incredibly romantic.

She knew she was being selfish, perhaps even unkind, to hope she might be allowed to experience a short Season while she was here. But she couldn’t quite relinquish her hold on a dream that had wrapped itself around her at
such a tender age: to move beyond the mundane and ordinary into the realm of the English aristocracy.

“How much longer, Papa?” Sabrina asked, gnawing on the tip of one of her braids.

Lydia’s eight-year-old half-sister was the main reason she’d been given the opportunity to come on this trip. Her mother wanted someone available to watch over the younger children, so she could devote her full attention to her husband during this difficult time. And there had been little doubt that the Duke would want to see his true grandchildren.

“We should arrive at any moment now,” Grayson said, his mouth curving into a loving smile for his youngest child.

Sitting beside Lydia, Colton shifted on the bench seat. At thirteen, he’d been fascinated with the ship they’d traveled on, but passing scenery held little interest for him. Her other brothers, Johnny and Micah Westland, with whom she shared a deceased father, had stayed in Fortune to oversee the crops and the cattle. Her stepfather had succeeded in making farming and ranching extremely profitable enterprises for his family. Of course, he took no credit for the achievement, and instead always pointed to the diligent efforts of each family member as being responsible.

Lydia was grateful Johnny hadn’t accompanied them on this trip. He always teased her unmercifully about her aspiration to be perceived as a refined lady.

When she was twelve, he’d caught her walking with a book balanced on her head. He’d laughed for days.

When she was sixteen, he’d tried to foist some of his friends off on her—as possible beaux—and had taken it personally when she’d shown no interest whatsoever in
the young men he thought so highly of. She readily admitted that an ability to dance without stepping on a lady’s toes, to shoot straight, to break a wild mustang, and to curtail a stampede were admirable skills.

But she was looking for something very different in a man. The projection of an image that was readily apparent the moment he stepped into a room. A heritage so ingrained nothing could shake it loose.

She’d tried numerous times to explain to Johnny what she wanted, but it was intangible, without concrete form. She simply knew she’d recognize it when she saw it.

Johnny couldn’t understand the reason she longed for a world so different from the one in which they lived. She didn’t find her life lacking. Rather it seemed incredibly mediocre. And she yearned for much, much more.

“Look! Swans!” Sabrina said excitedly.

Returning her attention to the scenery flittering by the coach window, Lydia caught sight of a large pond. Its surface was as smooth as blue glass except for the ripples created by the white swans gliding gracefully across it. A curved stone bridge spanned its width.

She wondered if that was the pond in which her stepfather’s brother had drowned. Although her stepfather had expressed sorrow upon receiving the Duke’s letter telling him about the accident, Lydia understood no love had been lost between the two brothers.

Beyond the pond loomed a huge house. No,
house
was too tame a word for this immense structure. It greatly resembled her idea of what a palace would look like. She pressed a hand against her throat. “Goodness gracious.”

“Is that your house, Papa?” Sabrina asked. “Is it?”

“My house is in Fortune,” he said warmly. “That’s the Duke’s house.”

“But you lived there,” Sabrina insisted.

“For a time, yes,” he acknowledged.

Lydia could hardly fathom that her stepfather had been raised within the confines of those massive, towering brick walls. She counted three rows of windows. How could he find contentment with the home they had in Fortune? Granted, it was larger than many in the area, and she had her own bedroom, but surely ten of their houses would fit inside this one.

The coach rolled onto a cobblestone drive that circled in front of the palace. A riotous array of colorful flowers lined the drive and bordered the house.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lydia saw her mother wrap her hand around her husband’s and squeeze with reassurance. Lydia knew this moment could not be easy for him, could not be easy for either of them.

Grayson Rhodes had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Although he was not legally acknowledged as the Duke’s son, the Duke had taken great care to do his duty by his child. He recognized him and allowed him to use his surname. Still, Lydia couldn’t overlook the fact that the Duke had sent Grayson to Texas to earn his own way, while the Duke’s legitimate sons had everything handed to them. Her stepfather’s insistence that he had no quarrel with English law did little to convince Lydia that he’d been treated with absolute fairness.

Lydia’s parents planned to divide all they’d acquired in land and wealth equally among their five children. It didn’t matter that three of those children had a different father. They all shared the same mother, and to Grayson
Rhodes, each child was his—a child of his heart if not of his blood.

