Page 4 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
The move to London nine years ago had been a difficult one, just as she had known it would be. She had made few friends, and in her three years on the marriage mart, she had received interest from only one eligible gentleman.
She would be a fool to turn that down. And really, he had come along at the perfect time, when she had despaired of making a match. The estate being entailed away was likely one reason; the other she expected was her unfashionably red hair, and her difficulty making casual conversation with the few gentlemen who spoke to her.
Even so, her situation now was far superior to any she could have imagined when she was picturing the move. Her father had promised to try, had promised they would find happiness, and they had. She had. Together, they had carved out a quiet, contented life for themselves.
Different from the childish joy she had known when her mother was still alive, where grief had yet to touch her, but happiness nevertheless.
She still, on occasion, missed York.
She never stopped thinking about the boy by the lake, though she knew how improbable it was she would ever see him again, and she always missed her mother. Still, she found other things to enjoy, such as her new friendships. And Lord Scunthorpe.Notthe daring man from her dreams, but a man who would offer her a home and security. Provided, of course, he would offer for her.
“I am certain we would do well together,” she finally said with conviction. “All I need is for him to offer. He is a little shy.”
“Odd for a man over twenty years your senior to be shy,” Penelope said slyly. “And only a baron! Just think how much better you could have done.”
“If I could have done better, Pen, I would have done so before now, don’t you think?”
“You are not on the shelf!”
“No, but I may be if Lord Scunthorpe doesn’t muster the courage to offer for me soon.” Lydia sighed, but commotion further down the street disrupted her contemplation. Several servants stumbled down to the street, and a page boy dashed down the road past them, his face a mask of such concentration, he didn’t so much as recognize her.
Lydia recognizedhim, however. He belonged to her household.
Dread trickled down her spine. People only looked like that when something terrible had occurred. Immediately, instinctively, she thought of the day her mother had died. Lydia hadn’t been sitting by her mother’s side then, but she had felt the ripple move through the house. The immediate distress of the servants. Panic, moving through walls like a ghost.
She had known.
And now, too, she had the same feeling sitting in her chest.
Penelope glanced at her nervously. “Is that—”
“Hurry!” Lydia dragged Penelope faster down the street, her heart in her mouth. As they approached, it became abundantly clear that this truly was her house. A stable boy had dashed off down the road, and several coachmen lingered by an unfamiliar carriage on the cobbles outside. There was a crest emblazoned on the side that made Penelope gasp, but that Lydia didn’t recognize.
“Wait here,” she told her friend, ensuring her maid was still beside them before she freed her hand and hurried up the steps to where the door was ajar. Inside, footmen rushed about in an atmosphere of panic.
“Branfield,” she called, searching for the butler in the chaos. “What is going on?”
When she didn’t immediately see him, and when no one stopped her, she swept upstairs to where the source of the commotion appeared to be coming from. The dread sitting on her heart froze, the way water crystallized on blades of grass when the frost came. Just as she reached the doors to her father’s chambers, the door swung open and a gentleman stepped out.
He was tall and broad, a coat clinging to his wide shoulders and his cravat neatly pressed. At a glance, she could tell this was a man of fashion, his clothes of high quality, although the colors were sober: a black coat overtop a navy waistcoat. Even the buttons were small, mother-of-pearl, but with a muted shimmer.
His face, however, was what caught her attention the most. Blonde hair in carefully tumbled curls, stern blue eyes thatseemed to her incredibly cold and distant, like plunging into freezing water. She had experienced that once before, and seeing this man now brought back all those memories. The chill of the water, and the kindness of the boy who had once rescued her...
That boy had possessed this man’s features, but nine years had given them a sharper edge.
“You…” she gasped, but he seemed not to hear her.
“Miss Swinton?” he asked, standing so utterly in the doorway she couldn’t see past him.
“Yes. What is going on? Why are you here?”
“Please, Miss Swinton, allow me to guide you to a seat.” Holding out a large hand, he ushered her to one of the benches lining the corridor. They were wooden and uncomfortable, polished carvings digging into her back that her father had not yet come around to replacing.
“What ishappening?” she managed through her tight throat.
“It’s your father.” The man—Alexander, she remembered—gazed at her with those cool blue eyes, so distant, as though he was watching someone else deliver this terrible news. “I am afraid there has been an accident.”
Lydia lurched to her feet. “What accident? Let me see him!”
