Page 102 of Miss Dignified
Lydia had no idea what all that meant, but she believed the sincerity in Dylan’s words. “That is… good, that you and Marcus have cleared the air. Did he tell you what he has in mind for Wesley?”
Lydia did not give a filthy, mismatched pair of andirons what became of Wesley, but neither could she seem to bring the conversation around to more personal matters.
“I suggested that Wesley’s fate should rest in your hands, my lady.” Dylan was once again the correct, polite, self-contained officer, at least in his bearing. Only his eyes suggested a warmer regard.
“I need no say in the matter, provided I don’t have to marry him. This whole imbroglio is my fault. If I’d resisted the temptation Wesley dangled before me—”
“Lydia, please stop.”
Lydia got up to pace. “Well, who is the wronged party here? Certainly not me. Wesley has intimidated Mama, Marcus, probably Uncle Reggie, and even that rotter Finchly. I was simply a headstrong girl indulging in a foolish, misguided, stupid bid for attention, and it solved nothing and created all of this, this—”
Dylan rose and took her hand. “Your mother was drifting about in a fog of grief. Your only brother was on his way to strutting young prigdom. Your uncle saw only your settlements, and what Finchly saw needs no elaboration. When you came to London, searching for the prodigal earl, you did not ask directly for my help at first because you’ve never been able to rely on anybody to take your interests to heart. Horse Guards sneered at you, albeit politely. The solicitors dared to pat your figurative head.”
Lydia wanted to put her hand over Dylan’s mouth, but she was too busy blinking at his cravat. A simple knot, a mathematical, and a pin tipped with lapis nestled among the folds.
“You overstate matters,” she managed.
“Iunderstatematters,” Dylan said, drawing her into his arms. “Marcus did not have to issue a challenge over what you saw as your own, independent decision, one that materially affected nobody else. Reggie did not have to buy Marcus’s commission—he could have sent his nephew off for a repairing lease on some Greek isle, where Marcus could have indulged in an orgy of philosophical studies. Your mother could have set aside the role of grieving widow enough to see you safely into adulthood. None of those people was truly concerned for you, Lydia, but I am. You have been scouting behind enemy lines on your own for too long, and now I ask you to come home.”
He tucked her close, and Lydia went into his embrace and laid her head on his shoulder. She could not speak for the lump in her throat.
“What do youwant, Lydia? What doyouwant?”
Something hot and wet trickled down her cheek. Dylan would wait forever for her answer, so she swallowed hard, mustered her will, and dredged up some words.
“Since you ask,” she said, “I want my dunderheaded, impossible baby brother to take his place at Tremont. I want to never ride in a post-chaise again. I want peace and quiet and a home and a family. I want all your men settled. I want simple, honest, kind relationships, where we all try to look out for each other, and nobody is dueling or going off to war or trying to avoid murderous commanding officers or bemoaning the death of a good man who went to his reward nearly two decades ago.”
Still Dylan waited, and now both of Lydia’s cheeks were wet. “I want you, Dylan Powell, andI love you, andI am tired. Tired of marching and fighting and short rations and distant gunfire. I am so tired.”
She descended into the sort of noisy sobs that ladies were never to indulge in, tears of exhaustion and heartache. Of sorrow and anger and bewilderment. Through it all, Dylan held her, tucking a handkerchief into her hand at some point and stroking her hair.
Gradually, Lydia’s tears became tears of relief and then quiet shudders of mortification.
“Don’t look at me,” she said, her voice raspy.
“Looking at you has become one of my greatest pleasures,” Dylan said, lips against Lydia’s temple, “but I think what you mean is, I am not toseeyou. Too late for that, Lydia. I see you, and I love you, and when you speak of those treasures you seek—home, family, caring relationships—I want them, too, but mostly, I want you to be happy.”
Lydia inventoried her emotions. “As best I can tell, I am happy right now. Also embarrassed beyond bearing.”
“Could you be happy with me in Wales?”
Lydia did not need to inventory anything to fashion a reply. “Yes. But you have avoided returning home too, Dylan. Why go there now?”
“Will you marry me, Lydia? Become the lady of our manor and the companion of my heart? I am ready to look to the future—the men, the cousins, and the past are all settled enough—but I can’t see a future without you.”
His gaze had never been more tender. He let Lydia see to his depths, past the lonely years, past the courage, past the loyalty, to the man who’d marched alone for too long.
“You will make me cry again, and my answer is yes, Dylan. I have done what I set out to do, in large part thanks to you. Mama and Marcus will sort out Tremont.”
She sank into his embrace in a different way, one that gave up the last shred of caution and wholly trusted the man in her arms. Lydia closed her eyes and knew a peace she’d sought but never expected to find, and a joy too precious for words.
Dylan seemed content to hold her, to stroke her hair, and to breathe with her, until the cat returned and began batting at Lydia’s hems.
Lydia eased away from Dylan and picked up the cat. “May we take the kittens to Wales?”
“You need not ask me.” Dylan scratched the feline’s chin, which inspired predictable rumbling. “If you would like your palace tigers to accompany you to Wales, then accompany you, they shall. I would like for my sisters to bide here in London while you and I get settled at home. Tell me what to do about Wesley. Marcus has left the decision to you.”
Lydia’s first reaction was to demur, because she lacked the authority to decide another’s fate, even the fate of her scoundrel of a cousin.
