Page 55 of The Marquess of Secrets

Harrison watched her closely as she processed the information. At least she didn’t immediately shut the conversation down.

“But it is merely a suggestion. Your decision,” Harrison continued. “When I say you’re under my protection, it certainly does not mean you’re under my thumb. After what you endured with Huntsford, I would never presume to wield such power. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks. But I feel as if I have known you my entire life.”

Damnation, he laid his heart and soul bare. Smitten? No, it was far more intense than that.

His former mistress’s wise words entered his mind:

I have a feeling you will follow your brothers down the path of true love with a woman, not of your class. She may even be entirely inappropriate. If you meet such a lady, do not dismiss her. Nor dismiss what you feel.

No, he would not dismiss Lydia or the emotions she evoked in him.

For it was love.

It filled him with unfettered joy along with a generous helping of dread. He couldn’t bear it if she walked away from him. Instinctively he understood Lydia would not be rushed and that she’d suffered during her relationship with Huntsford, damaged to what depths was anyone’s guess. Lydia was struggling with her emotions. Perhaps he’d revealed too much.

For he had never been in love before.

* * *

Lydia’s insides were churning with confusion and overwhelming emotions. This rush of feelings caused her heart to beat so fast it reverberated against her ribcage.

She still hadn’t recovered from the kiss, let alone his heartfelt—and heart-melting— confession.

How to reply?

She had no idea what to say. Leaving London was her plan all along. This would be one way to achieve it. A residential home in a serene country setting? It sounded like the ideal solution.

“Oh. Thank you. I feel as if I’ve known you for ages as well.” Best to keep the conversation focused on the residential home. “Tell me about the home,” she asked.

Harrison explained that the Wollstonecrafts, distantly related to the late author, Mary Shelley, collaborated with the Hornsbys on the project about thirty-five years past.

It was the family name for the Earl of Carnstone, and at the time, his granddaughter fell in love with a young man who had not fully matured intellectually and, in some ways, emotionally, hence the desire to found such a home.

What a fascinating story. Lydia had never been to Sussex.

“I’ve nothing appropriate to wear to a duke’s estate.”

She was weakening. But reasoning it out, it was a good suggestion.

She knew deep to her soul that Harrison would never try to control her as Huntsford had.

He smiled broadly. “I know of dressmakers that have certain garments at the ready to be altered at a moment’s notice. I will contact one immediately.”

“Excuse me, my lord. Viscount Hawkestone to see you.” Youngston announced.

Good heavens, Harrison’s servants moved about stealthily. She never heard him enter the room.

“My brother, Tremain.”

Lydia stood. “Then I will leave—”

“Please stay and meet him. After all, you’re accompanying me to his wedding. You are, correct?”

“Yes, I will.”

A tall man, leaning heavily on a cane, entered the room. Taller than Harrison, he had raven-black hair, his eyes the same mesmerizing shade of silver-gray. And therein was the only similarity to mark them as brothers. At least at first glance.

Harrison strode toward him, and the men clasped each other’s lower arm, an odd sort of greeting.