Page 1 of Her Beautiful Bastard
PROLOGUE
London, 1819
Lydia Darling pressed herself against the trunk of the tree she’d just climbed and closed her eyes. Perhaps, if she concentrated long enough and hard enough, she might disappear. Once she did, she could float away on the light spring breeze, carried back to Oakmoor, where she belonged. This trip to London and allowing her sister-in-law to sponsor her coming out had been a mistake. She did not belong here, among these people who spent all their time whispering over the slightestfaux pascommitted by their peers. What had the gentleman who’d shown up to Almack’s wearing trousers instead of knee breeches beenthinking? Didn’t that married mother of two know she was far too long in the tooth to wear awhiteevening gown? And, oh, the unspeakably bad manners of those raised in the country …
She had stood on the other end of such scrutiny on several occasions since being brought out and had now become known as the girl who was ‘not quite’ like the other debutantes. She smiled too frequently and too freely; her laugh was not demure enough; her posture and carriage not as elegant as it could be. Her hair was blonde, but not quite that desirable shade like moonlight … no, it had too much a hint of brown, making it rather dull. Her figure was too rounded in places, keeping her from being a delicate porcelain doll like the girl who had been named this year’s Incomparable.
Oh, no one seemed to dislike her, so much as they seemed to sense she was not one of them. Having lived her entire life in Norfolk, far removed from the bustle and glamor of London’s West End, she had nothing in common with the women here. She proved too tone-deaf to play a proper pianoforte composition, found watercolors to be sleep-inducing, and while she enjoyed dancing could only claim to be adequate at best. She much preferred the freedom of the outdoors, of a long ride across sprawling green lands, target practice with a rifle, or running until her legs grew tired and her heart pounded so hard, she thought it might beat right out of her chest.
Thus far, her egregious breaches in propriety had included spilling lemonade on her hostess’ gown at a luncheon, referring to an untitled woman as ‘my lady’, and a lady as ‘Mrs.’, tripping over the voluminous skirts of her court dress while making her curtsy, forgetting to wear a fichu with her day gown and exposing too much bosom, and laughing too loudly at a musicale. In short, she’d called far too much attention to herself … the wrongsort of attention. The Londontonhad inspected her and found her to be an oddity, wonderful to have about for entertainment, but not good enough for their sons or brothers to wed.
Not that the men avoided her. Actually, she’d heard it said that she was one of the most popular women to ask for a dance. A chap could enjoy her company without wondering whether she might angle for a marriage proposal. That she appreciated the same pursuits as many males was an added bonus—for them. They all relished talking to her about horses, and guns, and the like, but did not seem interested in marrying a woman who indulged in such things.
Lydia laughed aloud at herself, unable to believe her past foolishness. Just this time last year, she had been so excited to come to London. She’d dreamed of the glamor and beauty of it all, imagined herself dancing in the arms of dashing men, charming them with her wit and wholesome beauty. Perhaps not a diamond of the first water, she knew she was not without her own sort of allure. The young men of Norfolk had been sniffing about her skirts since she’d grown old enough to draw their attention. Perhaps she ought to go home and consider marrying one of them. She had thought she wanted a sophisticated man, one with a title and some sort of standing in society. However, after rubbing elbows with these sorts, she longed for the honesty of a country boy’s smile, the warmth of a hand taking hers without the covering of gloves.
Opening her eyes, she heaved a sigh, turning her head to gaze over the low wall surrounding the townhome she’d escaped for a respite from the crush. The sun had set hours ago, but a cloudless sky and full moon illuminated the garden below her. The massive tree grew outside the wall, its large branches hanging over into the garden. She’d used the uneven bricks to climb and perch amongst the tree’s limbs where she could see the night sky, and the narrow lanes between the houses.he’d used the uneven brick of the wall to climb and perch where she could see the night sky, as well as narrow lanes between homes.
Things were built so close together here; the buildings, the roads. How could people breathe? How did they live on top of each other?
A deep, masculine voice cut through her thoughts, drawing her gaze downward. The shadowy figure of a man moved along the lane below her. He was alone and seemed to be muttering unintelligibly to himself as he leaned against the wall below her, fumbling in the pocket of his coat. She supposed he must be a guest at the same ball she attended—his black evening kit offset by the white linen of his shirt and cravat.
A flare of orange sparked in his hands, a match being struck. He brought it close to his face, lighting what appeared to be a cheroot. She swiveled her body so that her legs hung over the limb on his side of the wall. Gripping the rough bark tight in her gloved hands, she leaned forward to get a better look at him.
Odd, this man lingering in an alley when he obviously belonged inside. There were men indulging in cigars and cards in a chamber off the ballroom, so it wasn’t as if he needed to come out here to enjoy his cheroot. Perhaps he’d simply wished to cool off; the crush inside made the ballroom quite warm. Or, like her, he wished for a respite from it all—the people, the staring, the gossip, the censure.
Hair as black as the night sat touseled about his head in unruly disarray. A dark hue, she could see; perhaps black. He appeared quite sinister in all black, the shadows clinging to him as if he belonged here. Resting her chin in hand, she let one of her feet swing back and forth as her imagination ran away with her. Maybe he’d come out here to engage in a duel, and simply awaited his opponent. Or, he’d sneaked out for an amorous liaison with a lover. Such things were done in gardens at these events, even in Norfolk.
What if he wasn’t a guest at all, but a highwayman, or a cutpurse in disguise in order to blend in? She could imagine him pilfering the snuffboxes and banknotes of London lords, coming and going as he pleased in the dark of night, his black evening clothes helping him melt away into the shadows.
She snorted, rolling her eyes and shaking her head at herself. Her brother, Michael, would tease her for being so dramatic and coming up with such a nonsensical story in her head.
A gasp caught in her throat when the man went still, then stiffened, turning left and right as if searching the darkness. Had he heard her?
She moved to throw her legs back over the tree limb and climb down her side of the wall. But she’d only managed to get one leg over when the slipper on her opposite foot fell loose. On its way down, it struck the man’s shoulder, glancing off before hitting the ground with a soft thud.
“What the devil?” he muttered, crouching to pick up her slipper.
It only seemed to take him a moment to realize where the offending shoe had come from. Straightening, he craned his neck, looking directly up and into her eyes. She gasped, audibly this time, though she could not seem to move. One would think she’d scramble down the wall and run back inside as fast as her legs could carry her, praying no one noticed her missing slipper. But, no. She could only sit there, straddling the tree limb, the skirts of her gown and petticoat riding up to her knees, one stockinged foot exposed for him to see.
“Well, well,” he drawled, edging closer to the wall, his white teeth flashing in the dark when he smiled. “What have we here? A fallen angel, perhaps?”
A nervous sound emitted from her—a choked giggled. Oh, God. Now she was truly making a cake of herself. Shenevergiggled.
“Just a mortified girl, I’m afraid,” she replied. “I beg your pardon. My shoe slipped, and there wasn’t time to warn you.”
He shrugged one shoulder, holding up her lightweight slipper. “It is nothing to trouble yourself over. What sort of man would I be if I could not recover from falling footwear?”
Despite herself, her lips curved into a little smirk. She did like a man with a sense of humor. Her smile fled when he slid the shoe into his inner breast pocket, before taking hold of one of the uneven bricks, hoisting himself upward.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice raising an octave as panic flared in her chest.
He paused halfway up the wall, looking at her as if she’d gone mad.
“Why, returning your slipper, of course. I cannot allow you to go back in there without it. Whatever would the matrons say?”
Nothing that they don’t already think about the uncultured country girl from Norfolk.
“Oh, do be careful!” she called out, as he continued up toward her.
