Page 57 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Lydia did not know why she was still being so abrasive, only that she could not stop and it was tethering her to normalcy.

‘Actually, it was .’ Ashford took a step towards her.

‘First, I rode to London – ventre a terre I might add – then to Brighton. Then, once I had extracted your location from them, I made my way here – a journey of two days in any case, had my wheel spoke not broken twenty miles outside of York.’ He took another step forward.

‘Then, a wrong turning took us to the other Marnsley – did you know there were two? – where I was looked upon as some lecherous villain, trawling the village for young ladies. A lowering experience, I assure you.’ Another step.

Lydia had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze.

‘So yes, I should think that constitutes arduous.’

Lydia swallowed. ‘All for what?’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘To tell me you are sorry?’

Ashford took in a deep, deep breath.

‘Yes. But also to tell you: it was not just you. You were not making it up.’

He spoke carefully and deliberately, as if he had rehearsed what he intended to say ahead of coming.

‘I did not plan for all this, you know,’ he said. ‘And – as you have pointed out – I do enjoy making plans. But you … you just crashed into my well-ordered life, ridiculous and dramatic and shameless and brilliant.’

He shook his head, a disbelieving smile crossing his face. ‘When I thought I hated you – I could cope with that. But the moment I realized I did not … I panicked.’

Lydia was silent. She had no sharp words left.

‘I ran away,’ he said. ‘But I do not wish to run, anymore.’

‘What does that mean?’

Ashford swallowed. ‘I suppose – well, this is my first visit to Marnsley, but what I have seen, thus far, is very nice.’

‘Truly?’ She would have thought it far too provincial for him.

‘I have rented a delightful cottage,’ Ashford said primly, ‘and intend, indeed, to remain for the summer.’

‘But … why?’ She had to hear him say it. If she allowed herself to feel hope now, she would be crushed.

‘So that I might see you. Might call upon you for morning visits. Invite you out for drives. Perhaps even escort you to the local assemblies,’ he said gently. ‘If you will save me a dance, next time.’

Lydia stared at him wordlessly.

‘Dancing, courting, flirting,’ he said softly, ‘that is what I want.’

They were the same words she had used, in the library. Lydia let them sink in. For the long moment, the only sound was the gurgling from the fountain.

Ashford’s eyes moved uncertainly across her face ‘Do you … have any thoughts on that?’

‘I’m thinking,’ she said.

‘Are you …?’

She held up a hand. ‘Still thinking. Do not rush me.’

‘I’m not rushing you,’ he said. ‘But we are in somewhat of a secluded spot – we can’t stay out here all night or people will talk. If you do not feel the same way …’

‘It is not that.’ Lydia shook her head, trying to understand her own reaction. ‘ It is not lack of feeling but …’

He waited.

‘You have made a fool of me,’ she told him. ‘Many times, now.’

‘As have you, of me,’ he pointed out.

‘Oh, not enough, not nearly enough,’ she said. ‘You have made decisions for me, again and again, proposed and jilted me with nary an explanation either time—’ She cut herself off. ‘Oh, this is old ground now!’

‘You cannot help if you still feel it,’ he said quietly. His lips quirked into a smile. ‘Would that there were a fetid tarn here, for me prove my devotion.’

Lydia cocked her head to the side, attention arrested. What an interesting thought!

Ashford narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you …?’

‘We have a fountain.’ She pointed. Ashford followed the direction of her finger.

‘It was a jest,’ he said. ‘Not a serious suggestion.’

‘It was your best idea yet,’ she disagreed.

She sidestepped him to approach the fountain, pleased to find it just as large and deep as it looked from a distance.

‘I am not going into the fountain,’ Ashford told her very firmly. ‘Not in my evening dress. Not at Mrs Lindell’s waltzing-ball. Everyone will think me deranged.’

Lydia threw a challenging look his way. Then, maintaining eye contact, she slid off her left glove. He watched her with narrowed eyes. She eyeballed the fountain, taking aim – realization crossed his face.

He surged forward, hand outstretched. ‘Don’t!’

Too late. The glove landed with a soft splash, in the centre of the fountain.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘What a predicament.’

He glared at her, then at the glove, then back at Lydia again.

‘I could leave it in there,’ he threatened.

‘You could,’ she said. ‘Although, it is not how I should go about proving my trustworthiness.’

Ashford eyed the glove again. ‘I suppose it belongs to a dead relative, too?’

‘My great-aunt’s cousin,’ Lydia agreed promptly. ‘We were very close.’

Ashford snorted. He took a tentative step forward, examining the fountain’s floor with a great deal of misgiving. ‘And this would constitute enough of an apology for you?’

‘It would help my thinking,’ she said. ‘Perhaps even tip the scales in your favour.’

‘You don’t wish to give any firmer reassurance than that?’

‘No,’ she pronounced with great relish.

Ashford heaved a sigh. ‘Very well.’

He leant down to the laces of his shoes.

‘On,’ Lydia stipulated.

He glared at her.

‘These cost —’

‘Shoes on.’

Ashford straightened slowly. ‘I am not sure you should be allowed to have this much power.’

Approaching the fountain, he took a readying breath, and swung one leg over, immediately grimacing.

‘How is the temperature?’ she asked sympathetically.

‘Chilly,’ he said, teeth gritted.

Lydia was enjoying herself immensely. ‘Oh dear. One would think the water would be warmed by the sunshine.’

‘It has not been.’

He swung the other leg in. The water came to thigh height, and though it was clearer than the tarn, Lydia could see the bottom was slick with algae and moss.