Lydia couldn’t love him more if he had been the man who had sired her. He loved her without reservation. He’d comforted her when she was ill and kissed her scraped knees. She’d danced her first waltz with him.

The coach rocked to a halt, and everyone inside—except for her stepfather—exchanged nervous glances. She could hardly believe they’d arrived at last.

An unsmiling footman immediately opened the coach door and helped everyone clamber out. Other servants began to quickly unload their luggage.

A stern-faced man wearing long pants and a black coat approached. He bowed slightly. “If you’ll follow me.”

He escorted them up the tall flight of stone steps, opened the intricately carved heavy wooden door, and stepped discreetly back so they could enter.

Lydia’s breath almost didn’t follow her into the immense front foyer. The gleaming marble floor branched off into three different hallways, two nearly hidden by the wide, curving stairs on either side. A long balcony joined the stairs at the top and looked down on the entrance hall. Huge gilded-framed portraits adorned the walls above and below.

She craned her neck to better study the painting on the domed ceiling: a man dressed in a toga drove a chariot through an abundance of clouds. She thought it entirely inappropriate. He should have been a knight, dressed in armor, sitting astride his great destrier.

She lowered her gaze at the tap of quiet, dignified footsteps. She assumed the staid man was the butler. He was dressed as she imagined a gentleman would be: black trousers, jacket, white shirt, and cravat. He looked
as though he was afraid his face would break apart if he cracked a smile.

“Mr. Rhodes, I have been instructed to escort you and your family directly to His Grace’s bedchamber. If you will be so kind as to follow me?”

Lydia bristled at what everyone else probably thought was a warm welcome. Although her stepfather wasn’t a legitimate heir, she thought the servants, at least, should address him as “my lord.” After all
his
father was a duke, and that connection should have garnered him a great deal of respect.

She’d studied everything she could find on the aristocracy, finally managing to unravel the maze of titles, rank, and hierarchy. In Texas, a man earned his position. Here, he was born into it.

Grabbing Sabrina’s hand and directing Colton with a touch on his shoulder, she fell into step behind her parents. They ascended the sweeping staircase. More portraits lined the dark paneled walls. In some of the men’s faces, she detected a resemblance to her stepfather, although most of these people had dark hair and dark eyes. She wondered if they represented the generations who had resided here.

“Is this a castle?” Sabrina whispered, obviously as awed by the majesty of the residence as Lydia was.

“Almost,” Lydia whispered back.

She wished they’d had a moment to make themselves presentable. Because they’d been in a hurry to be under way this morning, she’d done little more than brush back her hair and tie a ribbon around it to hold it in place. While her navy wool serge traveling dress had served her well during the journey, it was wrinkled and hardly fresh. She’d hoped to make introductions in something a little more flattering.

With all the rooms in this house, surely one could have been made available to them for a few minutes.

They reached the top of the stairway. It opened on to an impressive corridor, a hallway that more closely resembled a large room with its tables, chairs, lamps, portraits, and potted plants. Only the myriad of doors that converged on it identified it as a hallway. Lydia was beginning to hope the palace came with a map.

The door closest to the stairs opened, and an elegantly dressed woman stepped out of the room. A few dark strands of her hair gave testimony to the fact that the others had faded from black to silver. As her gaze fell on Lydia’s stepfather, her eyes took on a murderous gleam. She slammed the door and fisted her hands at her sides.

Everyone stopped walking. Her stepfather bowed slightly, and Lydia thought that in spite of his weariness from traveling and his disheveled clothes, he’d never appeared more regal.

“Your Grace,” he said quietly.

“You bastard!” she spat, spittle flying between her thin lips. “You are not welcome here. I will not allow you in my house, let alone inside this bedchamber.”

“Is she the witch?” Sabrina whispered.

“I think so,” Lydia forced out, horrified by the woman’s treatment of her stepfather.

“Your Grace—” the butler began.

“I simply will not allow it. If you value your position here, Osborne, you will escort these people off the premises immediately!”

The opening of a distant door had Lydia turning her attention to the young woman who stepped from the room into the hallway. She wore an apron over her black dress and a cap perched on her head.

“Mary, fetch His Lordship,” Osborne instructed the
servant.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Osborne.” Mary scurried toward the stairs.

“You will not fetch him!” the Duchess screamed.

In spite of the order, Mary rushed down the stairs.