Page 4 of No Match for Love (Regency Love Stories)

True disappointment made her offer a sad smile. That was the set she had promised Mr. Belcher. “I am afraid I am already engaged.”

Rather than being put off, Mr. Frank Colbert gave a smile of his own. His teeth were a tad crooked, but it only served to make him appear more approachable than the demigod he’d seemed to be when crossing the ballroom. “I am unsurprised. Have you any dances available?”

How could she say that every one of her dances was available, excepting the next? She did not want to appear undesirable. “The quadrille, perhaps?”

His smile grew. “Wonderful. I shall collect you when it is to begin.”

She felt capable of taking a full breath when he was again out of sight. A man had never had such an effect on her; she felt rather windblown. It nearly had her on board with her guardian’s marriage scheme—if it were so easy to change her mind. Which it was not.

“And he, Lord Tarrington? Would he be a good match?” The words came out a bit more facetious than she’d intended.

Lord Tarrington grunted, his eyes narrowed as he watched the man’s retreating form. “Well enough. Though he’s a bit young. And a second son to a viscount. But set up well for a career in the law, which is admirable, I suppose.”

“Admirable, indeed,” Lydia muttered. Tarrington was immensely open with information regarding every potential marriage partner but tight-lipped about her own past.

Mr. Belcher was a surprisingly nimble partner and probably outshone Lydia in the reel. Though he said “capital” perhaps a bit excessively and sweat beaded atop his forehead, Lydia enjoyed their dance. But soon it was over, and Mr. Frank Colbert was waiting for her beside Lord Tarrington.

She half expected her arm to fill with feeling when she placed it on his, but there was no such reaction.

No tingle of sensation up to her heart. No fluttering in the pit of her stomach.

She still stood a little straighter knowing she was on his arm.

Knowing that a handful of heads turned their way as they passed.

“Have you been in London long, Miss Faraday?” Mr. Frank Colbert took his place along with the other six individuals making up their set.

“I arrived only this week.”

He raised his brows. “And yet I have not had the fortune of crossing your path before now?”

The music started up. “This is, in fact, my first ball.”

“Have you had the chance to enjoy other aspects of London before now?”

“I have strolled a street or two.” If the street where her carriage had broken a wheel counted. And if strolled could be stretched to include a handful of steps.

“Have you been to the opera, Hyde Park, the theater... Gunter’s?”

“No. I have not.”

She expected him to be incredulous, but he simply raised a corner of his mouth and said in a smooth voice, “We shall have to remedy that.”

It was no invitation, but it was nearly one.

This was how she’d expected her first ball to go.

Whether or not she wished to participate in Lord Tarrington’s matchmaking schemes, she had anticipated that she would be successful in whatever she decided.

Perhaps she could scrub the earlier part of the evening from her recollections as one might scrub a dish.

Lydia took care with her steps, afraid to miss a figure, but managed to continue the pleasant conversation throughout.

The first dance concluded, and they set themselves up for another.

Her shoulders and neck were beginning to ache.

For someone who helped with tenants’ laundry regularly, she ought to have found it easy to stand with perfect posture, but it seemed to utilize different strengths to keep one’s shoulders back and chin tilted.

And the room was so stuffy and hot. Surreptitiously, she pulled in air through her teeth, trying to fill her lungs.

This sort of exercise was unusual to her as well.

She’d not even learned these dances until a month or two before and hadn’t had many opportunities for practice.

The reel had wearied her, but if she’d had a moment’s respite, she would have rallied.

As it was, she was hoping the few moments between dances would be enough.

Mr. Frank Colbert had turned to speak to the person beside him, but as she watched, he flashed a smile in her direction.

She returned it as best she could, furtively dragging in more air, but it was not altogether fresh.

The scents of bodies, punch, food... all of it mingled in an unpleasant way.

The music began. Over the heads of some of the dancers, Lydia saw the open doors to a terrace. Might she convince Mr. Frank Colbert to forgo their second dance?

But he was already stepping toward her, beginning the first figure. She bolstered herself—one more dance would not do her in. She was a strong and capable woman. She would not be outdone by a ball.

Her steps were not so buoyant, and she missed one or two, but it should not have been too obvious. Mr. Frank Colbert was pleasant and his expression kind and open. At the end of their set, he simply returned her to Lord Tarrington.

Lord Tarrington paid her no mind—probably seeking out her next dance partner—but she had rather more pressing matters to deal with at the moment. Namely, her inability to breathe.

“Lord Tarrington, I think... I will take some air.”

He grunted in his usual fashion, and that would have to do.

With an unsteady nod in his direction, she made for the open doors.

It was not easy, but she was determined.

More than a few elbows might have been thrown.

More than one shoulder was jostled. But she arrived not a moment too soon.

Fresher air met her face, and she drew in a ragged breath, reaching for the balustrade to lean against.

When she had finally regained some composure, though each breath still pulled uncomfortably at her chest, she looked around.

The terrace was full of people—many spilling down into the walled gardens below.

None had infiltrated her shadowy corner, but the idea of going back inside where even more congregated was near painful.

Did people actually enjoy this sort of event?

Being squashed together with all their warmth and scents mingling?

It did not seem particularly appealing to someone used to gallivanting around the countryside.

She glanced over her shoulder at the ballroom.

Strains of music colored the spaces between conversation around her.

Her temples ached. Her breathing was still not altogether normal, but the sight of so many young men and women provided such a distinct contrast to what her life a month before had looked like that she forgot her breathing difficulties for a moment.

