Page 63 of Miss Dignified
She was polite, she was dignified, she was deferential, and then she was gone, intent on alerting the kitchen to the need for a substantial tray. The temptation to yell,Don’t leave me, warred with Dylan’s admiration for how swiftly she’d made an orderly retreat.
He spent the next hour being regaled with stories from back home about every neighbor and stray dog in the shire—Mr. Jenkins’s daughter had immigrated to Canada to take a post as a schoolteacher. Old Maudie Perkins had celebrated her ninetieth birthday by dancing all the young bachelors under the table, and that handsome Rhys Campbell was off to Scotland to be a gamekeeper, of all things.
To hear those names, to hear Welsh swirling around in all directions, was both painful and sweet. Dylan had missed much, and yet, to know that home was still home, that life was going on, was also reassuring. The whole war had been fought not to re-open European ports to English trade, but to safeguard the British way of life from destruction at foreign hands.
Or so the recruiting sergeants had claimed.
The sisters demolished the tray carried in by the kitchen maid, and in due course, they demanded that Dylan light them up to their rooms. Lydia had explained the arrangements to him, though where was Lydia, and why hadn’t she brought up the tray herself, or at least accompanied Betty on some pretext?
Lydia was Dylan’s intended, but he would not announce that happy development to his sisters without her permission.
Which he would obtain, without delay, just as soon as he’d lit the candles in Bronnie’s bedroom.
“Dylan?” Bronwen had not raised her voice, but a note of impatience had Dylan pausing before seeking out his housekeeper. “You know we have missed you?”
“I have missed you too.” In the flickering candlelight, Bronwen looked too solemn for a young lady about to storm London’s modistes.
“Then why didn’t you come home? Not even for a visit. Marged and Tegan said we must not confront you regarding your choices, that war takes a toll, but being without our brother has taken a toll as well.”
This was not Bronnie in a temper. This was something Dylan had not encountered from her previously. Some sort of scold crossed with an interrogation and underscored with a lament.
“My men needed me, our cousins needed me. You ladies are spectacularly well suited to managing the property in my absence, and I expect I will be returning home shortly.” With a bride, he hoped.
Bronwen gave him a skeptical perusal. “I will believe you mean to come home when you are seated at the head of the table, and Tegan and Margs are arguing about whether there’s too much pepper in the soup. Off to bed with you. Our sisters will run you ragged if you allow it, and you will need your rest.”
Dylan bowed his good-night, both amused and slightly uneasy that his baby sister had just dismissed him as if he’d brought disappointing news back from a reconnaissance mission.
Little girls grew up. Dylan’s papa had often said as much, and not with any glee.
Nor did Dylan feel much glee as he made his way through the darkened house to Lydia’s quarters. The remains of the tray sat on the kitchen table, apparently to be dealt with in the morning, and the kittens were curled in their basket, little bellies doubtless full for the night.
Feeble candlelight shone from beneath Lydia’s bedroom door. Dylan knocked softly, thanking heavens for small mercies. Maybe she hadn’t waited up for him, though she wasn’t avoiding him either.
“Come in.” Lydia sat on a vanity stool, her dark hair unbound and cascading down to her waist. “You should not be here, Captain.”
That barely qualified as a rebuke, given the lectures and perorations she was capable of.
Dylan came into the bedroom, scene of his dearest memories, and closed the door. “May I serve as your lady’s maid?” He held out his hand for the brush, and Lydia surrendered it. “Your first impression of my sisters is correct. They don’t quite play fair—no counting to five—but they don’t quite cheat either, and everything they do, they undertake with a fixity of purpose that steals one’s breath.”
“Rather like you.”
Dylan drew the brush through abundant tresses, the movements soothing him, as he hoped they soothed Lydia.
“And like you, usually, but you quit the field in quick time, Lydia. You will like my sisters, once you get to know them.”
“I already like them. They clearly love you and would take exception to any slight to you.”
“Siblings,” Dylan said. “I’ve often wondered if having brothers would be different, but I suspect not. I have Goddard and MacKay, and they are as dear and vexatious as any brothers could be. Shall I braid your hair?”
“Please, one braid will do.” Lydia met his gaze in the mirror, and Dylan was put in mind of Bronwen’s seriousness. “This is not prudent, Captain. Not while your sisters are visiting and probably not—”
“Stop,” Dylan said, making quick work of fashioning a thick plait. “You are not beating retreat now, Lydia. You’ve said you want to marry me, and I want to marry you, and we will not take back those words just because the sororal mob has descended for a few weeks.”
Lydia passed him a length of plain white cotton, which he secured around the end of her braid. “We never finished our discussion.”
How he treasured the sight of her in her nightclothes, her hair in a simple plait, her gaze luminous by candlelight. A husband saw his wife thus, and she saw him in similar dishabille. The notion of ending every day with Lydia for the rest of his life overwhelmed him with gratitude.
He bent near and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “There is nothing we have to say to each other, nothing you could tell me, that would make me one iota less desperate to share that bed with you tonight.”