Ashford took a step, wobbled precariously once – the bottom of his shoes did not seem to have much grip – then twice, but held his balance.

‘You are getting rather good at this,’ Lydia praised.

‘Not a skill I imagine using again,’ he muttered, letting go of the side.

Pausing for only a moment longer, he sloshed across the fountain and seized the glove ‘There! Are you happy now?’

He held it triumphantly aloft. It was over far too quickly. Why, he was barely splashed. It had none of the satisfaction of the tarn experience, none at all.

Lydia withdrew the other glove.

Ashford glared. ‘No. You are being—’

It sailed past him through the air.

‘Ridiculous,’ he finished. ‘I am not getting it.’

‘You have to,’ she said imperiously.

‘I refuse.’

‘You asked me how you might prove yourself.’

‘Which I have done,’ he said. ‘It does not mean I will allow myself to be run roughshod over. This is my line.’

He sloshed resolutely to the side.

‘You cannot leave it there!’

‘You should have thought of that before,’ he retorted.

‘Then I will get it,’ she said. ‘If you are too craven.’

She strode toward the fountain, nose in the air.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘You cannot.’

‘I can do whatever I like – you do not tell me what I can and cannot do.’

There was the small matter of how she would actually get in – her skirts did not exactly allow for free movement, and she could not exactly lift them, for wouldn’t that be the exact moment someone caught them and she was branded a harlot?

She whisked around the edge of the fountain, trying to get herself as close as she could, then – gathering her skirts firmly around her – placed one leg on the lip of the edge. If she held on here, she might reach out her hand …

‘You cannot,’ Ashford said, half in and half out of the fountain, reaching out his arm to try and prevent her.

She batted it away. ‘This is your doing!’

‘It is not ,’ he said, struggling to place his foot back in and splashing over to her once more. ‘Get out! I shall retrieve the glove!’

But she was already placing her hand down and boosting herself upwards.

‘You lunatic – get out,’ he said, seizing her arm and trying to push her back over the edge.

‘Remove your hands from my person!’ she insisted, pushing him away, and he pulled her back and then his foot slipped and she teetered; he grabbed her arm and she his shoulder, and suddenly it was only each other preventing them from falling in.

‘Don’t … move,’ he instructed, through a mouthful of her curls. ‘We cannot fall into this fountain. Neither of our reputations could withstand it!’

She could not disagree. Last summer, gossip had reigned for two weeks about a woman who had dampened her skirts, just lightly, to more obviously outline her legs. What they would say about her, if she appeared inside utterly drenched, she did not like to think.

‘You lunatic,’ he muttered.

‘Do not be rude to me,’ she instructed. ‘I could very easily push you in.’

‘I would take you in with me,’ he vowed.

For a moment, she was tempted. ‘It might be worth it,’ she mused, looking up at him.

‘Oh, please do not!’ And suddenly they were both choking back laughter.

‘How you terrify me,’ he said, grinning.

Their faces were very close together.

‘You terrify me,’ he said again, in quite a different voice.

Carefully, she slid one arm away from where it was clutching his shoulder.

He hastily pulled her closer as she teetered. ‘What are you—’

‘Don’t move,’ she whispered, reaching up to take his face in her hands.

They were both trembling, she noticed, as she drew him closer still.

He met her upturned face halfway, his lips touching hers with a carefulness that lasted one gentle instant – but by the next, without quite knowing how it had happened, her hands were in his hair and both his were clutching her waist, and – goodness, it felt so very different to the kiss they had shared in Waldo’s study.

There was less shock and more purpose, and without any person to interrupt them it could go on and on, and if they broke apart it was only to breathe and—

It took them almost falling a second time to break apart.

‘We must get to dry land,’ Ashford insisted, ‘before anyone finds us.’

Their exit was not elegant – a lurching, graceless process that twice almost resulted in total submersion – and they were still laughing as they made their way through the maze again.

‘We have been gone scandalously long,’ Ashford mused, peering at the sky. ‘Will your aunt suspect I have ruined you?’

‘More likely that I have murdered you.’

He threw her a laughing glance. ‘You would surely not risk such a thing, with Mr Hanworth on hand to catch you?’

Smiling, Lydia captured his hand in her own and tried to pull him towards her again. He resisted.

‘Lydia …’

‘No one is here.’

‘We are too close to the house … one must consider your reputation.’

‘Must one?’ she cajoled.

‘It is a matter of honour —’

‘Oh, please do not start speaking of your honour again, it has got us into enough difficulty already.’

‘What difficulty?’ Ashford began to laugh again. ‘Dear lord, can we not cease arguing for a minute? Even now?’

She shook her head, smile fading. He was not wrong. ‘We are astonishingly ill-suited, aren’t we?’

He tilted his head this side and that, not looking as if he particularly cared.

‘This may well be a disaster,’ she told him.

‘I know,’ he said, and she liked that he did not try to dispute it.

‘I – I still do not know if I want the rest of it,’ she said. ‘Lady Ashford – the duchess – I do not know.’

‘Neither do I,’ he admitted.

‘Does that not concern you?’ she said, biting her lip. ‘Ought we not be more certain about it all?’

‘I am certain about you ,’ Ashford said. ‘The rest … I do not know. Perhaps for now, we might just consider tonight?’

Lydia liked the sound of that. ‘And then …?’

‘Tomorrow,’ he said promptly.

Lydia began to smile again. ‘And then the day after, I suppose?’

‘And then together we work out the rest, just the same as that.’

Finally, a proposal she wished to accept.

‘Together,’ she agreed.