Page 25 of No Match for Love (Regency Love Stories)

Lydia groaned as she slung her arm over her eyes to block out the sun filtering through her bedroom curtains. She had slept horribly. Her mind had kept her tossing and turning with questions and emotions and general discomfort.

How was Patrick Trenway—the man who had been hurt?

How was he connected to Lord Berkeley? And why did every moment spent with Lord Berkeley leave her wanting more?

She should not feel that way. Falling for Lord Berkeley was destined to lead to unhappiness—either in heartbreak or in not receiving her inheritance and her freedom.

Jones entered, striding across the room and flinging the curtains aside. Lydia winced.

The woman turned, hands on hips. “If you don’t get up, you’ll be late for your outing.”

Lydia groaned. “What outing?”

“Lord Tarrington says you’ve been invited on an outing with Lord Charles.”

Her brow furrowed. Why had Lord Charles not said anything the night before? How long ago had the invitation even been issued?

Would Lord Berkeley be there?

Slowly, she pulled herself from bed, and in a longer amount of time than usual, she was turned out for the day and settled in the drawing room.

It felt strange that life continued on as normal.

The upper class had their balls and outings and breakfasts in bed while less fortunate men such as Mr. Trenway were set upon by thugs in the night on the way home from an honest day’s work.

She did not like the dichotomy—struggled to make sense of it.

Back home, the upper and lower classes were mixed—likely because she was not really one of the upper class.

She merely pretended to be as Tarrington’s ward—if what he said about her family was true.

A knock sounded upon the door, and Lydia straightened, pulling herself from her reverie.

“Lord Berkeley,” the butler announced, and before Lydia could even reconcile herself to the fact that, instead of Lord Charles, she would be getting his older brother, Lord Berkeley entered.

His person took up much of the doorway, and she could not help the way her eyes lingered a moment on his shoulders. Much as she should not be, she was fascinated by the breadth of them. No wonder he was such an adept fighter. The man was built like a naval ship.

“My brother has caught a cold,” Lord Berkeley announced stiffly.

For some reason, that stiffness made her relax.

Perhaps because she knew that there was more to the man than his perfect posture and lack of words.

She’d heard him make a dry joke and had even made him laugh.

She knew he secretly boxed far from the proper gentlemen’s clubs of London and knew urchin children far below him in status.

He was like her in that way, she supposed—crossing the gap between high and low society.

“Poor Lord Charles.” Lydia grasped her hands in front of her. “I hope he recovers quickly.” Despite a measure of disappointment that her time with Lord Berkeley was to be short today, this was the best news because it meant less time to become entangled in Lord Berkeley’s stares.

Well, it was the best news aside from Lord Charles being sick, of course. What malady did he have? Perhaps she could offer instructions for a tisane. Though he was likely being doctored by the best London had to offer; it would be silly for her to even suggest anything.

“Our party is waiting in the carriage,” Lord Berkeley added, though he made no move to leave.

“I will not keep you then.” Lydia curtsied.

Lord Berkeley looked at her curiously. “We would welcome your company.”

Lydia froze mid-curtsy. Her legs did not thank her. “Oh, you needn’t... You do not have to...”

“It is no imposition. My brother extended the invitation, and I do not intend to rescind it.” He glanced at the slightly ajar door then stepped closer. “I also have a letter for you”—he murmured—“from Mr. Sperry.”

Her eyes widened, her hands lifting to take the letter immediately, though he hadn’t yet offered it.

He drew it from within his coat and handed it over.

The sachet of papers was thick, far thicker than she’d expected.

Could it possibly hold answers to all her questions?

Every inch of her wished to sit down at that exact moment and read through it.

She was about to decline to go on the outing so she could do just that when Lord Tarrington entered the room with no announcement.

Lydia tucked the letter between folds of her skirt and watched him with surprise, but he paid her no heed.

His greeting to Lord Berkeley was hardly more than a dip of the head.

“You have come to collect Miss Faraday?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lord Berkeley said, but then he looked to her. “If Miss Faraday wishes it.”

“Of course she does,” her guardian announced. Then, with a stifled cough, he leaned against the back of the chair, raising his brow at Lydia. “Have her back by three, though. Mr. Frank Colbert has requested a ride.”

