Carrying The Gentleman's Secret. Helen Dickson

the truth. What lame excuse did you intend giving your wife for your absence?’ He spoke with an edge of aggression in his voice, which suggested that he was a man used to being answered at once.

      ‘I would have thought of something.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it. You’ve become rather good at lying to her. Damn you, Henry, you were about to become a bigamist.’

      ‘Until you stepped in. You could not have orchestrated your arrival with greater skill or better timing.’

      ‘I will not ask for an explanation—the situation speaks for itself. But how the hell do you think it would stand up in a court of law? Now I am here and though I am tempted to kill you, the love I bear my sister forbids it. Any wife faced with one sexual scandal after another would have her faith eroded in the man she married. She has just grounds to divorce you for this, but I doubt she will. She has a will of iron and your unacceptable, disgraceful behaviour since your marriage has only hardened her further. She is Lady Seymour of Maple Manor, a member of the peerage and no matter what you do to her she means to keep her place in society. Damn it, man, you have hurt her deeply. I hope you’re proud of yourself.’

      He switched his attention to Lydia, bearing down on her like a tidal wave, his thick, dark brown hair, with just a hint of silver at the temples, gleaming in the light of the sun slanting through the windows. Tall, lean of waist with strong muscled shoulders, attired in a dark frock coat and cravat and light trousers, his gaze with a touch of insolence passed over her. His mouth tightened and his eyes, cold and unfriendly, flashed dangerously as he glared at her.

      He studied her as Lydia studied him. She felt herself chafing under it.

      ‘What in God’s name did you think you were doing,’ he exclaimed irately, ‘careering round London with a notorious rake before embarking on this mad escapade?’

      Lydia felt a swelling of righteous anger, a powerful surge of emotion to which she had no alternative but to give full rein. After all, she was as much a victim of Henry’s cunning as his sister. Her eyes flashed as a blaze of fury possessed her and added a steely edge to her voice. ‘None of this is my fault,’ she flared, suddenly furious at having some of the blame shoved on to her. ‘I had no idea Henry had a wife—or that he was a notorious rake since I do not inhabit his world.Polite society is outside my normal sphere, sir. Nor did I know his real surname is Seymour. I only know him as Henry Sturgis.’

      The man stood with his hands on his hips, his light blue eyes like ice set in a deeply tanned lean face with a strong determined jaw and his voice like steel. ‘I wasn’t accusing you, Miss...?’

      ‘Brook. Lydia Brook,’ she provided, getting her voice under control and her features into a semblance of their normal expression. ‘And you, sir?’

      ‘Alexander Golding.’

      Lydia faced him, resolute and defiant, her small chin thrust forward. She favoured him with a gaze of biting contempt before dismissing him and looking again at Henry. The words the stranger had spoken lapped round her like a wave threatening to engulf her at any minute. Her head felt suddenly weightless and she had to stiffen her spine to remain upright.

      She studied Henry’s face and read what he couldn’t hide. In the space of a moment his expression had changed from the amiable, loving man who had been impatient to make her his wife, to that of a self-seeking, cunning being who was clearly thinking quickly what he could do to turn this situation he had not anticipated to his advantage. With the arrival of his brother-in-law, no longer at ease and in control, beads of perspiration began to dot his brow. She could almost hear the workings of his mind.

      She squeezed her eyes shut and forced the tightness in her throat to go away. The sun that had shone so brightly had gone out of the day. How gullible she had been to let herself believe after Henry’s passionate kisses and soft persuasive words that he really did want her, for she now realised that his words had been hollow, his passion no different from the passion he might feel towards any woman he was attracted to. The fact that she hadn’t succumbed to his attempts of seduction—indeed, she had adamantly refused to do so without a wedding ring on her finger—had only served to make him want her more and try harder. When she thought she could speak in a normal voice, she opened her eyes and looked at him, trying to stand on her dignity before these strangers.

      ‘Tell me why you have done this.’ He cast a look at her. She wanted to see it as a look that asked her to understand, but she saw instead the calculation behind it.

      ‘If only you knew,’ he said, his voice so low that she hardly caught the words. ‘I did want you—’

      ‘But not as your wife,’ Lydia bit back scornfully, noting that he didn’t look her in the eye.

      ‘No. I care for you—’

      ‘You do not ruin someone you care for.’

      ‘From the first time I saw you, I wanted you. I couldn’t help myself. I have waited so long for this. I thought my chance to possess you would never come. My desire for you subverted whatever sense of right and wrong—of breeding—I have. It’s not something I am proud of.’

      ‘No. You should be ashamed. We were to have been married. You deceived me and brought me here to make me your wife. You were to take me to your home in America—your father was ill, you said, which was the reason you didn’t want to wait the requisite three weeks for the banns to be read out in church. None of it was true. What a gullible idiot, what a stupid blind fool I have been. How you must have laughed. What you have done is underhand—despicable. Oh, how dare you? You have treated me abominably.’

      ‘Lydia—if only you knew—’

      ‘Knew? Knew what?’ she flared, anger flowing through her veins like liquid fire. ‘That you already had a wife? What did you plan to do with me? Abandon me in Scotland following one night of connubial bliss and return to London flush with your success?’ Seeing this was exactly what he had intended, she gave him a look of profound contempt. ‘You disgust me, Henry. How dare you make me an object of pity and ridicule?’

      ‘What will you do?’

      ‘What I have always done—get on with my life. Let’s be honest, Henry. You didn’t love me any more than I love you.’

      ‘You mean to say you didn’t develop a tendre for me?’ he quipped sarcastically.

      ‘Your intention was to seduce me and when that failed it only served to make you more determined. Instead of doing the decent thing and walking away you went one step further, playing on my ignorance and vulnerability, and offered me marriage—even though you had no right to do so. You are a liar and a cheat. The worst of it is that I fell for your lies. I didn’t know what you were trying to do to me. Your aim was to diminish me, but I will not be diminished—not by you. Not in any way.’

      Knowing he had played with her as a cat plays with a mouse was almost more than Lydia could bear. She looked at him, at his curly fair hair and his lean athletic body. His face was sensuous with heavy-lidded eyes and a full-lipped mouth, which, no doubt, women found appealing. He looked just the same, this man who had shown her kindness and consideration and been attentive to her needs. But now, looking behind his handsome facade, she saw that man did not exist any more, if indeed he ever had. Now she saw a man emotionally devoid of those things. She saw boredom and greed, self-interest and contempt for her as his inferior. He looked at her as he would at some low creature—arrogantly and insolently.

      She hated him then. She felt a mixture of rage and humiliation that was so profound she almost believed she would die of it.

      ‘How could you be?’ Henry retorted, her words having roused his anger. On the attack and uncaring how wounding his words could be, he went on to regale her and those present with her many shortcomings, much to his brother-in-law’s irritation.

      ‘You, my dear Lydia, would make an amusing bed warmer were you not as cold as the proverbial Ice Maiden and set with wilful thorns. Some might think your virtue admirable—personally, I consider it a damn waste of both time and a beautiful woman. It’s