Page 35 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Their objection, of course, had as much to do with Aunt Agatha’s suspicion that there was more to Pip and Mr Simmons’ relationship than mere mentor and mentee.

It had been a horrible afternoon. Lydia had made it so much worse, of course, leaping to a defence Pip had not asked her to deliver, and after – when all the worst words had been exchanged, and Pip had left the house rather than spend another moment amongst the arguments – she had felt so guilty and so lonely, too, that there was not a single other person with whom she could share her worry.

‘Nothing can make one feel more helpless,’ Ashford said quietly from beside her, his eyes searching out Lady Phoebe across the room, ‘than worrying over one’s family.’

It was so close to where her own mind had travelled that Lydia turned to him in surprise.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s it, exactly.’

The firelight was glancing across his face, too, and at such close quarters, the effect was …

not unappealing. The moment stretched between them.

It was almost a waste that their engagement was such a sham.

For now, again, they found themselves in a scenario so intimate that, were the situation different, one might easily call romantic.

Sliding closer and closer on a low sofa, speaking in soft voices on softer subjects.

It struck her as strange, all of a sudden, that only days ago she had not comprehended why anyone would find him attractive. She understood it now.

It was not until Ashford raised his eyebrows enquiringly that Lydia realized she had been staring.

‘Not that I suppose you to worry overmuch about others,’ she said, turning her face quickly back around to Prett, feeling suddenly crotchety.

‘… “the shrouded clouds vanished, the larks ascending as the great beast reveals itself.”’

‘You have caused me to miss something crucial,’ she hissed.

Why did he have to ruin everything?

‘We are in the mountains,’ Ashford said. ‘Everything is going fabulously.’

‘“Until it opened its great maw”,’ Prett said, voice building in drama and volume, ‘“and I saw in its eyes nothing but hatred …”’

‘Everything is not going fabulously,’ Ashford corrected himself.

‘… “so fierce and so venomous”,’ Prett went on, ‘“that even the serpents fear her’’.’

‘I did not know he had met Lady Hesse upon his travels,’ Ashford said very quietly.

Lydia snorted despite herself. Lady Phoebe turned to glare at them, and they straightened their faces hurriedly.

‘Oh dear.’ Lydia worked to keep her lips from turning up again. ‘You are in her bad books.’

‘I am behaving abominably,’ Ashford said. ‘Even if it is all your fault.’

‘I agree with half of that sentiment,’ Lydia said.

‘Good of you.’

They fell silent, at last, but this did not make it any easier for Lydia to concentrate upon Prett’s words.

Having lost track of the plot, there was only flowery language and Prett’s visage to sustain her.

And, though she would not admit it to Ashford in a thousand years, the description was a little overblown, wasn’t it?

Perhaps they would not, if they married, do this every night – it might be rather wearing; and now she was watching Prett more closely, his expression looked more pompous than humble.

Her attention drifted back to Ashford once more.

For even when he was not speaking, he managed to be distracting.

Somehow, in the course of their whispered conversation, they had moved close enough together that their shoulders were now brushing together, and all of Lydia’s attention had narrowed to that single point of contact – the rough wool of his jacket catching against the bare skin of her arm on his every exhale.

A round of applause brought her attention back to the room with a jolt. Prett was taking a deep bow.

‘You are too kind,’ he said. ‘Too kind. The solitary traveller is solitary no more.’

‘Tell me,’ Ashford said, still speaking as quietly as before, ‘when you were imagining this great romantic fellow, thoughtful and heartfelt and brave, did you also foresee he would refer to himself in the third person?’

Lydia jerked her shoulder away from his. The clock was nearing ten. She had given Pip and Jane two hours and that was surely sufficient.

‘I am going to bed,’ she said, standing.

‘The Earl believes he has won that round,’ Ashford intoned quietly, and Lydia stalked away rather than retort – chiefly because she could not think of one.

‘Mr Hanworth found nothing,’ Jane said, when Lydia reached her room again.

Lydia was not surprised – but where did that leave them? That was the last guest chamber he had to search. Was it time to admit defeat and call in reinforcements? Pip was exchanging almost daily letters with Mr Simmons – surely he would come, if asked?

‘But our mission went very well,’ Jane went on with a proud smile. ‘I have never sewed more quickly in my life. Lord Ashford is going to look quite ridiculous.’

‘Perfect,’ Lydia breathed. That ought to make him less smug.

‘Was it difficult?’ Jane asked. ‘Keeping him in conversation?

‘No,’ Lydia said, truthfully, not quite able to meet her own eyes in the mirror as she set about unpinning her hair. ‘No, it wasn’t.’