What would it be like to marry? Forgetting Lord Tarrington’s declaration that her personal preferences did not matter.

.. what would it be like to fall in love?

To find someone who took care of her. Talked to her.

Liked her. It was the stuff of fairy tales, to be sure.

She was being presented with an option she’d not had before in her life.

Escape. Freedom.

It was a draw even stronger than that of the fairy-tale-like love. What was life off Lord Tarrington’s estate like? What would it be like to not be governed by governesses, housekeepers, and her guardian?

Perhaps she did want to marry, after all. On her own terms and with a man whom she loved and respected. And she certainly could not find a husband while sequestering herself away on this terrace.

Squaring her aching shoulders, she stepped toward the door. Unfortunately, she did so at the same moment that a gentleman came walking up the stairs behind her. They collided, which would have been embarrassing enough if the man had not been carrying a drink.

Lord Tarrington had told her not to drink the punch. She imagined he would also object to her wearing it.

Lydia stumbled with the force of the collision back toward her shadowed corner of the terrace.

“Blast! I am so sorry about that.”

She looked up. The man was familiar. He stepped closer, glancing from his empty drink. His mouth pulled into a grimace.

“I ought to have been looking where I was going. Do not blame yourself.” She glanced dismally at her stained front.

“I think I can easily take a large part of the blame. After all, it is not your drink all over the two of us. Blast. My mother is going to kill me.” The last part was muttered more to himself, but Lydia was fixated on something else he’d said.

Looking closely, she saw he was correct. The drink was not just on her but on him as well. “I am so sorry. I did not realize—” She trailed off, seeing that he was no longer paying attention.

He was leaning back now, looking into the ballroom. “Listen, I’m terribly sorry, but I cannot have my mother finding out about this.”

She quirked an eyebrow. He was worried about his mother at this moment? She was more worried about becoming the laughingstock of the ton . But then something about his lanky frame and nearly red hair found its place in her mind.

“Lord Charles.”

“Yes?” he asked, looking at her as if she might make all of this disappear.

This was the man who had greeted them with their hosts. This was his home. She supposed dumping punch on a guest could frustrate a mother.

“What do you propose we do?”

His jaw slid to the side in thought. “If we can get into the ballroom undetected, there is a side door. We’ll go through the house and call your carriage.

No one will be the wiser. That is... if you.

.. Well, do you mind?” His excitement at finding a solution dimmed as he seemed to realize that she had to agree to the scheme as well.

“My guardian will be wondering where I’ve gone.”

He waved that thought off. “I can send a servant for him.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. There was also her reputation to consider.

Would it be harmed more by walking through the man’s home or by walking through the crowded ballroom covered in punch?

She did not have enough knowledge of Society’s workings to intelligently answer that, but she did know what she wanted to do.

The punch had begun seeping into her chemise, and it was growing increasingly uncomfortable.

So she nodded, agreeing to the plan.

He heaved a great sigh, looking over his shoulder at those still milling around on the terrace. None had paid them any heed.

“If you walk closely behind me, we might keep anyone from seeing your dress.”

“What about your waistcoat?” It was streaked with punch as well.

“I’ll cross my arms.” He set his glass on the balustrade, abandoning it there.

She nodded again.

“Follow me.”

She did her best to remain hidden by his back as they entered the ballroom.

A couple people tried to intercept Lord Charles—he was, after all, the son of a marquess—but he artfully shrugged them off.

In only a matter of minutes, they had reached a door at the side of the room.

He pulled it open and hurried her ahead of him.

Her determination wavered as she looked into the darkened interior.

But then the door closed behind her, and Lord Charles was moving through the dimly lit room to another door. After a moment’s hesitation, she followed. The floor was soft beneath her feet, and shadowed pieces of furniture and frames upon the wall were hardly visible.

Lord Charles reached the door. “This next room is a sitting room, but then we’ll be able to go through the library to the drawing room then to the entrance hall.”

“What are you doing, Charlie?”

Lord Charles stiffened, blocking Lydia’s view into the next room. She shrank behind him, mouth pulling into a grimace. So much for removing from the house undetected.

“Ah, Lucas. Just taking a break from the party. And you? Have you even made an appearance?”

There was a pause. “No. I have been busy.”

Lord Charles started to back up, pushing Lydia back into the dim room.

“Well, you’d best get out there. I know you will not dance with any young ladies, but Mother will expect—”

“Is someone with you?”

“What? No.”

“Charlie.” The voice was closer now, accompanied by heavy footfalls.

Lydia swung her head back and forth. She should hide. She might have been raised on a steady diet of running amok outdoors and playing with the tenant children, but even she knew this was not a position she wished to be found in.

Yes. Hiding was the best option. She darted for a couch.

“If it is a woman, Charlie, so help me...”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Lucas. I only—”

The room suddenly brightened as Lord Charles was forced out of the doorway. Lydia had not made it to the couch. She was only steps away, but now she froze, staring away from the man that must have just entered the room. If she did not turn around, maybe he would just... leave.

A throat cleared. She felt like a child playing a poor game of hide-and-seek. I cannot see you, so you cannot see me .

“I dumped punch on her, Lucas. I was just trying to help her leave without being seen.”

“Without Mother seeing you more like.”

“Well the end goal was twofold.”

If they kept bickering like that, perhaps she could just inch her way to the door. Suddenly, the idea of a few partygoers seeing her in a ruined gown did not seem so bad.