“Lydia, darling Lydia!” a man interrupted, coming to loom over their table. “Pardons, sir,” he added, very perfunctorily, as if the presence of another man was of no concern, and good manners were not necessary. “How delightful you look this evening, my dear!” the gallant continued. “The colour of your gown makes you simply ravishing!”
“Why, hullo, Georgey,” Lydia rejoined, turning arch and bored-sounding once more, extending her hand to be slobbered over. “Alan, may I name to you George Hare. Georgey… allow me to name to you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet,” Lydia said, pointedly using Lewrie’s Christian name, and Hare’s diminutive.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Hare replied, tossing off a brief bow from the waist before turning his attention back to Lydia.
“Yer servant, sir,” Lewrie gruffly responded, striving for the blandest note, as if the fellow made no impression, though he felt an urge to slap the interloper silly, or demand what the Devil he was doing by intruding. Damme, does she know everyone in London? he fumed.
“Lydia, my dear, have you given consideration to my invitation to Lady Samples’ supper party on Saturday? It will be ever so gay an affair… music, dancing, and ecarte?”
“Unfortunately, I cannot attend, Georgey,” Lydia said with the weariest drawl, drawing back her hand. “Percy and I thought of going to the country for the weekend. Some time en famille, n’est-ce pas?”
“Well, perhaps a brisk canter through the parks before then,” Hare suggested with a hopeful expression.
“We shall see, the weather permitting,” Lydia said, all but feigning a yawn. “I can promise nothing.”
“Ehm, well… does it not rain, I’ll send a note round,” the fellow pressed, knowing he was being snubbed but determined not to show it, and stubbornly determined to arrange a meeting with her. “Yer servant, sir… your undying, humble servant, Lydia,” he said, bowing himself away.
“Such an unctuous, beastly boor!” Lydia huffed once he was gone. “Can he not see how heartily I despise him? My apologies, Alan. Your grand night should not have been interrupted by such a toadying, money-hunting… oily pimp!” she all but spat, her face fierce with anger.
“I gather his sort turn up rather a lot?” Lewrie said, feigning an amused grimace, though he wasn’t much amused; it had been irksome!
“Some more subtle than others,” Lydia told him, making shivers of disgust, then smiling faintly. “My mis-fortune at marriage… that is the reason I dread re-entering that particular institution,” Lydia said with a head-cocked shrug before peering intently into his eyes. “Though try telling that to all the swaggering jackanapes who can’t imagine a woman who won’t swoon at the sight of them! To be single, I am thought un-natural… a condition only cured by throwing my self, and my dowry, into some new man’s dungeons! To be re-enslaved!”
“Then don’t,” Lewrie told her with a grin. “Enjoy your life.”
“Georgey Hare’s one of the worst,” Lydia went on, stunned for a second by Lewrie’s bald directive. “His family’s decently well-off, and he’s a thousand per annum, so he can play at the law…”
“I don’t like attorneys, much,” Lewrie japed. “Except when in need o’ one.”
“Oh, let us speak no more of Georgey, or his slimy ilk,” Lydia said with a huff of exasperation, slumping into her chair and looking pouty-sad. “I know!” She perked up, instantly turning mischievous and leaning over the table towards him. “Do we wait upon Percy, it will be dawn before he leaves the Long Rooms. Winning or losing, he can’t be dragged away by a team of bullocks! Will you trust me, Sir Alan, to find some place more amenable to quiet conversation?”
Could we really be “aboard”? Lewrie devoutly wished to himself, amazed by her daring. “God, yes!” he quickly agreed.
“Then let us go,” she said, determined.
“Are you… comfortable, Alan?” Lydia asked in a whisper as she lay beside him, her head propped up on the pillows and her forearm.
“Most comfortable,” he told her, stretching and sighing blissfully, half-turned towards her with his right arm under her pillows. “And damned grateful, thankee very much!”
Her long dark blond hair was down, and her grin was impish and infectious. By the light of a single candle on the night-stand, her green eyes sparkled like emeralds as she regarded him, as if inspecting him for warts. She grew sombre for a moment.
“I mean… are you comfortable with your… estate in life?” she amended, waving her free hand in the air. “Do you aspire to…?”
“D’ye mean t’ask if I aim for wealth?” he countered, sitting up a bit. “Never gave it much thought, really. No, really!” he insisted to her moue of dis-belief. “Look… I’ve my father’s house and land when he passes, and he came back from India a ‘chicken-nabob,’ so I’ll not have t’go beggin’. In the meantime, there’s my Navy pay, and I’ve been more fortunate than most when it comes to prize-money. There’s a goodly sum in the Three Percents, inherited plate, jewellery and such, and a tidy sum at Coutts’. I’m not after yer money, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. Aye, I’m ‘comfortable,’ as ye say, Lydia. ‘On my own bottom,’ as the Navy says. Do you fear I am?”
“It’s what I fear from every man,” she confessed, cuddling up onto his chest to drape herself atop him.
“Well, the proof’s in the pudding, as they say,” Lewrie said, a bit miffed that she would even ask, though he still stroked her bare back and shoulders with delight. “Of course, that’d require that you’d allow me t’know you better.”
“You do not think you know me a trifle better than you did this morning, Alan? Yesterday morning, by this time?” she lazily teased, shifting a slim thigh over him in response to his stroking.
“And I’d admire to know a lot more, Lydia,” Lewrie told her as she raised her head to look at him.
“I would admire that, too,” she whispered, earnestly, intently staring at him for a moment before sliding up to kiss him deep, with her breath still musky from the after-glow of their lovemaking.
He had hoped, but hadn’t been too sure where they were headed. They had tried a less-fashionable tavern, and though it was still open for business so late, it was too full of half-drunk young couples who were much too loud. Her coach had taken them to her family house in Grosvenor Street, after which she’d called for coffee, cream, and sugar from the sleepy few servants still awake, and dismissed them for the night. They had sat close upon a settee, turned towards each other, inclining their heads closer and closer as they’d whispered and laughed, and… then she’d drawn him to his feet and had led him on tip-toes in stockinged feet to a spare bed-chamber, giggling at their daring ’til locked in… and Lewrie’s fondest wish had been realised.
Lydia was very slim, as slim as Tess the Irish lass in “Mother Batson’s” brothel in Panton Street, as girlish-slim as his late wife had been when they’d first wed, her flesh firm but so silkily soft, as if he ran his fingertips through fine-milled talcum powder. Their un-dressing had been slow and tentative, despite Lewrie’s urgent and fierce wants after two years of celibacy since his return from Paris; he didn’t wish to frighten her off at the last moment. On Lydia’s part, she had shown a shyness that Lewrie wouldn’t have expected in a woman so out-spoken, or one with an allegedly scandalous past. There had been just the one small, dim candle to light them under the covers, with Lewrie’s back turned as she’d slipped beneath them, and her head partially averted as he did so; she hadn’t come to his side ’til the sheet was pulled up to their chins, and he had slid a light hand over her taut but tantalisingly soft belly.