Page 67 of Miss Dignified
She closed her eyes and bowed her head, as if weathering bad news. The sight cut through Dylan’s ire, and he resented the guilt it brought.
“Then we both spoke untruthfully,” she said, “for apparently, now that you do know the truth of my last name, you aren’t about to help me find my brother. Horse Guards would not help. My father’s former friends would not help. I even tried writing to Wellington, because Marcus’s commanding officer fell at Waterloo—you reaffirmed that much for me—but nobody knows where Marcus is, and nobody cares either, except Mama and I.”
Lydia sounded so forlorn, so weary, but could Dylan trust anything she did or said to be honest? “So you sniggled your way into my household, thinking that such a subterfuge would somehow win you my aid?”
“What few people I spoke with who tried to be helpful said you know the former soldiers in London better than anybody. Those men come to you as a last resort, and I hoped that you could be my last resort too. No matter. Marcus is here somewhere. I can hire runners, or inquiry agents, or…”
“They will take your money and pat you on the head, Lydia.” And as angry as Dylan was, as bewildered as he was, he didn’t want that for her.
“At least they won’t accuse me of being a scoundrel simply because I want to find my brother.” A spark of anger crackled through that observation. “You have lied, Dylan. You lied when you were a reconnaissance officer the better to gain trust you hadn’t earned from the local populace. You lied to your sisters, telling them repeatedly you’d be home soon. You’ve lied to your cousins, telling them you bide in London for your soldiers, when it’s your cousins whom you’ve worried about the most.”
Had she shouted at him, Dylan might have shouted back—and brought all three sisters on the run. Shouting would get them nowhere, and some inconvenient vestige of a conscience whispered to Dylan that Lydia had made a valid, if peripheral, point.
“I am ambushed,” Dylan said, “and disappointed and not at my best. I saw indications that your station was not as lowly as you pretended, and I ignored that evidence. I know better than to ignore what’s before my own eyes.” And yet, he had wanted too badly to rescue Lydia from the drudgery of housekeeper-hood and ride off with her to his castle—a manor house sort of castle—in Wales.
“I will be gone by sunset.” Lydia tugged off her cap. “I am sorry, Dylan. I never meant to fall in love with you, and I hoped… I am just so sorry.”
“What, precisely, are you sorry for?” Dylan asked, because in a general, uneasy way, regret figured into his feelings, too, which was deuced bewildering.
“I am sorry for lying to you. I am sorry to have disappointed you. I am sorry for much, but I am not sorry for last night.”
Whatever did that mean? Dylan felt as if he was again in the midst of a pitched battle, the noise and smoke creating such confusion that even trumpets and drums were hard to hear. Delayed orders were overtaken by new orders, and nothing made sense after the first half hour of fighting.
“Where will you go?”
“The lawyers will find me suitable lodging until I can arrange to leave London.”
Dylan did not like the sound of that. “Do you want to leave Town?” A stupid part of him asked a different question: Did she want to leavehim? What had all that passion been about, because in that much at least, Dylan believed Lydia had been sincere.
“When has what I want mattered to anybody?” Lydia asked wearily.
That question doused the fire beneath Dylan’s simmering ire. Horse Guards hadn’t taken her seriously, her lawyers brushed her off, her uncle was stealing her brother’s birthright, and her mother apparently thought sending an earl’s daughter into service was just a fine idea.
And somewhere in London, Tremont was kicking his handsome heels and probably memorizing more Latin inanities.
“You’d leave your post without notice?” Dylan asked. “Just as my sisters have arrived? Hardly cricket, Lydia.”
She waved the hand in which she clutched her cap. “Contact the agencies. They are awash in candidates for the post of housekeeper. You, yourself, gave me leave to quit without notice.” She sounded defeated, and that more than anything confirmed to Dylan that she was in no condition to march off on her own.
“The Season is getting under way,” he retorted. “No candidates will be available who are worth the post, and none will be up to my standards. My sisters expect me to entertain at least my cousins and their ladies. Damned Sycamore Dorning will wedge himself into those gatherings, and his brother is an earl. Standards must be maintained now more than ever, and you cannot desert your responsibilities because we are at odds.”
“I can,” she said, glowering at her tea. “What do you want, Dylan? I have been dishonest with you, and you are disappointing me. If I stay on here, we will have to deal with each other civilly. I will not be subjected to pouting and sneering from you.”
Dylan had no idea what he wanted, but he knew that he did not want Lydia to leave. Not yet, not in anger, not until he’d had time to sort himself out. She had been wrong to lie—and to join him in bed before telling him the truth—but she had apologized, and she’d had what she thought were valid reasons.
“I am…” He cast around for honest words, because some fool was making a great issue out of sticking to the truth. “I am muddled, Lydia. I don’t care who your brother is, and I have said as much to my cousins, but I am uncomfortable with the idea that we became lovers under false pretenses.”
More than lovers, though not quite engaged. She had refused to allow him that explicit expectation, a fact Dylan recalled with some relief.
“The only fact I withheld from you was my familial association. Everything else was the truth.” She rose and curtseyed and made it halfway to the door before Dylan thought to stop her.
“Will you stay—for now?” he asked.
She set her cap back on her head. “For now, and if I leave my post, I will give you notice.”
“Fair enough,” Dylan said as the patter of feminine feet above warned him that his sisters were about to descend.
Lydia left at a dignified pace, while Dylan fixed himself a plate of food he wasn’t hungry for. Then he recalled Lydia’s words:The only fact I withheld from you was my familial association. Everything else was the truth.
