Whispers in the Reading Room (26 page)

“I think you had better. You and I had only one way to make things better, Lydia, and that was for you to marry well. Instead of doing that, you have thrown yourself off the cliff of anything even resembling good behavior. If Mr. Avondale won’t take you back, no one will have you. I doubt even my friends will wish to acknowledge me soon. You have ruined both of us.” Her face crumbled into tears. “How can you have done this to me?”

Two raps on the front door saved Lydia from answering.

She rushed to the door and threw it open before checking to see who had arrived. She was fairly sure any visitor would be a welcome diversion.

“Oh,” she said in surprise. Quite stupidly, too, for someone who had always prided herself on a substantial vocabulary. “It’s you.”

There stood Mr. Marks. Sebastian. His pensive expression deepened as he scanned her face. “Lydia, what is wrong?”

She would liked to have shielded him from her mother’s stories of gossip, but she had no choice. He needed to know what was brewing in their social circles so he could protect himself.

“Everything, it seems,” she said. “My mother was just now telling me she heard about my visit to the Silver Grotto last night.” She lowered her voice. “She knows I was with you, but she does not seem to know Jason was killed.”

But instead of looking troubled or stunned, Sebastian looked her over carefully. She felt his gaze flit across her eyes and cheeks. Pause on her lips. Carefully continue down to her neck and shoulders.

Obviously searching for some sign of distress. “I see,” he said at last as he turned to close the door behind him. “Where is she?”

She pointed to the drawing room. “There.” Raising her voice, she prepared herself for the inevitable drama that was about to ensue. “Mother, Mr. Marks is here.”

Her mother didn’t say a word, but Lydia was sure she could feel her disapproval from across the room.

After several seconds passed, Sebastian reached for her hand. “Would you like to go upstairs, dear?” he asked. “Or perhaps you would prefer to go to the kitchen? You look like you might welcome a cup of tea.”

Dear? Brew tea?
Unable to help herself, she pulled her hand from his and pressed it firmly in the middle of his chest. “Sebastian, you may not understand, but I am in the midst of a scandal.”

“I understand completely, Lydia. And it would be
we
, not
I
.”

“Pardon?”

“
We
are in the midst of a scandal.”

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. “You already frequent the Silver Grotto. Your reputation is not in question.”

“Everything will be all right. I will make it so.” His eyes flickered over her, resting on her eyes before he turned away and walked to where her mother waited.

Feeling a bit like a pet spaniel, she hastily followed after him.

“Mrs. Bancroft. Good morning,” he said as he leisurely walked into their modest receiving room, somehow managing to look as if he found their surroundings as attractive as one of the interiors of the fair’s white palaces. “I do not believe we have officially met. My name is Sebastian Marks.”

Her mother sniffed. “Lydia, please escort this man out immediately.”

She was eager to do just that. Not for her mother’s sake, but for Sebastian’s. Her mother was not going to change her mind about him.
Lydia curved a hand around his arm. “Sebastian, I think it would be best if we spoke another time.”

“Chin up, dear. It will be okay. I promise.”

She tried again. “Mr. Marks, please come with me.”

Ignoring her, Sebastian walked to stand directly in front of her lounging mother. “It has become obvious that we need to talk.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “We have nothing to say to each other.”

“I would suggest you rethink that decision, ma’am. We definitely do need to speak, and I do have a lot to say to you. I promise my remarks will be in the best interests of both you and your daughter.”

Lydia was appalled. “Sebastian, that is not necessary.”

“Allow me to visit with your mother privately, Lydia. Afterward, you and I will need to have a word as well.”

“Sebastian—”

Her mother had sat up and was now eyeing Mr. Marks like he was a new mink stole. Or perhaps as if he were the whole fur salon. “Listen to him, Lydia. He is right. I suspect we do have several things to discuss. Leave us.”

Lydia was shocked and dismayed and confused.

But she gave up and walked to the kitchen to heat a kettle for tea. She doubted a soothing cup of the hot drink would help, but at least it might make her wait more bearable.

