Page 8 of A Bride for the Rakish Duke

Grateful for the cool shade to soothe her anger-flushed cheeks, she wandered past her father’s study, wondering if she ought to pause to see how he was faring with his mountain of correspondence.

She noticed that the door was slightly ajar and took it as an invitation. Moving to push it open with her shoulder, a voice that did not belong to her father made her freeze. And not a moment too soon.

“It is time to pay your debt, Lord Lambert.” The voice was deep and rumbling… and somehow familiar.

Leaning against the doorjamb, she tried to place it, but her sun-dazed mind would not cooperate. Indeed, she would just haveto keep listening until shecouldput a name to that voice, or it would bother her all day.

“My daughter endured seven years of the severest judgment,” Lord Lambert replied. “I would say that was punishment enough. My youngest has nothing to do with it.”

Me?

Lydia knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but there was no way she was going to retreat now.

“It is not a punishment, it is a debt repaid,” that familiar voice insisted in a cold, calm manner. “You cannot deny that it is Lady Emma’s fault that I am without a bride. Do not pretend you have not seen the scandal sheets. If that were not enough, the horse she stole was never returned to me.”

Lord Lambert cleared his throat, clearly nervous. “You were paid for that horse—far more than it was worth.”

“You think that negates the initial theft?” the man replied. “But this is not about horses, as you well know. This is about the ruination of my reputation because of your daughter’s actions. My price for all these years of inconvenience is your youngest daughter’s hand in marriage. As a gentleman, a peer, and the head of a family that has, miraculously, emerged unscathed from Lady Emma’s atrocious behavior, you know that you owe me the same grace.”

Myhand in marriage?

Lydia’s blood ran cold—she did not know whether to bolt or burst into the room and beg her father not to relent.

At that same moment of chilling clarity, she put a name and a face to that voice: William Bewley, the Marquess of Pennington. Emma’s first betrothed. A man she had pitied once and apologized to when she was three-and-ten, now throwing that kindness back in her face.

“My reputation must be salvaged, and this is the only way to do it,” William continued.

Lydia could not listen to another moment of other people deciding her fate and threw herself against the door, stumbling into the room, shouting, “No, it is not!”

She had assumed that her sister’s former betrothed would be seated opposite her father. She had not once considered that he might be close to the door, not until she was falling right into him.

He whirled around and caught her as if they were in a waltz. Strong hands steadied her, and as she looked up in alarm, an amused expression greeted her. She blushed immediately, her cheeks hotter than the sun itself, for he was much more handsome than she remembered.

“It is fortunate that you heard us,” he said, slowly releasing her. “This is about you, after all. YouareLady Lydia, I assume?”

Lydia had no choice but to nod. She had decided to burst into the room, so she could not exactly lie now.

“Lydia,” her father interjected, “allow me to deal with this.”

She glanced at him. “No. Allowme.” She took a steadying breath. “Leave me with the Marquess for a few minutes. You can leave the door open and go a short distance down the hall in place of a chaperone.”

“Duke,” William corrected. “I am a duke now.”

“Very well,” she replied. “Father, allow me a few minutes with His Grace.”

The furrowed, pinched expression on her father’s face suggested he would have preferred to do anything else, but after a moment, he sighed and nodded, moving toward the door.

“I will be on the green chaise,” he said as he passed her. “Do not agree to anything. Do not consider anything. Do not make any decisions if I am not present.”

Lydia bowed her head in acknowledgment, maintaining the perfect image of a polite young lady, until her father’s footsteps faded down the hallway. As soon as she heard the creak of the dark green chaise a good distance away, she turned on Williamand jabbed a finger into his chest. She winced, the hard muscle almost breaking it.

“It is your fault that my sister left you at the altar,” she rasped, recovering as quickly as possible. “I felt sorry for you then. I even said so. But when I heard about you afterward, in later years, I quite understood why she did not proceed as planned. Emma has done nothing to tarnish your name. You cannot blame her for what the scandal sheets wish to say about you.”

“And whatdothey say about me?” He smiled, amusement gleaming in his gray eyes. A wolf’s eyes.

She faltered. “I cannot recall.”

“You mean, you do not want to repeat what you have read.”

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