Page 73 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
Fine, so he had deceived her, and she had been so happily, so easily deceived. But that would end here. If he wanted to leave her, then he could do so, but she would be prepared. She would guard her heart against any last assaults he attempted against it.
And she would thrive. That would be her revenge. She would be the lady he always should have wanted, and she would live a fulfilled life here.
Eventually.
Once it stopped feeling as though her stomach was sinking through her shoes, and simultaneously attempting to clog her throat. In time, when her chest didn’t physically hurt.
One step at a time.
First, she would breathe. Then she would dry her eyes. And then she would descend back downstairs as though nothing had happened. He would never know how much he had affected her.
So many times when she’d been open with him, there had been that distance between them. How could she believe he would tell her now if she asked? Evidently, he loved Helena after all—there could be no other reason he would leave now.
He had already lied to her face. What use would there be in confronting him? She had sensed, off and on, there was still something he hadn’t told her, one final part of himself he hadn’t offered.
All she could do was hope he would reveal the truth to her eventually.
Determined, she dried her eyes, powdered her face to counteract the worst of the blotchy red, and headed for the library. By the time Alexander came to find her, she was reclined in an armchair with a book. And if she didn’t know precisely what she was reading, the words sliding off her like water from a duck’s back, that was something he didn’t need to know.
“There you are.” He bent and kissed her cheek as though he had not just been plotting with Mr. Godwin to leave her. “I thought we could discuss those planned changes for the garden in the spring?”
Lydia raised an incredulous gaze to his. “You want to plan alterations to the gardens?”
“Why not?” He searched her eyes. “Did you not say you wanted to make changes? I know you said that you wanted to revive the formal gardens and terraces near the house.”
How could he remember that—an offhand comment she had made once—but not care enough to see the fulfillment of these plans through? “We don’t have to address them now,” she murmured, returning to her book. “Besides, it is still terrible weather outside.”
“All the better to make the planning so work can begin in the spring when the weather improves.”
“Not now.”
He frowned, and although she wasn’t looking at him, she could sense it. “Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all.” She attempted to smile at him. “I am just a little tired. Perhaps I’ll retire upstairs for the afternoon. I’ll see you at dinner?”
He caught her hand as she rose. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Tell me you are leaving.
She waited, but in vain. If he intended to tell her his plans, he had no intention of doing so now, evidently.
And so she left, unable to bear another minute of his company without revealing the turmoil in her mind.
If he refused to tell her, then she would not lower herself by asking. She would merely prepare herself for the inevitable and bid him goodbye when the time came.
One way or another, she would endure this.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was only by pretending she was ill for the remainder of the days until the ball that Lydia was able to keep even a fraction of her equilibrium. By complaining of megrims, stomach upsets, and other ailments, she both endeavored to keep to her room and distract his attention from her mood.
Because she spent the next few days in a sour mood.
Perhaps his lack of being forthcoming was in part her fault, for pretending that she was ill and thus robbing him of the opportunity to broach the subject at a time when he felt he would be well received.
But as far as Lydia was concerned, he’d already had plenty of opportunities.
All she wished to do now was brave the inevitable parting with as much dignity as she possessed.
