Chapter 3

"Forgive us, Lydia," Joanna crowed, her cheeks red with laughter. "Goodness, what scoundrels we are, discussing such things in front of an innocent!"

Marina fanned herself, each pulse holding back the heat of the afternoon. "You are the scoundrel, Joanna. We have not mentioned anything untoward." She stifled a snort. "Aside from saying that my husband and I enjoy the outdoors on summer evenings a great deal."

"And we all know what that means!" Joanna erupted into a fresh bout of laughter while Lydia stewed in the belittlement of the three duchesses around her.

Emma filled Lydia's glass with lemonade and nudged a raspberry tart toward her, as if she truly were a child who could be placated with delicacies and cooling drinks. They had been giggling, making innuendos, and being secretive about their romantic lives all afternoon, talking as if Lydia was not there half the time, and talking down to her the other half.

They did not know that Lydia had a secret of her own. One that was bursting to be out, so she might watch the astonishment on the faces of the three women when she told them that she had had her first kiss. That she had been held as no one had ever held her before, pulled tight against the muscular chest of a wolf-pirate, his whispers still tingling down her neck.

No, I did not havemy first kiss. It was stolen from me.

She kept forgetting that part in the daydreams she had savored since it happened and had nearly forgotten it while it was happening. Still, she would have liked to make her sister and the other two stop and listen to her for a moment, to see her as a woman, not a girl.

"Silas and I find the armchair very comfortable," Emma said slyly, glancing at Marina and Joanna with a look of anticipation, waiting for their shrieking glee.

"Emma, you wicked thing!" Marina cried out, delighted. "But we must know, is the rumor about him true?"

Emma shrugged, grinning. "That depends on which rumor you are referring to."

"You know the one," Joanna urged. "Certain… endowments."

Lydia rolled her eyes.

You could not be less discreet if you tried.

Emma tapped the side of her nose. "That is for me, and only me, to know."

"Come now, I have told you about Edwin!" Joanna lamented.

"You gave the information freely," Emma replied. "I will not do the same."

Marina giggled. "Rather too freely, it must be said."

"Excuse me," Lydia remarked, standing up. "I have something of a headache encroaching, and the bright sunlight is doing nothing to help. I think I shall retire for a while and leave you witches to your cackling." She smiled and headed for the terrace door, but a whisper nearly made her turn back.

"I have told you this before, we should not speak of such things in her presence. It is too much for her young ears, even veiled in innuendo and metaphor," Emma said quietly to the other two. "Now, we have chased her away. We are being very badly behaved."

"No, now, we may speak as freely as we please," Joanna replied in a satisfied tone.

Their soft laughter prickled up Lydia's spine, but rather than whip around and tell them that, actually, they were not subtle, she mostly knew everything they were talking about from her books, she had been kissed last night, and she was not to be treated like a child, she marched into the manor in a grim mood.

A few chapters ought to remedy this.

She was already selecting an old favorite in her mind, dreaming of stretching out in her window seat with the sun on her face and her beloved stories coming to life in her head.

Although she already knew that the hero's face, when she pictured it, would be framed with curly dark hair and, more likely than not, wearing a wolf mask. She could not help it.

That man in the library had been a wretched beast to kiss her, despite how well he kissed, and she wished she had slapped him harder, but in her imagination, even beasts could become delightful.

Grateful for the cool shade to soothe her anger-flushed cheeks, she wandered past her father's study, wondering if she ought to pause to see how he was faring with his mountain of correspondence.

She noticed that the door was slightly ajar and took it as an invitation. Moving to push it open with her shoulder, a voice that did not belong to her father made her freeze. And not a moment too soon.

"It is time to pay your debt, Lord Lambert." The voice was deep and rumbling… and somehow familiar.

Leaning against the doorjamb, she tried to place it, but her sun-dazed mind would not cooperate. Indeed, she would just have to keep listening until she could put a name to that voice, or it would bother her all day.

"My daughter endured seven years of the severest judgment," Lord Lambert replied. "I would say that was punishment enough. My youngest has nothing to do with it."

Me?

Lydia knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but there was no way she was going to retreat now.

"It is not a punishment, it is a debt repaid," that familiar voice insisted in a cold, calm manner. "You cannot deny that it is Lady Emma's fault that I am without a bride. Do not pretend you have not seen the scandal sheets. If that were not enough, the horse she stole was never returned to me."

Lord Lambert cleared his throat, clearly nervous. "You were paid for that horse—far more than it was worth."

"You think that negates the initial theft?" the man replied. "But this is not about horses, as you well know. This is about the ruination of my reputation because of your daughter's actions. My price for all these years of inconvenience is your youngest daughter's hand in marriage. As a gentleman, a peer, and the head of a family that has, miraculously, emerged unscathed from Lady Emma's atrocious behavior, you know that you owe me the same grace."

