Page 31 of Miss Dignified
He looped an arm around her shoulders. “With me?”
A wild impulse seized Lydia, to tell him everything, about Marcus, about Uncle Reginald, about years spent watching Mama become Tremont’s living ghost. But no. She was exhausted, the captain’s view of Marcus was dubious at best, and the past hour had been, as the captain had said, bewildering.
Also lovely.“With you, I will ponder what has passed between us,” Lydia said, “and I will smile. I am fond of you, you are fond of me—”
“Quite fond.”
“Quite fond, and we need not panic or fly into the boughs over a kiss.”
“Will there be more kisses, Lydia?”
Sheadoredthat he would leave the decision to her. “That is up to us. For now, I am content to marvel and smile.” Mama needed her, Marcus needed her, Tremont needed her. Lydia had come to London looking for her brother—she was still looking for her brother—but she’d found something unexpected and precious with the captain instead.
What to do about that unexpected treasure, if anything, was a question for another, more sensible and well-rested, day.
“I will see you down to the kitchen,” the captain said.
Lydia sat up. “That won’t be necessary. I know my way through the house, sir.”
“What you know and what I need are two very different articles.” He rose, scooped up the kitten, and offered Lydia his free hand.
She took it and held hands with the captain as they navigated the darkened house. When he might have made some grand little speech outside the door of her parlor, she eased the kitten from his grasp, kissed his cheek, and wished him sweet dreams.
“If I’d wanted to throw money away,” Sycamore Dorning said, ambling along beside Dylan in the darkness, “I could have played patience against my niece. I would suspect Tabitha of cheating, except her aunties have the same skill. They can recall the location of any card they’ve seen, and they have an uncanny knack for turning over pairs.”
Dylan had consented to a night of cards among the cousins. Dorning, because he was married to Jeanette, had joined Goddard and MacKay to make up a fourth. Dylan’s excuse for an evening of pointless diversion had been the need to take his mind off last night’s encounter with Lydia.
An impossible objective. She was so blazingly honest, so forthright, and so astonishingly kissable. She had the knack of being held, too, of resting in a man’s arms as if no place on earth could afford her as much comfort.
“Next time we play,” Dylan said, “partner MacKay. He’s all pleasantries and domestic chitchat while he picks your pocket and robs you blind.”
“Sounds like Goddard, and most of my brothers. Jeanette says you’re sweet on your housekeeper.”
Years of marching, despite heat, enemy fire, downpours, and drifting snow, kept Dylan from betraying his surprise at Dorning’s observation. That, and having survived many an ambush from both the enemy and his superior officer.
“Why would Jeanette conclude such a thing?”
“Because you delegated that housekeeper to spruce up MacKay’s house before he got hitched, and you would not entrust such a mission to just anybody.”
“Who else would I entrust it to?”
“Powell, you sent her as your intelligence officer, not simply to dust the windowsills. Jeanette says you also get a look in your eyes when you mention her name, and do not ask me to describe the look, because my lady wife did not elucidate. What do we know of the fair Mrs. Lovelace?”
“Weknow you will leave Mrs. Lovelace in peace, Dorning. None of your legendary tactless blundering, please. You are not to interrogate her, intimidate her, or investigate her.”
Dylan nodded to old Andy Bean, a former drill sergeant lounging idly against a lamppost across the street. Bean returned a two-fingered salute and broke into a song about some naughty little boy who fell into a stream and came down with a cold.
“I do not tactlessly blunder.” Dorning sounded amused, which was fortunate. With his size, muscle, and guile, he’d be lethal in a fight. Then too, he liked to play with knives. “I boldly sally forth when others are too fainthearted to join the affray. It’s a gift.”
“It’s a bad habit, otherwise known as meddling. Stay away from Lydia Lovelace.”
“Jeanette says Mrs. Lovelace sings beautifully.”
Oh, she did. Little art songs while she dusted, snippets of lyric arias when she polished, the occasional folk tune as she beat a carpet runner. Her voice was nimble and sweet.
“Why would I have any occasion to notice how a housekeeper passes the time when at her chores?”
Dorning sauntered along, twirling his walking stick. “She sings in French and sometimes in Italian.”
