Page 11 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘The central portion of the house is of Tudor origin, while the wings were added later as one can see from the rococo stylings …’

Reeves had pivoted to the role of tour guide rather impressively, escorting them through a rabbit warren of some thirty rooms for Hawkscroft boasted two dining rooms, three drawing rooms, a handful of saloons and parlours and a grand library to boot and had something interesting to say about each of them.

Though he must have had a long list of other, more pressing duties to fulfil, not a shadow of exasperation passed across his face, no matter how irritating their band of deserters were, the ever-cheerful Mr Brandon whispering jokes into Miss Hesse’s ear, the ever-yapping Brutus trotting at her heels, while the ever-irritating Lydia peppered the tour with a steady flow of inappropriate questions.

‘Is Sir Waldo the wealthiest man in England?’ she asked. ‘I should think this house fit for several kings.’

It was an impertinence, but not an exaggeration.

Even this room, a small parlour that could hardly see daily use, was decorated with finely crafted objects from the workshops of Chippendale and Haig.

Lydia’s grandmother would have clucked her tongue and dubbed it obscene, though Grandfather would certainly have been fascinated by the mahogany chests, rosewood tables, and Persian swords that constituted Sir Waldo’s war loot.

‘Of course, old houses have their idiosyncrasies, too,’ Reeves said evenly. ‘This parlour door cannot be closed in summer, for the wood would swell shut permanently.’

Again, Reeves had weathered Lydia’s impertinence with no discernible sign of stress, which was commendable – as did Ashford, which was not.

Lydia was not, however, as distressed by Ashford’s implacability as she had been the day prior.

She fancied there was a sour cast now to Ashford’s benign expression – after all, one would surely have to be entirely made of stone not to feel some mortification at the scene she had made outside, even if he was able to suppress most signs of it.

She just had to push him harder – and, fortunately, she had several weapons in her arsenal still to deploy.

‘Here we have the library,’ Reeves was saying, as they reached the end of the East Wing, and he threw open the doors to reveal a long hall of books that twinned with the West ballroom in size.

It was fitted with the same elaborate taste as the rest of the house, with a gilded and painted and chandeliered ceiling, but it was the sheer number of leather-bound volumes standing upon its shelves that caught Lydia’s breath.

‘ Goodness ,’ Lydia said, impressed into a genuine reaction.

There was no shortage of public libraries in London, and some of them were rather beautiful, but this outdid them all.

She drew in a great lungful of air, delicately sweetened by the indefinable scent of old books.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ashford do the same.

‘There are just so many books!’ Miss Hesse said with charming naivety.

‘A splendid collection,’ Ashford confirmed.

‘Yes,’ Lydia breathed, forgetting herself for a moment, before adding, hastily, but with all the flourish she could muster: ‘ C’est magnifique .’

Despite the very best efforts of two separate language masters, Lydia could only recollect four French phrases, but fortunately, this was quite sufficient to suit the second stage of her attack: pompousness.

Beside her, every muscle in Ashford’s body seemed to have stiffened.

‘I did not know you spoke French, Miss Hanworth,’ Mr Brandon said, a tiny shake of laughter in his voice.

‘Yes,’ Lydia said – for why not overegg her abilities, while she was at it? – ‘I like to practise as much as I can.’

‘How admirable,’ Miss Hesse said.

‘Yes,’ Ashford said woodenly. ‘Admirable is exactly the word I was reaching for, too.’

She watched him, sidelong, as they followed Reeves back up the grand staircase. He was on the precipice; she was sure of it.

‘Here we have the portrait gallery,’ Reeves said, leading them into a broad corridor, bearing a least two dozen portraits of stern gentlemen on its walls.

‘My goodness,’ Miss Hesse said, voice full of admiration.

‘You will find three Reynolds upon these walls,’ Mr Reeves said serenely, giving no indication of his own opinion on the subject, ‘if you can spot them …’

Mr Reynolds, perhaps the most famous portraitist for several centuries, a household name in every house of quality.

‘Who is that?’ Lydia asked Ashford, with an innocent widening of her eyes – for why not throw a little of Stage Three (foolishness) into the ring now?

‘Ah – an artist,’ he explained. ‘The first president of the Royal Academy?’

‘I have never visited,’ Lydia lied. ‘Can’t stand such stuff.’

‘Oh, I love it,’ Miss Hesse breathed.

‘I as well,’ Mr Brandon said at once. ‘I wager I can find the Reynolds before you, Miss Hesse.’

They scampered off, as merry as schoolchildren, Brutus trotting behind, while Ashford set a more sedate pace.

