A Breach of Promise (7 page)

“That will never do, Mama. I would never allow three ladies to travel unprotected. Nicholas will stay behind to accompany you.”

“But the vehicle will not hold us all. Someone must go with you, Marcus.”

Lady Russell looked to Lydia, who cast Lady Russell a panicked look. “But why me?”

“My dear, Marcus is right. The roads are so unsafe these days with brigands in the most unlikely of places. Mariah and I will have need of Mr. Needham’s escort for our safety.”

Marcus masked a smile at his mother’s complicity.

“But wouldn’t it be altogether improper for me to travel
alone
in the chaise with Lord Marcus?” Lydia appealed to Mariah for reinforcement, but her cousin only looked to Lady Russell with a helpless shrug.

“One would hardly judge it improper for an affianced couple to journey on a day trip, but of course Sally will ride along with you,” Lady Russell said.

“But there is only room for two passengers in Lord Marcus’ vehicle,” Lydia protested again.

“Easily remedied, child,” Lady Russell reassured her. “The baggage will simply follow with ours.” At a wave of her hand, a footman removed Marcus’ trunks from the rear of his post chaise to place them upon the baggage coach. “There now, a perfectly decorous arrangement for a ride of only a few hours.”

Having now made accommodation for a third passenger on the back of the chaise, Lady Russell bustled Mariah off to attend to the torn gown. Lydia’s gaze darted between Marcus and the trailing figure of Lady Russell with a growing suspicion.

Marcus offered Lydia his hand to help her into his equipage. “Please,” he soothed. “You have no need to fear my attentions, if that is your worry. With a veritable mountain of official correspondence to attend to before we arrive, I’ll be completely absorbed in my work.”

“Very well,” she said. “But understand this—I only agreed for your mother’s sake.”

“But of course,” Marcus gave her a sardonic smile. “You have yet to give me any reason to presume otherwise.”

* * * * *

For the first few leagues of the journey, they punctuated the silence with random pleasantries, but once the topics of weather and scenery were exhausted, Marcus burrowed into his correspondence. His purpose in attending to official duty was twofold—to actually catch up on his work before meeting with his superiors, and to encourage Lydia to drop her guard.

While he hoped to see some of the tension abate from Lydia’s rigid shoulders, she disappointed him with a ramrod spine and primly folded hands. This ambition thwarted, he turned more fully to his work, but by the third letter, cursed the absence of his secretary. “Bad enough it’s written in French,” he mumbled, “but it’s nigh indecipherable too. I don’t know how Needham ever manages to make out the marquis’s damnable hen scratch!”

“The Marquis de Puyzieulx?” Lydia asked.

Marcus regarded her, stupefied. How the devil had she pronounced the impossibly unpronounceable name? It was ridiculous that she could be in any way acquainted with a French diplomat, a marquis no less.

“I know the French ambassador only by reputation, of course,” she explained. “I do try to follow the news press and Papa has always been generous with
The Gentleman’s Magazine
.”

“How liberal of him,” Marcus remarked dryly. Shaking his head, he turned back to his correspondence only to find himself stymied again.

“You are having some difficulty? Perhaps I can assist? Papa also had atrocious handwriting.”

Marcus gave a dubious laugh when she took the page from his hand.

“The
Compris d’Arbitage
?” she read with a gasp. “Why these are the articles of arbitration! Have you indeed won the peace for us, Marcus?” Her eyes sparkled with an excitement that took his breath away. He was amazed at the heady sensation he felt to be, only for a moment, elevated in her esteem.

“In actuality, it is only the
Modus Vivendi
,” he said. “The articles were decided at the Congress of Breda last year, but are yet to be ratified by Spain and Austria. It matters little, however. Britain and France are the primary antagonists in this war and ‘tis no secret we’re both on the verge of bankruptcy because of it. Both sides wish an end to the war, thus it is now only a matter of securing such a peace on advantageous terms. We hope to do so at the upcoming Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle.”