Lydia managed a semblance of a smile when all she wished was to groan. She pressed the letter farther into the folds of her dress, but it seemed to be burning a hole into her palm.

“Very well,” Lord Berkeley said. “Though, Miss Faraday, I would suggest a parasol, if you have one. The sun is quite bright today.”

She met his eyes and saw a double meaning there. Yes. An opportunity to put the letter in her room. Though she’d begun harboring a hope that she might read it on their outing, if others were with them, that wouldn’t be possible.

“Thank you, I shall retrieve one.” She began to back from the room.

“Have your maid get it,” her guardian called.

“It is no matter,” she called back, already leaving the room. “I will be but a moment.”

She took the stairs two at a time, then, breathing heavily, she entered her room and swept it for a possible hiding place.

She decided on her traveling trunk at the foot of the bed.

Between two unused garments she wedged the papers, staring at them for a long moment before heading back the way she’d come.

She’d forgotten the parasol, but thankfully, Lord Tarrington had not left the drawing room, and Lord Berkeley now awaited her in the entry. He extended his elbow as she reached the foot of the stairs.

She took it. Butterflies surged at the contact. She gave them a stern, internal talking-to.

They did not listen.

He led her to a carriage waiting outside, assisting her in.

“Miss Faraday,” Lord Berkeley said as she took her seat, “this is Lord James Bowcott and Lady Katherine Bowcott. They are close friends of mine and will be joining us this afternoon.”

Nervous energy remained from the interchange within the home and the knowledge of the letter concealed in her room, but she shook it aside, accepting the change in plans as quickly as she could manage. She dipped her head to both the Bowcotts in turn. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Lady Bowcott said. She appeared close to Lydia in years, her hair a midnight black and her dress of the utmost quality.

She was the sort of woman that would make those beside her feel dowdy by comparison, even though Jones had chosen one of Lydia’s finest day dresses for the outing.

But something in the lady’s expression set her at ease instead.

When Lord Berkeley settled beside her, Lydia forgot all social graces as she scooted awkwardly to the side to avoid imposing on his space. Also to avoid touching him. Having her hand on his arm had been trouble enough; she didn’t need to be pressed to his side.

Heavens, but this carriage was growing hot.

It jolted forward then, and Lydia nearly fell into the space between the seats.

A large hand braced her shoulder. Before she even had a chance to thank Lord Berkeley, he had helped her upright again and removed his hand.

By the time she looked at him, he was beginning a conversation with Lord Bowcott.

“How is little Lady Katherine?”

“Loud,” Lord Bowcott returned, but his smile was indulgent.

Lady Bowcott met Lydia’s eye. “Our daughter,” she said in explanation.

Ah. “How old is she?” Lydia asked.

“Not yet six months.” Lady Bowcott’s mouth was turned up in a smile much like her husband’s. She turned to Lord Berkeley. “Your mother visited this past week.”

“I am unsurprised. The two of you would be draw enough, but your daughter eclipses you both.”

Lord Bowcott laughed. “Lady Cheltenham indicated she may have to claim our Katherine as her granddaughter if her sons do not—How was it she phrased it?—come up to scratch?”

Lord Berkeley coughed.

Lady Bowcott shushed her husband. “I do not believe this is the best time for the conversation.” Her head tilted marginally in Lydia’s direction, and Lydia felt a pang of discomfort.

In addition to her already established concerns regarding this outing, she was an outsider here, encroaching on time spent together as friends.

But then Lady Bowcott turned to Lydia, fully including her in the conversation. “Have you been to London before, Miss Faraday?” Her smile was kind, and her expression indicated she was truly interested in the answer.

Lydia shook her head. “No, this is my first Season.” She said no more, thinking of Lord Tarrington’s command to keep her past to herself. Though, come to think of it, being open about how she was an orphan with no family may accomplish exactly what she needed to put off Lord Berkeley.

Yet when given the perfect opportunity, she was unable to open her mouth again before Lady Bowcott asked another question.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No.” But it was not Lydia who offered that information; it was Lord Berkeley. Her brows rose, and he glanced her way. But his face was a mask, and she could make nothing out in his expression. That was frustrating—especially when she’d thought she was coming to know him.

Lydia nodded when Lady Bowcott looked to her for agreement.