Page 3 of No Match for Love (Regency Love Stories)

“Stop fidgeting.”

Lydia’s fingers froze, though the rebellious side of her wished to keep absentmindedly pulling at the golden thread simply because Lord Tarrington told her not to.

Instead, she pulled her hand back and cocked her head at her guardian, who was sullenly looking out the window of the carriage.

His graying hair had grown sparser since she’d last seen him two years before.

He’d lost weight too, if she was not mistaken, giving him the look of a man older than what she believed his age of perhaps early to midfifties might be.

How pathetic that this man had been her guardian near on twenty years, yet she did not know his age.

But his gruff demeanor she knew well—a mixture of exasperation and annoyance.

“Do you go to a great many balls?” she asked.

She could recall the steps it took to reach the center of this man’s walled garden, could greet each of his tenants by name—first and last—and could recite just how many bedrooms remained unused in the grand estate, but she did not have any clue how he spent his leisure time.

And that didn’t seem likely to change during her visit with him in London.

He had hardly spoken two sentences to her since she’d arrived four days past.

That was truly not an exaggeration. One of the sentences had been “The housekeeper will show you your room,” and the other was uttered just moments before when he’d told her to stop fidgeting as they traveled to their very first ball. Perhaps he was selectively mute.

Instead of responding to her question, he grunted.

“Ah. Do you enjoy them?”

He grunted again.

Oh good, now she knew that he could grunt. That was sure to come in useful.

A smarter woman might have stopped there. But Lydia had an inquisitive side—or a side that wished to meet an early death—and she was giving it full rein just then. “Would you say balls are preferable to musicales?”

Another grunt.

“Hmm. Yes, it is a hard question. At a musicale, you could be treated to incredible music... or horrific. At a ball, you could have incredible dance partners or... well, you understand my meaning. Though, I suppose as a man you are entitled to finding your own partners. So perhaps that is preferable to—”

“Do stop.”

Could she consider it a success that he had responded?

“You are giving me a headache, and we have not even arrived.” They were up to four sentences now!

“Would you say you have a weak constitution?”

Lord Tarrington’s icy gaze swept over her from head to toe as the carriage’s slow progress stopped. Lydia met him eye for eye, her mouth turned up in a benign smile.

“Try not to speak too much,” he said, his tone dark. She opened her mouth, but he added, “And do not have any punch. It will certainly hinder your already dismal conversation skills.”

“How am I to make a fantastic match if I do not speak to the man first?” How hard could it be to make it through a couple of dances and minor conversation?

“As I said, it will be to your benefit to remain silent.” Without so much as a nod, he opened the door and exited the carriage.

Lydia pursed her lips and made to follow but froze on the step.

Her eyes traveled upward, taking in the large building that was nothing like the lavish town house Lord Tarrington owned.

This mansion was multiple times the size, and every window shone with light, which also spilled out the open double doors.

Carriages were before and behind their own, each filled with occupants waiting to alight.

Conversation and music drifted from the home as people made their way inside.

The candles in the entry hall alone would probably light Lord Tarrington’s tenant cottages for a week.

Her hands grasped her dress, creating wrinkles in the pressed silk.

She had been sure she would be overdressed, but she was entirely wrong.

Some of these women—men too—wore such finery that they shone in the candlelight.

If one stood too close, the flames may catch a passerby on fire with only the reflection of the gold thread embroidering their dress.

She did not belong here. She and her poorly bred nature, unknown origins, and lack of social skills. Good heavens, what had Lord Tarrington been thinking bringing her to London after so many years of seclusion?

Her gaze met Lord Tarrington’s disapproving one, and she wiped whatever shock she displayed from her expression.

The line to greet their hosts moved quickly, and quite suddenly, Lydia was being introduced to a “Lord Cheltenham, Lady Cheltenham, and Lord Charles.” Her guardian spoke over her, but it was just as well.

For once in her life, she’d been rendered speechless, and she was finding it hard to even commit the names and faces of her hosts to memory.

In his letter summoning her to town, Lord Tarrington had made it clear that he expected her to marry and marry well this Season.

How could he expect such a thing? With hardly any preparation?