F
or a small, housebound woman, Felicia Bancroft could certainly bargain with the best of them, Sebastian reflected as he walked toward the kitchen in search of Lydia.

He’d first arrived at the Bancroft residence because he’d been concerned about Lydia—hoping to catch her before she slept. The previous evening’s events had been highly irregular and, he feared, undoubtedly frightening for a sheltered woman like Lydia. Though he had pretended he understood Captain Ryan’s caution, however, he hadn’t really thought much about her reputation—or her mother’s distress when she heard of how that reputation had been damaged in his establishment.

Instead, all he’d cared about was making sure that Lydia was not suffering any undue stress from her eventful night.

All of this, of course, was why he was never going to be good enough for a woman like her. He obviously had no real understanding of what society’s expectations were for young ladies.

It constituted a serious gap in his education.

The moment he realized the damage that had been done to Lydia’s reputation, he’d known he needed to do whatever he must in order to make things right.

And that, of course, meant his proposal of marriage.

His ensuing conversation with Mrs. Bancroft had been satisfactory. She turned out not to be unreasonable. In fact, it seemed she was focused only on making sure Lydia would never have to worry about her future again.

Sebastian knew it was best to take care of matters as efficiently as possible. Because of this, he nodded and gave in to every one of Felicia’s demands, including her request that she stay in the townhouse—refurbished, of course—and that Lydia live in a home grand enough to reflect her new position in Chicago.

Lydia’s head turned his way when he walked into the cramped kitchen. She was leaning against one of the counters. Her eyes were wide, and the blue eyes he enjoyed looking into so much were cloudy with worry underneath her spectacles. “Is it over?”

“It is.” He paused, unsure of how to proceed. Was he really considering proposing marriage to her in the middle of this drab kitchen?

Looking panic-stricken, she rushed toward him. “What happened? Was she terrible to you?”

“Are you worried about my welfare?” He really wasn’t sure how to react to that.

“I’m not worried about your welfare, per se . . .” She hedged. “But yes. I suppose I am.”

He lifted his arms. “As you can see, I am unmarred.”

“Don’t tease.”

Another rush of warmth seeped into his heart. Was he so taken by her that everything she said had sweet meaning? Or was it her kindness to him in the face of financial ruin, a broken engagement, a murder, and a marred reputation that moved him so?

“I was thinking a walk might do us both some good, but perhaps it would be best if we merely sat back down here, Miss Bancroft.”

“Here?” She looked around and frowned. “Mr. Marks—”

“This is fine.” He lifted the corners of his lips. “Besides, it seems we have much to say.”

“Oh?” She slid into one of the chairs and looked at him closely as he took the one beside her. While she waited, she clasped her hands in a tight knot on the surface of the table. They almost knocked over the cup of tea she had left there.

He reached for it and planted it securely out of her reach. “Careful now. We can’t have you getting scalded again.”

“Oh, we both know that was Jason’s fault.” Her eyes widened. “Oh! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speaking ill of the dead.”

“I certainly don’t intend to adhere to that rule. Jason Avondale was no saint.”

“He didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

“Of course not. But there is a broad expanse between deserving to be murdered and being saintly.”

He shifted in his chair, attempting to put his rather large build on the rickety surface. “May we discuss something else? I did not come in here to dwell upon your former fiancé.”

She softened under his regard. “By all means. Forgive me.”

“Always,” he murmured.

As he stared at her, he honestly couldn’t ever remember sitting at a kitchen table. His mother certainly had never had one, and the moment he could afford it, he had hired a cook to serve him in a dining room at the club.

Now he ate in his suite.

But all of that was about to change.

“Lydia, are you all right? Beyond the shock of Avondale’s murder, are you still traumatized by the events of last night?”

Instead of answering him immediately, she paused to reflect on it. Which was her want, of course.

Finally she shrugged. “I am not sure if I am all right or not. I suppose I am, though I feel more than a little numb. Almost as if I had a head cold. I feel as though I am in a fog.” She peered at him through her lenses. “Is that how you feel?”

“I don’t feel like I have a head cold.”