It was the most alone they had been since their engagement.

Lydia stole an evaluating glance at Ashford.

He did not seem the sort who would try to steal an arm around her waist, but one never knew, and they were engaged …

On the pretence of adjusting her cuffs, she felt for the reassuring shape of the sharp pin hiding in the cloth there.

Her grandmother had gifted it to her on her sixteenth birthday, with stern instructions that she must wield it liberally against lecherous gentlemen.

Ashford paused in front of a rather sensual depiction of a previous Lady Cavendish – Sir Waldo had purchased Hawkscroft’s art collection along with the house – arranged suggestively on a chaise longue.

She had plainly been as beautiful as she was full figured.

‘What extraordinary brushwork,’ Ashford observed.

Lydia released her pin. She was not going to need it.

‘Are these all ancestors of the previous owner?’ Lydia asked, with an expansive wave of her arm. ‘Or are there any members of Sir Waldo and Lady Phoebe’s family included, too?’

Ashford paused before the next painting. ‘This is mine and Phoebe’s great-great grandfather.’

Lydia took in the portrait. He was a stout man, and what could be seen of his expression – through the wiry hair that appeared to cover every inch of his neck, face and ears – was dour and dissatisfied.

Long in the tooth both figuratively and quite literally, for his incisors protruded at an alarming angle from his mouth.

He was, perhaps, the ugliest man Lydia had ever seen.

‘I can perceive the family resemblance,’ she said. ‘Uncanny.’

There was a pause, during which Lydia worked to keep her face quite still.

‘Resemblance to … me?’ Ashford said.

Lydia nodded. ‘I have a discerning eye for these things,’ she said. ‘I imagine it will not be above a few years before you could pass for twins.’

‘How old do you think I—’ Ashford began, then broke off with an irritable shake of his head, stepping onto the next portrait.

‘And this is Charles Jenkinson, a relative to Waldo and grandfather, of course, to Robert,’ he said.

Oh, how perfect.

‘Grandfather to whom?’ Lydia repeated, as innocently as she was able.

‘Ah – our Prime Minister,’ Ashford said.

‘Another one?’ Lydia said. ‘Gosh, it does make it difficult to keep track, doesn’t it – the way they constantly keep swapping new ones in.’

‘Every four years, usually,’ Ashford said, voice very, very neutral.

‘Jenkinson …’ Lydia said, tapping her finger upon her chin in thought. ‘The name does sound familiar.’

‘Perhaps you might have read about him in the papers?’ Ashford suggested hopefully.

‘No, that’s not it,’ Lydia said. ‘Is he the one who was found in a state of undress with Lady Massey?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘Then I give up,’ Lydia said. ‘Politics is so impossible to follow! I have enough issues remembering everyone’s names and titles here .’

‘Yes, I have noticed, that on occasion you can mix them up,’ Ashford said. ‘Very understandable, of course, but – ah – you may ask me, if you are ever in doubt.’

‘In the middle of conversation?’ Lydia asked doubtfully. ‘I would have thought that a little rude, but if you think I ought, then I shall!’

‘No, no,’ Ashford said hurriedly. ‘I meant more – a discreet aside – but perhaps not.’

‘I can be discreet!’ Lydia said very loudly.

‘No!’ Ashford snapped.

His tone, for the very first time since the visit had begun, was brusque and pointed. Perfect. Lydia affected a wobble of her lip.

‘Y-yes of course – it w-was foolish of me,’ she said, affecting a little choke.

Ashford looked towards Lydia, startled, eyes widening in horror at the sight of her rapidly moistening eyes.

Even he, so poised, was not excluded from the general masculine fright at feminine tears.

It was one of the few faits accomplis available to her gender, and Lydia could only be thankful she was able to utilize it at will.

Her childhood ambition to become an actress – before Grandfather had informed her that this was an occupation for charlatans – was at last serving her well.

‘Oh, I did not mean to …’ Ashford said, putting out his hands as if to comfort her, and then snatching them back when he realized this would be entirely inappropriate. ‘My apologies, Miss Hanworth, I did not intend to distress you – how insensitive of me to ever imply …’

As Ashford trailed off, helplessly, Lydia gave several great heaving sniffs.

‘I should never wish to embarrass you,’ she whispered tearily.

‘No, of course not, of course,’ he said.

Patting down his pockets, Ashford produced a beautiful silk handkerchief upon which she blew her noise, noisily and thoroughly. The force of it knocked one of her ostrich feathers askew once more.

‘Better?’ Ashford asked, maintaining eye contact determinedly, though the ostrich feather now hung perpendicular to Lydia’s face. She held the handkerchief out to him.

