A Study In Seduction(39)
He scowled. “I doubt Pythagoras himself could solve the blasted thing.”
Lydia suppressed a smile. “So you concede defeat?”
“Never. I’ve still over a week, yes?”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment, experiencing a small surge of admiration for his persistence. “Shall I give you a hint?”
“That will not be necessary.” He gave her a mock frown. “You don’t think I can do it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t thinking it.” His frown eased into a smile, the corners of his eyes creasing in a manner so appealing that Lydia’s heart pattered like raindrops. “Never mind. I take great pleasure in changing people’s preconceived notions.”
He winked at her before turning to Jane. “Shall we show your sister where we can procure an ice cream?”
Jane nodded, grasping Lydia’s hand. Her heart still warm from Northwood’s gentle teasing, Lydia allowed herself to absorb the girl’s enthusiasm. There was no harm in having a bit of fun—in fact, it would do both her and Jane a world of good to enjoy the lovely day.
They spent the next couple of hours with Talia and Northwood, playing games, watching a troupe of jugglers, eating ice cream. The laughter and happy shrieks of children resounded throughout the festival grounds. Jane and Talia went to procure tissue-paper balloons from one of the booths.
Lydia smiled at the sight of Northwood—his hair in disarray from the wind, his coat wrinkled, and his fine linen shirt smudged with grass stains—joining a group of children in a game of hoops.
Which person was he—the formidable viscount who strode through the world with determined pride or this seemingly carefree man who liked ice cream and knew how to talk to an eleven-year-old girl and remembered how to roll a hoop?
Which man did Lydia want him to be?
Both.
The answer slipped like a whisper just beneath her heart.
A warning followed, but she chose to ignore it and allow the warmth and pleasure of the day to submerge her persistent unease.
Jane came hurrying back to fetch Lydia and Northwood for the start of a puppet show, and after a helping of lemon ice, they went to the area where the musicians had begun to play. The lively tunes swam above the sounds of laughter as a number of children and adults began dancing.
“Will you honor me with a dance?” Northwood asked, pausing beside Lydia.
“Dance? I—”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “You’re about to tell me you can’t dance, aren’t you?”
“Of course I can dance, Lord Northwood. I’m not ill-bred.” Lydia lifted her chin a fraction. “It’s simply been some time. I’m a bit out of practice, I fear.”
“Then I’ll enjoy teaching you again.” He curled his hand around her wrist, his fingers skimming the pulse beating too rapidly beneath her skin.
As they stepped onto the dance floor, Lydia expected him to draw her closer, but instead he wove a path around the couples who danced to a brisk country tune. He guided her into the easy rhythm of the dance. His grip remained firm on her waist, the warmth of his hand burning through her glove, his gaze so attentive it seemed as if he wanted to look nowhere else but at her.
And all of it, everything about him—his touch, his eyes, his grasp, the movement of his body mere inches from hers—incited a response of pure pleasure in Lydia, a pleasure undiluted by guilt or shame.
They parted several times to dance with others—Northwood with Jane and then Talia, Lydia with Sebastian and then Lord Castleford. After an energetic Scotch reel, she paused to sit on a bench and catch her breath. Then Sebastian began playing a waltz, and Lydia watched as Northwood stopped to look around. For her.
She waited, expectant, ready. Surprised at the happiness that filled her blood.
Alexander approached, his dark eyes twinkling. At that moment, Lydia wanted nothing else in the world. She put her hand in his and went out to dance again.
He watched her from his position hidden in the crowd. He remembered when he’d first laid eyes upon her.
She had arrived on a train. Not pretty at first glance—pallid skin from being indoors all the time, too serious, her forehead marred with frown lines. She’d barely said anything either, let her grandmother do all the talking. Then after they’d gotten home and she’d removed her coat and hat, he’d noticed the way her dress fitted her, the thickness of her hair, her dark eyelashes.