Page 8 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
Her voice didn’t shake. Her smile didn’t falter. She even managed to climb the stairs with her head high, following the housekeeper’s broad back down a long corridor lined with portraits of stern-facedRaymentswho had probably never been abandoned by their spouses on their wedding week.
It was not until Mrs. Jones had shown her the bedchamber—pretty, comfortable, utterly impersonal—and finally left her alone, that Lydia allowed herself to sink onto the edge of the bed.
The room was too quiet. Too empty.Too strange.
Her father was dead. Her home was gone. And her husband, the boy who’d once held her so gently, who’d promised her everything would be well, had married her and abandoned her in the same breath...
She pressed both hands over her mouth to muffle the sob that tore from her throat. Outside the window came the distant whinny of horses, the rattle of a carriage disappearing down the drive.
And she was alone again.
CHAPTER THREE
ONE YEAR LATER, HALSTON MANOR, NORTH RIDING OF YORKSHIRE
Lydia shuffled through the correspondence on her lap as she sipped her hot cocoa. Rosie opened the curtains, letting the harsh winter light inside.
“It looks like it will be another cold day, ma’am,” the maid shuddered.
Lydia took another sip of cocoa. “Yes, I expect it will. This has been an excessively cold snap.” She glanced up. “Is there snow?”
“Not at present, ma’am.”
“Excellent! Then I will still be able to visit the poor with Eliza and Marie.”
After traveling back to York for her marriage, her old friends had rediscovered her, and they had struck up their friendship again as though no time had passed. In a moment where Lydia had felt as though she would perish from loneliness, they hadbrought light back into her life. This past year had become one of contentment, despite everything that suggested otherwise.
The manor was comfortable, and she enjoyed Rosie’s company. The other staff were kind, treating her with compassion and deference. And for the first time in her life, Lydia had a place in this small society. She held soirees and attended dinners and visited her tenants, just as a good lady ought to do. She hosted their local parson for afternoon tea, and always sat in her box at church.
Hard to believe her life was fuller here, in this tiny corner of England, than it had ever been in London.
Rosie made a slight noise of dissent as she fetched underclothes from the chest. “I don’t know if it’s sensible for you to be leaving the house in these conditions...”
“Nonsense,” Lydia said briskly. “I’m not made of glass.”
“It looks very icy, ma’am.”
“If I fall, the worst I will suffer is a bruise or two and a loss of dignity, which I like to think I can recover from well enough.” She clucked her tongue. “And what of the poor? I always visit today. Has Cook made up a basket?”
“Of course,” Rosie nodded. “What would you like to wear this morning?”
Something prickled at the back of Lydia’s mind, something she was forgetting, but she couldn’t bring it to mind. This past year, she had been keeping on top of London fashions, and it so happened that the current fashion was for puffed sleeves.
“The green muslin,” she decided.
“A very pretty choice, ma’am.”
Once Lydia had finished her chocolate, Rosie helped her into her clothes, fastening the green muslin at the back, and finding an appropriate pelisse to pair with the walking dress. Lydia intended to leave directly after breakfast, and she saw no point in changing again, particularly as there would be no one joining her in the morning.
She had come to rather enjoy her solitary breakfasts. Much like she suspected gentlemen did in similar situations, she planned her day and read the newspaper, and generally reflected upon her current choices. It was a time of peace in what had come to be a rather busy existence.
“Good morning,” she called to Mrs. Jones as she passed in the corridor. The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Don’t forget the soiree this evening,” she chimed, for once excited to host. It had been Eliza Parsons who had first convinced her to hold a soiree.
“After all,” she had chirped in her usual forthright way, “you are quite the highest-ranked member of society here. If you do not, who will? And we do long for a little society. This is not London. If you do nothing, no one else will!”