My hand in marriage?

Lydia's blood ran cold—she did not know whether to bolt or burst into the room and beg her father not to relent.

At that same moment of chilling clarity, she put a name and a face to that voice: William Bewley, the Marquess of Pennington. Emma's first betrothed. A man she had pitied once and apologized to when she was three-and-ten, now throwing that kindness back in her face.

"My reputation must be salvaged, and this is the only way to do it," William continued.

Lydia could not listen to another moment of other people deciding her fate and threw herself against the door, stumbling into the room, shouting, "No, it is not!"

She had assumed that her sister's former betrothed would be seated opposite her father. She had not once considered that he might be close to the door, not until she was falling right into him.

He whirled around and caught her as if they were in a waltz. Strong hands steadied her, and as she looked up in alarm, an amused expression greeted her. She blushed immediately, her cheeks hotter than the sun itself, for he was much more handsome than she remembered.

"It is fortunate that you heard us," he said, slowly releasing her. "This is about you, after all. You are Lady Lydia, I assume?"

Lydia had no choice but to nod. She had decided to burst into the room, so she could not exactly lie now.

"Lydia," her father interjected, "allow me to deal with this."

She glanced at him. "No. Allow me." She took a steadying breath. "Leave me with the Marquess for a few minutes. You can leave the door open and go a short distance down the hall in place of a chaperone."

"Duke," William corrected. "I am a duke now."

"Very well," she replied. "Father, allow me a few minutes with His Grace."

The furrowed, pinched expression on her father's face suggested he would have preferred to do anything else, but after a moment, he sighed and nodded, moving toward the door.

"I will be on the green chaise," he said as he passed her. "Do not agree to anything. Do not consider anything. Do not make any decisions if I am not present."

Lydia bowed her head in acknowledgment, maintaining the perfect image of a polite young lady, until her father's footsteps faded down the hallway. As soon as she heard the creak of the dark green chaise a good distance away, she turned on William and jabbed a finger into his chest. She winced, the hard muscle almost breaking it.

"It is your fault that my sister left you at the altar," she rasped, recovering as quickly as possible. "I felt sorry for you then. I even said so. But when I heard about you afterward, in later years, I quite understood why she did not proceed as planned. Emma has done nothing to tarnish your name. You cannot blame her for what the scandal sheets wish to say about you."

"And what do they say about me?" He smiled, amusement gleaming in his gray eyes. A wolf's eyes.

She faltered. "I cannot recall."

"You mean, you do not want to repeat what you have read."

"Whatever I have read, none of it is my sister's fault." She stared up at him in defiance, cursing his towering height, for it made her feel rather small. Her shoulders were just at the height of his chest.

He took a half step forward, bringing himself as close as he had been a moment ago when he had caught her. "But you are not your sister, are you? You would not run from me." He nodded toward the door. "You proved that just now."

Perhaps it would have been better if she had bolted.

There was something about Lady Lydia that felt like a dream, the details dancing just out of reach of William's memory. He vaguely remembered her from the day he was jilted at the altar, but that was not it—there was a more recent encounter, he was certain of it, though the memory refused to come to him.

"Maybe I am more like her than people think!" Lydia insisted, retreating from him in a vain attempt to prove her point. If she had been able to quell the blush in her cheeks and hold his gaze, he might have believed her.

William resisted the urge to smile. "Allow me to be frank, Lady Lydia. I do understand your sister's reasons for fleeing. She wanted to marry for love, and she has done so. That does not mean I find her actions acceptable."

"Were you not pitied by the scandal sheets shortly after it happened?" she replied, her tone more polite, as if she had remembered that she was speaking with a duke. "In the seven years between that day and the day she married Silas, were you not shown sympathy?"

He stared at her, surprised. "Pity is no substitute for what I lost."

"But you could have used it advantageously, had you not… um… resorted to… uh… your former ways." Her cheeks were red now, her eyes flitting around the room as if she were following a dust mote.

"You will not persuade me to change my mind, Lady Lydia," he said coolly, unwilling to admit that her argument was a clever one. "I am owed."

Lydia shook her head. "You cannot be owed a person, Your Grace. Indeed, if I may say so, you sound very… bitter. Bitter that you did not use those seven years to find a love of your own." She jutted her chin insolently. "Or was that why you were in the scandal sheets so often?"

"Careful," he warned, his fingers itching to take hold of her chin, to see how deep that streak of disobedience ran.

She stood straight and defiant still, just the ragged draw of her breaths giving away the nerves trembling beneath. A scintillating sound that he could not concentrate on if he wished to get anything done, any agreement in place.

