A Breach of Promise (The Rules of Engagement #1)(16)

Having now made accommodation for a third passenger on the back of the chaise, Lady Russell bustled Mariah off to attend to the torn gown. Lydia’s gaze darted between Marcus and the trailing figure of Lady Russell with a growing suspicion.

Marcus offered Lydia his hand to help her into his equipage. “Please,” he soothed. “You have no need to fear my attentions, if that is your worry. With a veritable mountain of official correspondence to attend to before we arrive, I’ll be completely absorbed in my work.”

“Very well,” she said. “But understand this—I only agreed for your mother’s sake.”

“But of course,” Marcus gave her a sardonic smile. “You have yet to give me any reason to presume otherwise.”

*



For the first few leagues of the journey, they punctuated the silence with random pleasantries, but once the topics of weather and scenery were exhausted, Marcus burrowed into his correspondence. His purpose in attending to official duty was twofold—to actually catch up on his work before meeting with his superiors, and to encourage Lydia to drop her guard.

While he hoped to see some of the tension abate from Lydia’s rigid shoulders, she disappointed him with a ramrod spine and primly folded hands. This ambition thwarted, he turned more fully to his work, but by the third letter, cursed the absence of his secretary. “Bad enough it’s written in French,” he mumbled, “but it’s nigh indecipherable too. I don’t know how Needham ever manages to make out the marquis’s damnable hen scratch!”

“The Marquis de Puyzieulx?” Lydia asked.

Marcus regarded her, stupefied. How the devil had she pronounced the impossibly unpronounceable name? It was ridiculous that she could be in any way acquainted with a French diplomat, a marquis no less.

“I know the French ambassador only by reputation, of course,” she explained. “I do try to follow the news press and Papa has always been generous with The Gentleman’s Magazine.”

“How liberal of him,” Marcus remarked dryly. Shaking his head, he turned back to his correspondence only to find himself stymied again.

“You are having some difficulty? Perhaps I can assist? Papa also had atrocious handwriting.”

Marcus gave a dubious laugh when she took the page from his hand.

“The Compris d’Arbitage?” she read with a gasp. “Why these are the articles of arbitration! Have you indeed won the peace for us, Marcus?” Her eyes sparkled with an excitement that took his breath away. He was amazed at the heady sensation he felt to be, only for a moment, elevated in her esteem.

“In actuality, it is only the Modus Vivendi,” he said. “The articles were decided at the Congress of Breda last year, but are yet to be ratified by Spain and Austria. It matters little, however. Britain and France are the primary antagonists in this war and ‘tis no secret we’re both on the verge of bankruptcy because of it. Both sides wish an end to the war, thus it is now only a matter of securing such a peace on advantageous terms. We hope to do so at the upcoming Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle.”

“You have already secured a preliminary agreement, surely the peace will follow.”

“Just so.” Marcus quirked a brow at her. The French delegate’s name she might have heard before, but she had just correctly interpreted Latin. The official diplomatic documents, however, were penned exclusively in French. “Vous avez une certaine connaissance de la langue Fran?aise?” he asked.

“Bien s?r. Je parle couramment,” she responded just as fluidly. “I pride myself with a working command of French, as well as a smattering of Italian. You may have already guessed that I read Latin. I have studied most of the classics in the original tongue. I am particularly fond of Ovid,” she remarked and averted her face back to the window.

“Ovid.” He frowned. “How extraordinary.”

“Not really, my lord.” He heard her deep intake of air. After a pause she released it in a long rush of words. “I wasn’t idle you know. For the six years of your absence, I applied myself with sedulous energy to geography, politics, and foreign customs. I took up French, knowing it the primary language of diplomacy, and even struck up a correspondence with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, to learn how she had served her husband in his diplomatic travels.” She faced him again with eyes ablaze. “I once thought it would be useful to know.”

Touché. Marcus felt the sharp stab of reproach. If words could physically injure, he’d be maimed and bleeding by hers. “Damn it, be fair, Lydia! You were a child of seventeen and I had only just come into my majority!”

Her gaze still spit fire. “I can pardon a year or even two, but six?”

Marcus scowled. “You have no idea of the reality of a diplomatic life, Lydia, or the inherent dangers of foreign travel, especially in times of war. Even had I been inclined to wed early, which I confess I was not, I never would have packed up an innocent girl and taken her abroad in such times as these.”

In all honesty, when he’d departed for the Foreign Service he’d intended to sow his oats while giving her time to mature, but as more time passed, the harder it had become to face her. Then his guilt had driven him to avoid her completely.

“You have made it abundantly clear you never gave me the first consideration. Dreams, aspirations and adventure are not exclusively male prerogatives, Marcus. I had them too.”