Lord Tarrington propelled her into the ballroom with a push of her elbow, where she was again rendered speechless by the mass of bodies, hundreds of candles, and dozens of bouquets of flowers of every size and color. His coughing at her side had her tear her gaze from the room and settle it on him.

He, however, was surveying the people with a shrewd eye. “It would be better if the Cheltenhams were not stuck speaking with guests. I should like a better introduction to Lord Charles for you than that rushed one.”

“The son of the marquess?”

Her guardian nodded. “Yes. It is a reach but not altogether impossible. And an alliance with that family would be ideal.”

“Would it?”

“Of course. He is only the second son, but it seems Lord Berkeley is not in attendance—and you could not charm him even if you had charm. As my ward, you will have certain advantages, but my title is not enough to propel you so far past the circumstances of your birth.”

Her eyes narrowed at the comment on her family. No one ever spoke of her parents. She knew hardly anything beyond their names. William and Sarah Faraday. What a legacy she held—to know only her parents’ names. “And what, pray tell, are those circum—”

Another voice cut into their discussion. “Lord Tarrington, I do declare you have been hiding someone from us.” The newcomer was rather portly with a kind, happy expression gracing his youthful face. He appeared younger than she with maybe only nineteen years to his age.

“Belcher.” Lord Tarrington bowed stiffly.

My, what an unfortunate last name. And unfortunate timing—though experience told her she’d have learned nothing by asking.

“Do introduce me to this young lady, Tarrington.”

Lydia straightened, her mind at war. Did she even want to meet anyone? Did she want to play along with Tarrington’s games?

No. But she had to.

“This is my ward, Miss Faraday. Miss Faraday, this is Mr. Belcher.”

Lydia did not even wince at hearing the name again. She curtsied—rather prettily, if she might be so proud—and murmured, “How do you do?”

“Capital, capital. Might I beg you as a partner for the reel, Miss Faraday? That is, if you are not otherwise engaged.”

“No.” His eyes widened, and she hastily added, “I mean, no, I am not engaged, and yes, I would be gratified to dance with you.” Perhaps Lord Tarrington was correct and Lydia should not be speaking overmuch.

Mr. Belcher smiled, though it appeared befuddled. “Capital. I shall collect you for the set after next.”

Afraid to open her mouth again, Lydia simply curtsied. Less prettily this time.

Then she almost jumped when Lord Tarrington spoke thoughtfully as Mr. Belcher walked away. “Belcher has an ample estate in Hertfordshire, but he is not particularly worth our time. Do not encourage him beyond a dance.”

And suddenly, poor last name and all, she had a great desire to encourage Mr. Belcher’s attention. She turned to the baron, an eyebrow cocked. “And if I like the man?”

He spared her half a glance, surveying the room with a hawk-eyed stare. “Your personal preferences are not so important as a good connection.”

She frowned, several arguments bubbling to the surface of her mind.

In marriage, one would think personal preferences ought to play an immense role.

Certainly she knew that Lord Tarrington wished to marry her off, but could she not choose her own groom?

If his point was marriage regardless, why should he care overmuch?

The next set began, and Lydia watched as the couples lined up and began the various forms. Suddenly, all her pitiful dance lessons had seemed to slip from her head.

Lord Tarrington angled his head to the right. “Here is Mr. Frank Colbert.”

Was she supposed to know who that was?

This time, it was a dashing young man, possibly only a year or two older than herself. Her eyes widened as it became clear that he was, in fact, heading toward them, weaving through the crowd with an athletic grace that was rather attractive.

“Lord Tarrington.” Even his voice was attractive. It had an almost gravelly undertone. His eyes flicked to Lydia. They were blue, of course. “Do introduce me to your...”

He left the sentence dangling, allowing Lord Tarrington to take up the unspoken question.

“My ward,” he grunted. Not for the first time, Lydia wondered what in heaven’s name had possessed her father to name this grouchy old man her guardian.

But the Adonis was bowing over her hand as her guardian announced, “Miss Faraday, this is Mr. Frank Colbert.”

Lydia kept her mouth tightly shut so as to not have the same sort of embarrassing interchange that she’d had with Mr. Belcher. Still, a single word slipped between the barricades. “Delighted.”

That . . . sort of made sense in this situation . . . did it not?

“As am I, Miss Faraday. Might I secure your hand for the next set?”