Page 40 of Miss Dignified
“I will go back to Wales when matters are settled here in Town. The property is well managed, and my sisters would tell me if my presence was required at home.”
Lydia chose a cake decorated with raspberry glaze. “I gather you have inherited the property?”
Dylan nodded. “I see now that when my father sent me around to collect the rents and inspect the tenant properties for needed repairs, he was trying to familiarize me with land that would become mine. At the time…”
“At the time, you had probably just put up with several years of useless instruction at university—Greek, Latin, and natural science, which appeared to have nothing to do with anything—and you were convinced that you alone could make the difference that would send old Boney packing. You would be a hero.”
She had paid attention to that younger brother, apparently. “I was a fool.”
Lydia held up her glass of cider, as if making a toast. “Be it hereby known to all by these presents that Dylan Powell, at an age infamous for foolishness, succumbed to the same temptations that lured his peers into uniform, which is exactly where their king wanted them to be.”
She took a sip and looked straight up. “The sky has not fallen, no pigs are soaring around in the heavens. Apparently, your great foolishness has not stopped the planets in their orbits either, though Napoleon did get buttoned up eventually. You will have to do better if you are trying to take a first in foolishness, Captain.”
She munched her treat, and Dylan wanted to kiss her. Not a kiss that would lead to passion, but a kiss that would lead to smiles and cuddles and sweet sighs. He hadn’t known there were such kisses, but with Lydia…
“Have you ever been foolish, Lydia?”
She finished her cake. “No, I have not. I have been a daughter to be proud of, a conscientious sister, a dutiful niece, a fine neighbor, and a handy dancing partner for awkward bachelors and portly widowers. I have done all that was asked of me and much that wasn’t, because I am a paragon, and I can tell you, Captain, paragoning is hard, thankless work. Before you know it, people expect you to fulfill that office without complaint—or remuneration—and then you aren’t a paragon anymore. You are simply Lydia—or Liddie, a nickname I do abhor—and you have become the most boring, proper…”
“Yes?”
She held his lemon cake up to his lips, and he took a bite before she continued.
“You have become the most lonely, invisible cipher ever to count the silver, month after month, for no reason except that it has been a month since the last time you counted it. Then you take a wild notion to behave outrageously, but it’s no use. Because you have become invisible, nobody even notices your scandalous lapse.”
Lunch with Lydia was not like any meal Dylan had ever shared with another person. He’d failed miserably to make small talk,and so had she.
“I have never kissed a paragon before,” he said. “Is the condition contagious?”
“Why don’t you kiss me again, and then we’ll find out?”
Chapter Nine
Aunt Chloe’s letter had brought good news. Wesley was still tasked with retrieving Lydia, but his itinerary would take him first to a house party or two—or what diversions passed for house parties in Wesley’s lexicon of idleness.
He might well be coming straight to London to indulge in a spate of debauchery, and sparing himself the immediate burden of collecting his cousin.
Perhaps relief accounted for Lydia’s improved mood. More likely, proximity to Captain Dylan Powell had that effect—or closeness to him. He shared his memories and regrets with her, and that trustwascontagious.
She hadcomplainedto him, about life at Tremont and a little bit about Marcus too. She had admitted to loneliness. A lonely woman could more easily leave her family, could journey far from home and consider it an adventure rather than a tribulation.
Could leave the family seat and not look forward to returning home.
“I am not about to kiss you,” the captain said, “when we are doubtless being chaperoned by every person on my staff save Bowen. His nose would be plastered to a window as well, but he’s off the premises. If you are through with your meal, I will accompany you to your parlor, there to take a final look at the one dessert menu you neglected to bring with you.”
He spoke in his usual crisp, impersonal tones—even his recitations about leaving Wales had been rendered more like a report than a reminiscence—and yet, his eyes danced.
“Silly of me to forget the desserts,” Lydia said. “I was flustered by the prospect of sharing a noon meal with my employer. He can be imposing.”
Dylan chose the last raspberry tea cake, Lydia’s favorite. She begrudged him that tea cake, because Betty, the kitchen maid, usually ate all the raspberry ones.
He held it up to her mouth. “You must keep up your strength as the Welsh horde approaches. I insist, Mrs. Lovelace.”
She bit into the tea cake, and he ate the remainder. The moment was foolish and precious, and the tea cake was the best Lydia had ever eaten. The captain rose and held her chair for her—more foolishness—and then offered his arm.
“I can walk to the kitchen unassisted, sir.”
He glanced around the terrace as if inspecting the trees and garden for signs of the advancing season. “I cannot go another moment without touching you. I do not dwell on the past.”