‘No, no, you may … you may keep it,’ Ashford said, appearing to keep a grimace off his face with great difficulty.

They walked on in silence for a few moments. Several times Ashford took in a sharp intake of breath, as if he were about to speak, but did not. Lydia waited him out, with bated breath – was now the moment …?

‘I perhaps did not appreciate how nerve-wracking such an event as this might be,’ Ashford said. ‘It was thoughtless. I am sorry.’

‘Oh,’ Lydia said, in genuine surprise. She had not thought him the sort to apologize.

‘I wish to help you feel more at ease,’ Ashford said. ‘How can I do so?’

‘La, I am quite comfortable,’ Lydia said.

Ashford did not look convinced.

‘I hope you know,’ he said. ‘That you need only be yourself, even here.’

‘Myself?’ she said innocently. ‘But I am.’

Ashford shot her A Look.

‘I hope you don’t mind my disagreeing with you,’ Ashford said, ‘but I do not think you have been.’

Lydia let out a sceptical snort.

‘You think you know who I am?’ she said, before she could stop herself.

‘Miss Hanworth?’ he said, brows raising in surprise. ‘Is there something you wish to say?’

Lydia bit her lip, berating herself for allowing Ashford to see her mask slip.

‘No, no,’ she assured him. ‘There is nothing.’

‘Miss Hanworth, I do wish you would confide in me.’

He was not going to let it go – she had to give him something.

‘Forgive me. It is just this is all so very new to me.’ She gestured around them, at the portraits, the gallery, Hawkscroft itself. ‘I confess I have been all of a quiver, ever since I arrived.’

‘Yes, I noticed,’ Ashford said.

‘You did?’ She widened her eyes again. ‘But I have been trying so very hard to hide it!’

‘Even so,’ Ashford said. ‘What is it that you find so daunting? Perhaps I can help?’

Oh, lord. What was she meant to say now? She had not planned for this.

‘It is everything,’ she said. ‘There is so much I do not know.’

‘It is not so complicated,’ he said. ‘We are not born with the knowledge – we all learn.’

‘You do not wish to marry someone who already knows it all?’ Lydia was genuinely curious. He must know that she was not the most likely choice, however well she had behaved back in London. ‘A lady who is already prepared for such a life … surely that would have been easier?’

She expected him to offer her a piece of flummery, some empty flattery entirely in keeping with what she knew of his two-faced character, but Ashford surprised her again.

‘A troubling number of those ladies are my relatives,’ he said confidingly.

Lydia was startled into laughter. She had not thought him to be amusing.

‘If we ever once shared a nursery, I do not wish to marry them,’ Ashford went on, smiling too. ‘A little rule of mine, you see.’

‘Incest is not quite as a la mode as it was,’ she agreed, and this time he was the one to laugh. She had never seen him do so, before. It changed his face entirely and for a moment, she felt she understood better why he was so widely held to be charming and—

Lydia stopped her thoughts in their tracks. What was going on here? Were they bonding ? No, no, no!

‘I do find it difficult to understand why you chose me,’ she said abruptly.

The smile slipped from Ashford’s face.

‘If you regret it,’ she continued, ‘I wish you would tell me.’

The words were not premeditated, but in the moment all she wished was to jolt them away from the easy warmth that had looked about to form.

‘I don’t …’ Ashford broke off, looking away and down. Was he emotional? Surprised by her frankness?

‘Miss Hanworth, I would not have asked you to marry me,’ he said, ‘if I did not wish for it.’ He looked back toward her. ‘There may be much for us to learn about one another, but I am looking forward to it.’

He seemed so sincere, so heartfelt. Lydia held his gaze, struck despite herself. She did not know what to say.

There was the clearing of a throat. Reeves had approached without either of them hearing him.

‘The riding party has returned,’ he said. ‘Lady Phoebe wishes to inform you that refreshments are being served on the terrace.’

‘Thank you,’ Lydia said.

‘I can make your excuses,’ Ashford told her, ‘if you would prefer to rest or … change.’

‘No, no.’ Lydia shook her head, seeing out of the corner of her eye the ostrich feather droop still further. ‘Let us join them.’

Ashford did not argue with her. They turned together to leave the gallery and then, so casually and subtly that Lydia would not have noticed had she not been paying him quite so much attention, Ashford reached up and tweaked her ostrich feather back into place.

And that was – well, it was kind. The apology: that too was kind. It was all rather kind, wasn’t it?

And in the face of it, Lydia began suddenly to feel rather cruel.