“You have already secured a preliminary agreement, surely the peace will follow.”

“Just so.” Marcus quirked a brow at her. The French delegate’s name she might have heard before, but she had just correctly interpreted Latin. The official diplomatic documents, however, were penned exclusively in French. “
Vous avez une certaine connaissance de la langue Française?
” he asked.

“
Bien sûr. Je parle couramment
,” she responded just as fluidly. “I pride myself with a working command of French, as well as a smattering of Italian. You may have already guessed that I read Latin. I have studied most of the classics in the original tongue. I am particularly fond of Ovid,” she remarked and averted her face back to the window.

“Ovid.” He frowned. “How extraordinary.”

“Not really, my lord.” He heard her deep intake of air. After a pause she released it in a long rush of words. “I wasn’t idle you know. For the six years of your absence, I applied myself with sedulous energy to geography, politics, and foreign customs. I took up French, knowing it the primary language of diplomacy, and even struck up a correspondence with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, to learn how she had served her husband in his diplomatic travels.” She faced him again with eyes ablaze. “I
once
thought it would be useful to know.”

Touché.
Marcus felt the sharp stab of reproach. If words could physically injure, he’d be maimed and bleeding by hers. “Damn it, be fair, Lydia! You were a
child
of seventeen and I had only just come into my majority!”

Her gaze still spit fire. “I can pardon a year or even two, but six?”

Marcus scowled. “You have no idea of the reality of a diplomatic life, Lydia, or the inherent dangers of foreign travel, especially in times of war. Even had I been inclined to wed early, which I confess I was not, I never would have packed up an innocent girl and taken her abroad in such times as these.”

In all honesty, when he’d departed for the Foreign Service he’d intended to sow his oats while giving her time to mature, but as more time passed, the harder it had become to face her. Then his guilt had driven him to avoid her completely.

“You have made it abundantly clear you never gave me the first consideration. Dreams, aspirations and adventure are not exclusively male prerogatives, Marcus. I had them too.”

“Did you?” He looked surprised.

“I did. I still do,” she answered.

“And what were they?” he asked softly.

“I once thought I might do some good as Lady Mary has.”

Sitting back against the squabs, Marcus regarded Lydia as if he had never seen her before. “I had no idea.” Guilt needled him once more. Did he really know her at all? Perhaps not. Only now did it fully strike him what a complete ass he had been. Hoping his expression was suitably contrite, Marcus claimed her hand and raised it to his lips.

“
Ma cœur, je ne savais pas. Je suis désolé, mon chou.
”

“Because you never made me your business to know.” She jerked her hand back. “And I am
not
your cabbage.”

Damme!
What woman didn’t melt with French endearments? Matters were far worse than he thought.
One step forward, two steps back.
It had become an exceedingly dull dance. As if to further confirm these thoughts, Lydia shifted closer to the window.

Marcus suppressed an exasperated groan. Charming her had failed dismally. Perhaps it was time to try another tack. Maybe his mother was right about exploiting his adversaries’ weaknesses. One chink in Lydia’s armor was obvious pride in her intellect. Perhaps this could be used to his advantage. Marcus returned his attention to his work with a stifled curse. “I begin to think this an impossible task.”

Lydia’s gaze slid to the papers in his lap. She pursed her lips as if fighting the impulse to speak.

“I don’t suppose you would care to put some of that untapped knowledge to use as my surrogate secretary?” He offered the olive branch.

Still wary, Lydia elevated her chin, but the flame in her eyes had dwindled to a mere flicker. “Do you mock me?”

“Not at all,” Marcus said. “You surprise me with your accomplishments. Astound me, truth be told. I know of few women who would have even the remotest interest in such matters—let alone any who would have the slightest ability to comprehend them.”

She bristled. “How patronizing you are!”

“Because I speak the truth? Name three women who are so well-informed.”

“There is of course your mother.”

“You have me there,” he confessed with a grin.