"I never had any such expectations of love, Lady Lydia, and you should not either," he said. "But I will make you a duchess with all the freedoms that entails. I should say that is a fair price for a lack of love. A lady rarely gets both. And do not say that your sister has, for she is an exception to the rule. Truly, her luck warrants studying."

If he had thought to ease her nerves with what he thought was an amusing jest, he was to be sorely disappointed.

"Freedom?" she scoffed, firing up that nagging recognition in the back of his mind. "Emma always said that you represented and offered the absolute opposite. You meant to trap her in a marriage where she would have to become what you wanted, no better than a doll."

William rolled his eyes, holding back a grim laugh. "Your sister had a flair for the dramatic back then as evidenced—I am sure you will agree—by her theatrical exeunt from our wedding."

He moved closer and watched with intrigue as she stiffened like a statue. "But I shall set this straight for you, once and for all, in a way that your sister clearly misunderstood in her wayward youth. I do not care what you do after we are wed, as long as you do not appear in the scandal sheets. In truth, it will be a rarity if you see me at all. I ask for discretion in your freedom, nothing more."

"Nothing more?" She narrowed her eyes. "I know dukes, Your Grace. I know there are expectations, despite you saying that I should have none."

"Heirs, you mean?"

A strangled sound grumbled in the back of her throat, as if she had forgotten she was holding her breath, and her lungs were desperately fighting for air. The redness rushing up from her neck to her forehead certainly suggested that might be the problem.

"Breathe, Lady Lydia," he told her. "You are not a child, do not throw a tantrum."

Her pretty blue eyes flared with such rage that William nearly laughed. So much fight in one so small. So much fire in one so seemingly delicate.

She was actually of average height, but to him, everyone seemed small. And there was something about the suggestion of her soft curves, those big blue eyes, her porcelain skin, and the warmth of her strawberry-blonde hair that, no doubt, inspired a protectiveness in many a gentleman. As if she were a doll that could be broken with too firm a touch.

He noticed that a few freckles dotted that smooth, pale complexion. He doubted he had ever seen them look more becoming on a woman, emphasizing her youthful prettiness. Nor had he ever seen a more transformative blush, that dusting of pink making her somehow radiant, even in her obvious embarrassment.

It took a healthy dose of willpower for him not to trace the pink with his gaze.

"I know I am not a child, and I should say that you are the one throwing a tantrum because no other lady will have you," she shot back, breathless. "You are sulking because my sister is happy and you are not."

He ignored her remark. "We will probably have to produce an heir at some juncture, but at present, that is not my priority. Taking care of my estate is."

"And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen!" She began to applaud him very slowly in a manner that he ordinarily would not have tolerated from anyone. "The source of His Grace's desperation—his estate is crumbling, he has made himself so infamous that no lady will have him, and so he is using his last card to claw back his losses! But will it be a winning hand?"

He knew that mocking tone. He had felt that fierce fire before.

Where on Earth have I met you before?

It was the only thing he could concentrate on when he should really have been reprimanding her for her insolence.

"Well?" she prompted. "Is that it? Is this solely for a dowry?"

"Yes," he replied, his mind still searching for where he had encountered her before.

Lydia folded her arms across her chest. "The way I see it, this is a winning hand for you and a losing one for me. I could have the same freedom as a spinster. More, perhaps. Why should I accept your proposal?" She glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. "I shall give you two minutes to make a persuasive argument. If you cannot, I shall chase you out of here, and I shall curse your name with everything I possess."

My sharp-clawed, sharp-tongued feline…

Recognition flared like a lantern in the dark, the phantom sting of her slap tingling up his cheek, the memory of her lips honey-sweet on his own. He had assumed her ferocity in the library had been a result of their misunderstanding, but now he could see that it was part of her nature.

A minor pity, for he had hoped for a more obedient sort of wife.

"I do not need two minutes." He smiled coolly. "You will accept because you have no other choice. I am not asking nicely, Lady Lydia."

Her blue eyes glinted with simmering anger. "Then do not expect a nice reply."

"I am surprised by your behavior, in truth," he said silkily. "You did not seem so repulsed by me in the library. Shocked, yes, but not repulsed. Would it help if I donned my wolf mask and you put on that delightful cat mask again?"

Lydia's gasp reverberated through him, a thousand emotions shifting across her face in the span of seconds. "That… that was you?" Horror pushed to the front of her obvious feelings. "You kissed me to compromise me and trap me in a marriage with you! I knew you were a weasel!"

William smirked. "That was truly a case of mistaken identity, but what is done is done." He bowed his head to her. "We are getting married in a week."

He turned to leave, pausing on the threshold. "Oh, and if you have any thoughts of emulating your sister, just remember the soft press of my lips on yours and what you have read about me in the scandal sheets over the years. I should hate to see your name there, besides mine, in anything but congratulation."