“But do you feel foggy?”

“I do not.” He felt relieved that he wasn’t sitting in a cell. He would soon visit his lawyer’s office and anticipated it to be one of many meetings.

“Oh.” She looked strangely disappointed.

Then he realized she was struggling with how she should be feeling. That was what had been occupying her brain. “Anything you feel is acceptable,” he stated. Just as if he were the authority on feelings and emotions. “There is no right or wrong way to feel.”

“You sound so sure.”

“I am.”

Exhaling a ragged sigh, she nodded, looking a bit more relieved. “So is all of that what you discussed with my mother? Did you tell her Jason died? Was she heartbroken?”

“No. I did not mention Avondale. Or his passing.”

“Oh.” She looked at him curiously. “Well, if you did not speak about Jason’s demise, um, what did you discuss?”

“Our future.”

Looking at her hands, her fingers clenched so tight they appeared in danger of breaking, he gave in to temptation and reached for her right hand.

He clasped it in between the two of his and ran his fingers along
her knuckles and fingertips. Smiling as he felt the faint calluses on her fingers from all the writing and cataloguing she did at the library.

“Your hands are cold,” he stated, liking the feel of her hands in his. Liking the way their hands fit together. So different, but strangely compatible.

“Are they? I hadn’t noticed.”

She did sound foggy. He suddenly wished he were the type of man to enfold a woman in his arms to offer comfort, just as he had wanted to in his office earlier that morning. Wished she were the kind of woman who would accept such forwardness.

Knowing that delaying his words was only going to make her feel even more ill at ease, he cleared his throat. “Lydia, your mother and I came to an agreement. You and I need to marry, and as soon as possible.”

Instead of looking relieved, she shook her head. “Of course we do not.”

“Surely you are not that naïve.”

“Naïve?” Her mouth worked. “Mr. Marks, is this about last night?” She wrinkled her nose. “Oh my goodness! Are you concerned about gossipmongers?”

It seemed only Lydia Bancroft was capable of making him feel like the tallest man in the room and a complete idiot all at the same time. “Of course it is. But it is also because the two of us uniting in marriage is the right thing to do.”

“I beg to differ, sir.” She stood up and went back to the spot she’d been standing in when he’d entered the room. “A marriage between the two of us is undoubtedly the worst thing we could do.”

“Hardly.”

“Sebastian, we hardly know each other.”

“I disagree. I know you as well as I know any of my acquaintances.”

She practically leapt upon that key word. “You said
acquaintances
,
Mr. Marks. That means two people who have been merely acquainted. That is telling, don’t you agree?”

“I do not. Acquaintances means we are close to friends. It also means we are the exact opposite of strangers.”

“Indeed. However, that does not mean we should enter into marriage.”

“Enough with the wordplay,” he snapped, then just as quickly wished he could begin this conversation all over again. He’d meant to keep his voice soft and his reasoning steady. But seeing her dismay . . . no, seeing her, well, fear made him yearn to be a little more honest. “Lydia, I do not make friends. I do not yearn to befriend others. For most of my life, I’ve been perfectly happy to live relatively alone.”

“Which is yet another reason why you do not need me.”

“But I do.” Of course, he was willing to say almost anything to encourage her to see his way. But as he heard his words, he realized he was correct. He did need her. “I do need you, Lydia. If life has taught me anything, if that World’s Fair in the middle of our fair city has shown me anything, it’s that everyone, no matter what their circumstances or bearings or hopes, deserves to be around other people.”

“Do you think so?”

He knew he’d struck a chord. “I know so. I may have lived my life on the outskirts of good society, Lydia, but you haven’t done much better. You, too, have been perfectly happy to live on the fringes of communities. Instead of becoming involved with other people or even with charities or organizations, you’ve stayed to yourself and your books.”

“That’s not true.”

“Prove it. Who is your best friend? What do you do when you are not at the library and are not waiting hand and foot on your mother?”

The look of devastation on her face told him everything Sebastian needed to know.

“I don’t want a marriage to be another mistake that you need to
make better,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be another liability on your life.”