Lydia bit her lip. “And the Lady Mary Wortley Montagu,” she added.

“I would never dispute you on that account, but she is considered quite the oddity.”

“Oddity?” Lydia repeated. “A woman who has saved countless lives by bringing the smallpox inoculation to this country. Do you apply such an unflattering label to any woman with a cultivated mind?”

“No,” Marcus said with unexpected gravity. “I would describe
you
as quite remarkable. Remarkable, indeed.” He’d never before known such poised perfection, let alone one wrapped in such a delectable package and he wanted her more than any woman he’d ever known.

“Your flattery is wasted, my lord.”

“I do not flatter you, Lydia. I am expressing my sincere admiration.”

Lydia flushed becomingly. He noted the excited rise and fall of her breasts. While her suspicion of his sincerity lingered, the hostile tension between had abated.

“Yet, you have already revealed your contempt of women who endeavor to improve themselves.”

“I don’t recall doing so at all,” Marcus argued. “I never disparaged the female intellect, but merely asked you to name three women with interest in matters of true import. You named two, but I plainly concede the third.”

Her eyes flew to his face with uncertainty yet he thought he also read hope. “Please, Lydia,” his plaintive gaze met hers, “I’ve only a few hours to get through all this.”

Lydia removed her gloves with the merest hint of a smile. “Very well, I would be happy to assist.”

Chapter Six

After two hours of leaning over his shoulder, brushing fingers, inhaling the light bergamot-scented cologne mixed with the musky essence of male, Lydia hummed with an awareness of Marcus in every part of her body. More than once she had closed her eyes, ostensibly to search for a word, but more often to savor the sensation of his damnably appealing voice—low, fluid and smooth like warm honey—when he broke into French. At times he was even near enough for the faint cinnamon scent of his breath to evoke recollection of his ravaging kisses. His arm accidentally grazing her breast made her nipples tighten and sent warmth rushing to her core.

Clearly, Lydia had not recognized the danger when she’d agreed to help him. She thought she’d breathe more easily when Marcus declared their work finished and slid the last documents into his case. But then he took her hand in his, setting her once again on the alert.

“I do thank you for your gracious assistance. You performed admirably.” He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. His gratitude made her giddy and the light caress set her tingling from the inside out.

He raised her hand to his lips. Her gaze fixed on his mouth, powerless to retreat from the tormenting play of his lips across her bare skin. He upturned her palm to plant a kiss upon it with an agonizing tenderness. “You amaze me, Lydia. You are not at all the woman I presumed you were.”

His confession was unexpected, disarming and alarming. His words, his touch, and—
God help me
—his mouth, threatened to devastate her defenses. She swallowed hard, nearly losing herself in the depths of his blue eyes. “And what kind of woman is that?”

“Timid. Complacent. Lacking imagination or any sense of adventure. One who would never seek anything beyond the comforts of home. I see now that I passed judgment too soon.”

Seized by a sudden want that terrified her, Lydia tore her gaze from his mouth and her hand from his grasp to clutch frantically at her disintegrating resolve.

“You were sadly mistaken in me,” she said. “I do indeed desire a husband, a home of my own, and several children, Marcus…just not yours.”

Marcus blanched. Her vehemence was not feigned. “Do you
truly
despise me so, Lydia?”

She met him stare for stare as if she could find her own answer in his eyes. For the first time, the pain of six years of neglect reflected back at him.

“Do you genuinely care if I do?” she asked, her eyes searching, probing. “Do you honestly care about me at all?”

The answer came upon him as a sudden blow to the head. “Yes,” he said, sending his world off-kilter. Until this moment, the wooing of Lydia Trent had been little more than a game to him, but God help him he wanted her now. He was thunderstruck to realize he yearned for her good opinion and craved her respect as much as he desired her body.
Bloody hell!
When had this happened? He supposed it was somewhere between the first taste of her at the lily fountain and discovering her Latin scholarship.