The Lord’s Persuasion of Lady Lydia. Raven McAllan

suitors she had thankfully managed to put off before they got as far as approaching her papa. She thought they might as well have guinea signs etched on their foreheads. It was galling to be seen as a money-well, but if it had done nothing else, it had made her increasingly aware that she was more than that. She had intelligence and wit, even though she chose not to show them but instead court a reputation for unconventionality.

      Hence, in a few weeks’ time, she could take charge of her own, not inconsiderable, fortune, and she had plans made. Lydia was going to move to her cottage in Devon and forget all about Almack’s, balls, afternoon teas and gossip. She would be in charge of her life.

      It was a fact that she could hardly wait, and Lydia sighed at the thought of what she needed to endure until then. The Countess regarded her daughter steadily and Lydia did her best not to squirm, but her mama had the knack of making her feel like a specimen under a microscope.

      ‘You really do not enjoy the life of the ton, do you?’ The Countess made it sound as if her daughter came from an alien planet. ‘Sometimes I despair of you. How can anyone not enjoy the parties, the chat, the…’

      Lydia rolled her eyes. She felt her mama’s anguish, she really did, but even that couldn’t change her attitude towards the ton. ‘Sorry, mama, I am such a trial, I know, but I could reply with how can anyone enjoy them.’

      The Countess pulled a face and shook her head. ‘Somehow I must have failed you.’

       Not you, but Papa and your marriage did. And those bone-headed idiots who chose to try and pull the wool over my eyes. They opened my eyes to inequality and injustice. To overhear I am undesirable, but for my fortune he will put up with me, is not something any woman should ever apprehend..

      ‘Never, mama.’ Lydia patted her mama’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. ‘I just am different. I’m sorry but you know neither of us can change what we are.’

      ‘Sadly. Even so, my love, you have to attend tonight,’ her mama said earnestly. ‘Her ladyship would be most disgruntled if you pulled out at such a late date. You might not want to go’ – her tone indicated she personally could not comprehend anyone who chose not to attend such a gathering – ‘but do this one thing and I promise you can forgo Almack’s tomorrow.’ She sighed very dramatically. ‘I will think of some excuse that doesn’t offend the patronesses.’

      Thank the lord for small mercies. It was a very large concession from her entertainment-loving mama, who thought Almack’s, balls and soirees almost the sole reason for living. ‘Say I have the plague? Oh, all right, the headache. And let me miss the musicale at Lady Bishop’s as well?’ Lydia added hopefully. ‘You know I get no pleasure at those events and it will make the headache all the more plausible.’ The only saving grace, as far as Lydia was concerned, was that if she closed her eyes during each musical piece, people thought she was lost in the music and not snoozing.

      The Countess shook her head in sorrow and sighed heavily. ‘You strike a hard bargain. Very well.’

      ‘I try.’ Lydia stood up and shook out her dress. How could she explain the claustrophobic sensation that filled her when in the social situations her mother adored? Or the way her mind went blank and she wanted nothing more than to yawn or find a book to read. ‘It’s difficult, but I really try.’

      She waited for her mama to come back smartly with ‘very trying’, but for once she did not, and merely patted her daughter’s cheek. ‘It will be fine,’ she said, not very convincingly.

      ‘In that case I best go and get ready for another evening in hell,’ Lydia said, ignoring her mother’s tut-tut and muttered admonishment as she left the room. If she had to endure several hours of torture she’d make certain she looked her effacing best. Not that it would make much difference. Whatever she wore she would still be seen as well on the shelf and not worth bothering with. Sometimes it perturbed her – she rather thought she would be a good mother – but after listening to the moaning of several young matrons, bored and ignored by their spouses, those moments were becoming fewer and fewer. Better not a mother than an unloved and unwanted encumbrance. After all, how much mothering would she, as the wife of a member of the ton, be allowed to minister? That thought made her smile wryly. Maybe she needed to find a nice jolly country squire who had no intention of straying, or a vicar who couldn’t afford nursery care and expected his wife to do it all, as well as ministering to whoever of his flock needed it.

      Make gruel? Bake bread? Make small talk to all and sundry? That negated the vicar’s wife, then. Lydia had only the haziest idea of how bread or gruel was made and her repertoire of small talk was non-existent. An old maid with a trusty servant it would have to be. Plus, she thought with an inward giggle, cats.

      She entered her bedroom and grinned at Millie, her personal maid. ‘I have to go tonight but tomorrow is mine and mine alone. A visit to Hatchards and to Mr Lloyd if we can do it without being observed, I think.’ Mr Lloyd was both her solicitor and her confidant. ‘Sadly, before then I have to pretend not to be bored out of my mind for the next however many hours. I’ll wear the midnight-blue silk.’

      Millie, well used to her mistress’s abrupt changes of subject, nodded. ‘We’ll sort tomorrow out, don’t you worry, my lady. Now your bath is drawn and I’ll get you out in good time.’

       Pity.

      ****

      Purgatory was too mild a word for it, Lydia decided, as four hours later she nodded politely at Lord Baxford, who put a plate with a piece of cheese too small to satisfy even the tiniest and least hungry mouse in the country down in front of her. It was accompanied by a sandwich, no more than one inch square, two patties, and a strawberry – a single strawberry, for goodness’ sake – and none of the excellent treats she had spied as she entered the room. It might not be the height of the soft fruit season, but Lady Lewisham had succession houses unparalleled by anyone. Not for one minute did Lydia think that she would not have provided plenty of fruits for everyone. It was, she decided, with a quirk to her lips that Lord Baxford eyed suspiciously, a gentleman’s erroneous reading of a woman. He thought they should eat delicately and have no need for the same sort of sustenance as a man. How wrong could an idea be?

      ‘There you are, ah…’ Lord Baxford looked at her expectantly as if he were due a medal.

      ‘Thank you.’ She refused to pander to his ego and add any more. If she did, her shy mouse cover would be blown to smithereens. It was obvious he couldn’t remember her title let alone her name.

      Baxford glanced wildly around the supper room and tapped his teeth with one long fingernail. ‘Hmm.’

      Lydia stood up abruptly, tired of the gentleman’s posturing. ‘My lord, you’ve done your duty, and believe me I enjoyed it no more than you.’

      He blanched and ran his finger around the edge of his perfectly, but boringly tied cravat. ‘I, er, no you have it…’

      ‘Correct,’ Lydia said with a sympathetic note in her tone. After all, it wasn’t his fault he’d been forced to escort her to supper and act as if it were his pleasure to do so. Something he hadn’t quite achieved. ‘You are absolved from dancing attendance on me any longer. Go and enjoy the rest of the evening. Mary Sutton is looking at you longingly.’ She had almost said making sheep’s eyes before she remembered herself. Sometimes, acting the lady was not at all easy. Very daring, she patted his cheek and bit the inside of her mouth so she didn’t laugh at his startled deer impression, as he flinched. ‘If you will excuse me.’ She didn’t give the hapless and unfortunate lord time to more than begin to stutter his apologies and thanks before she curtsied to the exact depth due to his status, made her way out of the supper room and headed towards the ladies’ withdrawing room. A little cold water and a stern talking to were needed.

      Luckily, apart from the attendant, the room was empty and Lydia was able to use the commode, wash her hands and then, a glass of water in hand, sink into a large, overstuffed armchair and cool herself down without interruption. She hated confrontation, and wished to Hades her mama could understand where her daughter was coming