Page 2 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
“That’s bloody cold,” he shuddered, almost to himself, then brushed his fingers over her arm. “What happened, miss?” he managed, gentling his tone.
She shook her head, unsure whether the tremors racking her body were from the chill of the water or the shock at having been dragged from it by a strange boy. Or if it was just leftover from the news that they were leaving York.
Perhaps all three combined.
“I—” he started, looking around as though searching for something. When nothing appeared, he dragged a damp hand through his hair. Dusk had well and truly fallen, disguising its color, but Lydia suspected it was light. A sandy brown, perhaps. Soft blonde. She caught only glimpses of him when she glanced up, but it was enough to tell her that this boy was handsome.
At the realization, she cringed and put her hands over her face. Now her disgrace was complete—not only must she endure the worst thing to have ever happened to her, but this handsome boy bore witness to her every weakness.
“Now then,” he said, the hand on her arm traveling to her shoulder. “Don’t cry, miss.”
If anything, that made her cry harder.
He exhaled gustily, and drew her against his body in an embrace. She froze, mid-sob, shocked at the unexpected warmth of his chest. Though he wore a waistcoat and coat, the heat of his body blazed into her, feeling like a warm bath after being so, so very cold. She shuddered, and he drew a hand up and down her spine.
“You shouldn’t go in the water at this time of year,” he said, both soothing and gently chiding. “You’ll freeze.”
“I-I-I—” Lydia’s teeth were chattering too hard to get any words out. Unlike her father, whom she knew loved her but at a distance, this boy felt as though he was accustomed to handing out embraces left, right, and center. His breath gusted by her ear.
Lydia closed her eyes. Her heart, so bruised and bloodied from her mother’s death, gave a little leap. He felt so warm, so right, so solid and reassuring in front of her. She had read about these moments in novels, an illicit embrace between a man and a woman, and the entire sensation was so very nice, so very welcome, that she forgot to cry. All she could do was stand within the circle of his arms andfeel.
“Alexander?” a girl’s voice called, and suddenly, Lydia was pulled out of her relief. Someone else was here. The boy’s arms loosened, and she turned to find a girl stepping out from the same set of bushes that he had emerged from.
“I found her in the water, Hel,” he replied. “She’s frozen.”
“Oh, poor dear.” The girl came closer, revealing herself to be a few years older than Lydia. Perhaps sixteen, her figure soft and womanly. Her features, though Lydia could see little of what she looked like, were pretty, ringlets of indeterminate hair color framing her round face. She, too, seemed kind, but there was a way that she looked at the boy—who held her rather more loosely now—that made ice from in Lydia’s chest.
These were not merely two playmates. They shared a history, a past, and some kind of affection Lydia could not even hope to access or guess at. All she knew was that the boy who had made her feel so warm and safe belonged tothisgirl, not her.
“Don’t you worry,” the girl soothed, feeling around on the ground until she located Lydia’s shoes and stockings. “Rub her hands, Alex, before she catches a chill.”
“What do you think I’m doing, Hel?” he rolled his eyes, though he obediently took Lydia’s hands and rubbed warmth into them. “There,” he coaxed. “Are you feeling better now? What happened?”
Mutely, Lydia shook her head. Explaining her troubles to this boy and girl felt incomprehensible. Although they had been nothing but kind, nothing but determined to save her, she felt certain the illusion would shatter once they understood she had knowingly run away from her father. That she had walked into the pond with no clear idea of what would happen after the event.
The girl fell to her knees and squeezed Lydia’s dress onto the grass. “Here,” she said, easing Lydia’s feet into her shoes, abandoning the stockings altogether. Some part of Lydia felt as though she ought to be scandalized, but she didn’t have the energy. “We must get you back home. What’s your name?”
“L-Lydia,” she stuttered. “Lydia Swinton.”
“Lord Blackmoor’s daughter?” the girl asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She exchanged a long look with the boy. Alexander. “Well. My name is Helena Perry. This is… Alexander Rayment.” The pause suggested she was going to say something else before changing her mind, but Lydia did not have the energy to examine what that might have been. Instead, she looked up into the face of her savior, just able to make out a handful of features. She had never met him before, but she memorized what little of his expression she could, determined that if they were to meet again, she would recognize him.
Helena rose, putting her arm around Lydia’s waist. “Come now,” she said, and Lydia could have sworn her hand brushed Alexander’s behind her back. “Tell me what the problem is. Are you running away from home?”
Lydia shook her head jerkily, thoughhadshe been running away from home? She had certainly been running—and she knew there was no home for her to return to.
“My father wishes us to move,” she whispered through chattering teeth. “To London.”
“I see,” Helena said. “And you don’t want to?”
“He wants to dispose of the last memories of my mother.” This time, the crack in Lydia’s voice sounded as though the earth under her feet had split entirely. “But how can I?”
Helena held her a little tighter. “Oh, poor child. Your mother died?”
“A few months back.”
