Page 21 of No Match for Love (Regency Love Stories)

Lydia watched out the carriage window, breathing out a sigh when she saw Lord Berkeley’s tall, shadowy figure exit the building and make for her.

Well not her, but where she waited in his carriage.

His carriage. Alone. In the dark.

Her heart stumbled over itself. My, her evening had taken quite a turn. Though sneaking out of her guardian’s home was not the tamest of activities, she’d not expected it to turn into a fistfight and intimate carriage ride. No—not intimate. Anything but intimate.

Please, oh please, stop thinking about intimacies before he returns and—

The carriage door opened. Did she imagine it, or did his body relax at seeing her within?

He stepped inside, his large frame blocking out the light for a moment.

His large frame that she had finally recognized.

In the moment that he’d knocked the assailant down, she’d placed him instantly.

Lord Berkeley was the man from the street on her first day in London, she was certain of it.

A near giddiness filled her at having finally solved the puzzle. She itched to bring it up to him.

“You dispatched a Runner?” she asked, not exactly sure how to broach the subject that now had her full interest.

He nodded. The intensity that had burned in his eyes before he left was gone, and he seemed to be avoiding looking at her.

Still uncertain about how to open the conversation, she dove headfirst into her question. Not the finest of approaches. “Lord Berkeley, are you a pugilist?”

His expression remained unchanged. “I can hold my own in a fight.”

She leaned forward. “But do you habitually do so? Fight, I mean. That is, I ask because I think I have finally determined why you seemed so familiar to me.”

Still he did not look at her, but her enthusiasm sent her plowing forward with her story.

“The day I came to London, my carriage broke a hub. I was outside—it was just growing dark—there was a fight in a building that spilled out onto the street. A man—you—came out, helped break up the fight, and returned inside.” She did not ask if it was him.

She simply recounted the events as the carriage swayed, and the sound of the horse clip-clopping through the street filled each of her pauses.

He studied his hands, not speaking.

Who was this man who hid in libraries during balls and remained in the background of all social events, yet saved women from attackers, used solicitors’ shops in the evening, and broke up fights between pugilists? That sounded like two very different individuals. How could they be one and the same?

“Why, Lord Berkeley, were you taking part in nighttime brawls on the streets of London?” she asked quietly.

He looked over at her, and a sigh expelled from his lips. “Please, Miss Faraday, I would rather not speak of this.”

It was the “please” that got her. No one asked her to leave a topic alone. Not Lord Tarrington, at least. If this man did not wish to speak of something, she would have expected him to put on a dukely manner and forbid her from speaking.

But the curious side of her was so curious. Still, she pushed it aside. Attempting to smooth things over, she said, “It was very good of you to help Mrs. Brander.”

“Thank you.”

“And to bring me home.”

He pressed his eyes closed. “I would not have left you alone.”

Which reminded her of where they’d run into one another this evening. Of her failed mission. Of her inheritance.

Of a sudden, she wished to share the burden with someone. It was odd; she’d not felt this way before—always handling her own difficulties—but with this man, who’d gone to such great lengths to protect her that night, she felt secure.

And she was already aware of how he did not intend to court her.

If he knew about her inheritance, perhaps he could help her put off his brother as well.

Not to mention, she’d prodded into his personal affairs.

It was only fair that she reciprocate. “You asked me earlier if I was in urgent need. In Mr. Sperry’s office.

” She swayed against her seat with a turn.

He nodded. “You said you were, but I could not help.”

“Yes, except . . .”

“I can?” he prodded, leaning toward her just the smallest amount.

“Perhaps.” She took a deep breath. Despite all her logical arguments, it was difficult to relinquish control of this information. But it could only help her. “Mr. Sperry was my late grandfather’s solicitor, and it would seem I was left an inheritance.”

He nodded, his expression serious.

“Lord Tarrington forbade Mr. Sperry to talk to me, but I, ah, sought him out regardless. You must realize, I haven’t a clue who my family is.

The baron has kept all information from me, and to learn that there was someone out there that might be able to.

.. to tell me who I am—I was not being willfully rebellious, I was—”

He lifted a hand. “You’ve no need to explain. I can see you were put in a difficult position. So you need to contact Mr. Sperry without your guardian knowing?”

Lydia heaved a sigh of relief. “Yes. Lord Tarrington is bent on me marrying a man of his choosing as soon as possible, but this inheritance... It may mean my freedom for the first time I can recollect.”

She studied him as he seemed to take in that information.

A feeling of humiliation was seeping up her throat.

He probably thought her ridiculous. Women did not need freedom; they needed the security of marriage—or so everyone had ever said.

She’d thought Lord Berkeley could help, but what if he sided with her guardian? What if he told him?

“I see,” he said at last, but what was it that he saw? After another painstaking number of seconds, he added, “How can I help?”

Her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “If you can ensure that Mr. Sperry gets my letter? It is my best option just now... and it holds a great deal of information.”

“Yes. I can do that.”

“Thank you,” she breathed. “I cannot tell you what it means to have your help.”

He was silent again, but as the carriage began to slow, he met her gaze. “I am sorry you feel you haven’t any freedom. I wish I could help you more.”

To her surprise, a slight burning began at the back of her eyes at the sincerity of his words, but then he broke the connection and looked out the window.

“We are here. Do you need an excuse for why you’ve been out late?”

She shook her head, shaking back her ridiculous emotions as well.

“No, I shall go around the back. Hopefully everyone is abed or close to by now.” She grasped the basket she’d never been able to deliver.

“I know it is a lot to ask,” she said as the carriage rocked to a halt, “but would you be able to see this safely to Fanny, George, and Anne? I had hoped to drop it by this evening.”

He looked at the basket, then at her, then nodded without words.

She passed it over. “Thank you.”

She stepped to the door, grasping the handle, but as she alighted, a gentle hand grasped her elbow.

She turned just long enough to see another of Lord Berkeley’s signature nods accompanied by a strange flash of emotion in his eyes.

But then it was gone, and she was hurrying around the house, grateful that it was at the end of a row.

It was not until she was safely back in her bed that her questions resurfaced. Just who was the man she’d entrusted with so much information? Who was Lord Berkeley? What were the secrets he hid, and would he ever entrust her with them?