Days of Rakes and Roses Read Free

Grenville’s proposal a year ago, she’d felt like a thick wall of glass separated her from the world. She supposed the sense of disconnection would pass. Eventually.
    The passionate hoyden who still lurked in Lydia’s heart insisted that she was more than this staid, benevolent cipher. Except after ten barren years of acting the sedate woman that the world considered her, the bleak suspicion lurked that she had in truth become this dull creature. At least the dull creature was safe and respected and armored against the anguish of strong emotion.
    If she hadn’t entirely conquered her longing for something… other , she would by the time she walked up the aisle of St. George’s in Hanover Square in two weeks. This marriage to Grenville was right for her, promising a calm haven and a useful future. She’d spent her life holding her head high against spiteful whispers, the cruel assumption that like mother, like daughter, that bad blood would eventually tell. Only once had Lydia kicked over the traces. And hadn’t that been a complete disaster.
    “Shall we dance?” Grenville asked. A waltz had just struck up, the scratch of the violins barely audible above the chatter.
    Grenville danced well, if without particular flair. But then, Simon’s desertion had taught Lydia to mistrust flair. What she needed was steadiness and kindness and a devotion to shared ideals. Grenville offered her all of that. She ignored a jeer from her inner hoyden as she circled the ballroom, her heart beating as steadily as if she sat alone at her embroidery.
    From long habit, she made sure that her troubled thoughts didn’t show on her face. For so many years, she’d presented an appearance of unruffled calm that it was second nature to her now. Perhaps after another ten years, the appearance would be truth, not pretense.
    “I apologize for bringing House business to our party, my love.”
    “No need,” she said calmly. She didn’t mind that Grenville devoted the weeks before their wedding to political maneuvering, although something rebellious inside her carped that she should mind.
    Not really listening to his travails with the current bill, she made encouraging noises. With unwelcome grimness, it struck her that this would form the pattern of conversation for the rest of her life. She was a witch to cavil at what fate arranged. She went into this marriage with her eyes wide open. If Grenville’s company lacked something in excitement, excitement was overrated.
    Or at the very least, it was dangerous. And she’d decided at seventeen that she’d never do anything dangerous again. Her blood still ran cold when she remembered her father’s contemptuous tone as he’d called her a brainless slut like her mother.
    As if the memory alerted long buried instincts, Lydia glanced over Grenville’s shoulder to the staircase sweeping down into the ballroom. A tall man in immaculate black tailoring paused on the landing and surveyed the room. A cynical smile curved familiar lips. Light from the chandeliers slanted across gilded hair. He stood loose-limbed and relaxed, as if the entire world offered him welcome.
    “Lydia, are you well? Lydia?”
    Grenville’s worried voice pierced her blind distress. She realized that she’d stopped dead in the middle of the dance. She hadn’t blushed for years, but uncomfortable heat flooded into her cheeks now.
    Dear God, let her misstep go unremarked. And what had caused it. She glanced around nervously, the old horror of scandal gripping her. Nobody seemed to have noticed her stumble.
    She made herself move again, but her feet felt like bricks and she staggered against her partner. Grenville’s hand tightened around her waist. “My dear, are you feeling faint? The room is close and the night is warm. You’ve been working such long hours, getting that new soup kitchen running. Should I take you onto the terrace?”
    “Yes… yes, please take me outside.” She hardly recognized the stammering reply as