Page 56 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
He had dreamt about her, longingly, in a fever of lust. The woman with the hair like spun gold, and the eyes of deepest, darkest blue. For some reason, he simply could not dislodge the image of her out of his mind. Reuben had thought him crazy, telling him that she was just a pretty face among many, but he had not listened to his old friend.
It had not taken long. A few discreet enquiries, and he had her name. He knew that she was the daughter of a wealthy wool merchant, a business acquaintance of his father’s. Edgar Hayward owned a mansion, very close to the city, and Lydia was his only daughter. A precious only child, after her mother had died in childbirth.
He had called on her, his heart in his mouth. They had been suspicious of him at first, wanting to know how he knew her. But Lydia had been delighted. She had fixed him with that same penetrating blue gaze, and his heart had fallen to his knees.
They became inseparable, devoted to each other. He escorted her to every ball and soiree around town, in a whirlwind of activity. A few times he had even managed to sneak her away, so that they could have some private time together. They had been breathless, kissing passionately, aflame with desire for each other.
He had called her his fairy sprite, his little love. He had dreamed about taking her, caressing her, as she lay beside him. The hunger was real, and it was intense. A lot of the time when he wasn’t with her, he was dreaming of what it would be like to make love to her. To finally make her his own, in every possible way. He had never been so attracted to a woman before; he finally understood why men became fools for love, slavishly devoted to the object of their affections.
He had no doubt that he would make her his wife, and that they would always be together. It was as inevitable as the ships sailing along the Mersey river. Twice, he got down on bended knee, gazing at her beseechingly, begging her to marry him.
The first time she had laughed, saying that they were too young. The second time she had nodded slowly, but said that they should have a long engagement, and that he must delay in asking for her hand. Her father was not convinced that James was the man for his only daughter. Edgar Hayward had social aspirations. He wanted her to mix in far loftier circles, encouraging her to befriend the local gentry.
They had laughed about that together. He had thought that Lydia did not have a pretentious bone in her body.
It had happened gradually, to start with. A few times, she told him that she was ill, that she could not go out with him. And then, it happened more frequently. When she was with him she was distant, refusing to let him kiss her like he had in the past. She had primly told him that they must control their urges, that it was not proper, that anyone might find them, and it would compromise her.
He had been puzzled, by that. He had told her that since they were to be married, anyway, what difference did a few stolen kisses make? But he had respected her decision, no longer pushing her, although it had been agony. All he wanted to do was finally make love to her, worship her, and make her his own.
But still, he had not suspected what was truly going on until the very moment that it had happened.
One day, he had been sitting in his usual spot at the Athenaeum, nursing a whiskey. An old friend had come in, sitting opposite him. They had chatted about nothing for a while, before the gentleman dropped his bombshell.
“There is news on the grapevine,” he said, in a casual voice. “The Duke of Northumberland is engaged.” He took a deep breath. “And Miss Lydia Hayward is his fiancée…”
He had objected, in the strongest of terms, coldly telling his friend that he must be mistaken. Refusing to believe it. But the friend had insisted, even asking other gentlemen, sitting in the club. They had all confirmed that they had heard news of the engagement.
In a stunned dream, he had left the club. He went straight to her house, of course, banging on the door in his panic. It had seemed to take an age before he heard footsteps, and the door had opened. The familiar face of the Hayward butler, staring at him unsmilingly.
He had tried to push his way past the man, but the butler was like a wall, refusing to budge.
“I need to see her,” he said desperately. “I need to see Lydia…”
The butler glared at him. He had never done it before.
“Miss Hayward does not wish to see you,” said the man, staring at him, down the length of his long nose. “She told me to inform you, if you called, that she no longer wishes to have any communication with you.”
“What?” he had stammered. “I do not understand…”
The butler had sighed dramatically. “There is little to understand, sir. Miss Hayward has just announced her engagement to the Duke of Northumberland, and as such, no longer wishes to be courted by you, or anyone else.” He paused. “She was most specific that you not be admitted entry to the house…”
He left, eventually. What else could he do? Stay on her doorstep, like an abandoned dog, waiting for her to leave the house, begging for her to change her mind?
He had never seen her again.
All that he had left of her was a portrait, which she had given him when she had loved him. A fading picture that he would stare at for hours, his whole body aching. He had no idea how he could ever live again.
A month later, his father had suddenly died. And the possibility of a different life, away from Liverpool and the constant reminder of his lost love, suddenly opened up to him.
A new home. A new county. And after a while, the possibility of a wife, to share the loneliness.
He had known that he could never love her. His heart was broken, shattered into a million pieces, and he could never change that. But perhaps he could have someone to share the isolation with. The possibility of a companion who would live her own life, and let him live his own. A companion who would not expect too much from him.
But instead, he had got Adaline. A woman who would never accept that he only wanted a platonic companion. A woman whose eyes followed his every move, who anticipated his every need, hoping that he would finally notice her. That he would finally see what was in front of his face the whole time.
He never had. But that was another story, entirely.
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