Page 8 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
His niece did not respond. Not even a glance.
“Lydia, look at me,” Richard said, his patience wearing thinner with each passing moment.
He knelt before her so that he could be on her level. Yet she remained silent and kept her gaze fixed on the floor.
“Lydia, I have asked you to look at me, and you would do well to obey me,” he growled again, unable to contain his frustration.
Hurriedly, she turned and fled to her room, her tiny feet clacking on the stairs in haste. Richard flinched as he heard the door slam shut behind her, with surprising force.
If only you could understand the guilt that festers inside of me. If only there were a woman in this house, a wife to care for you.
Still, he’d have to find a patient woman. A woman who wouldn’t judge the girl’s muteness. A woman who could understand the pain of loss, the pain of feeling alone. A woman who could help Lydia come out of this dark cloud that had stolen her voice.
How on earth would he be able to find such a woman in the ton when all of them seemed to care only about bonnets and exclusive guest lists?
But that was a problem for another day.
Now, he needed to speak to Lydia. He would not let their conversation end without her understanding the severity of what had transpired that afternoon.
So, he charged up the stairs to her quarters. He raised his hand and rapped on the door.
There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer.
So, he cracked the door slightly and saw Lydia sitting in the corner, gazing out the window and holding her favorite doll, cradling her gently in her arms as a mother would.
He pushed the door further open.
“Lydia, you have an obligation to be mindful of your elders and to be careful in public,” he said emphatically, desperately wanting to say his piece and be done with the matter. “If anything were to befall you, I—” Richard trailed off, as he struggled not to choke on his words. “Just don’t do anything like that again.”
Lydia gripped the doll tightly, and she turned to face the corner.
There was nothing else he could do. So, he marched away from her room and ordered the kitchen staff to bring her supper to her quarters that evening.
As he stood in his study, he closed his eyes.
All he could see was the image of her hanging her head and cradling her baby doll. The image replayed over and over behind his lids.
Why could he not bring himself to provide that same comfort?
He could see her small shoulders hunched in a silent testament to her distress, but as ever, the girl would not utter a word.
He wanted to hear the sound of her voice again. For the strength of his brother to grow within her blood. And yet, he knew the pain she carried, and that her voice would come in its own time.
For all his headstrong ways, Richard knew that no one could wrestle a dove. Lydia would understand the family’s ways in time. She would learn.
Richard wrung his hands, which were surprisingly still warm from Lydia’s delicate touch on their walk home.
He could not let the terror of potentially losing her go; the thought was too cruel a prospect to fathom.
The last of my brother, the last thing I have to lose. If I fail Lydia...
For a moment, his mind turned to Everett. He hoped that the man was not too disturbed by the encounter to back out on the deal. He was afraid that the vulnerability he demonstrated while caring for his ward would affect his reputation.
There was also the matter of the maid and her incompetence. The woman had stood frozen, as useless as a statue, when what was needed was someone who would take command. Was she truly fit to care for his niece after allowing the girl to wander off unattended?
No, that would not do. He would need to ask around for recommendations—or place an advertisement in the newspaper. A proper governess was required, and soon.
He could not afford carelessness, not with his ward. Her safety was paramount—but just as important was the message. The world had to understand that his family was not to be trifled with.
