Well, let him, thought Lydia. Nobody wanted him in any case.
She finally reached the house and hurried to the drawing room, dropping her cloak and gloves into the waiting hands of a maid who’d obviously been watching for her.
“Your mother wishes to see you in the pink drawing room, miss,” the maid said with a little curtsy and a sympathetic grimace.
Oh, Lord, Lydia thought. What was it now?
Her mother had found some problem or another, and no doubt Lydia had done something wrong.
“I wonder what I’ve done this time,” Lydia quipped.
The maid’s eyes darted this way and that before she leaned in to whisper conspiratorially “There are guests.”
Lydia inwardly groaned as she thanked the maid for the warning.
Guests.
That meant mama’s nerves were probably at breaking point.
Prudence Charring was painfully shy. She often said she had no idea where Lydia got her vivacious spirit from, certainly not her timid mother or kindly-but-rather-stuffy father.
Sir James hadn’t joined them on this year’s sojourn, preferring to stay on their estate and oversee the workings of their modest farm.
So, if Mama was on her own with visitors and with Huntsforth being confined to his rooms, Lydia needed to hurry.
Brushing leaves, bark, and even, she noticed to her annoyance, muck from her leaf green skirts, she practically sprinted to the door of the drawing room.
Skidding to a halt, she composed herself as best she could then pushed open the door and waltzed in, the most ladylike of ladies.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward her at her entrance: her mama’s blue, so like her own, a chocolate-brown pair belonging to a fetching young lady on the cusp of womanhood, and the darkest, most sinful eyes she’d ever seen, in the face of the most handsome, devilish-looking man she’d ever laid eyes on.
Lydia felt her jaw drop as her gaze took in the figure of the man who stood to bow to her.
He was huge, easily above six feet.
His shoulders were wide, his thighs encased in fawn-coloured breeches muscular and strong, and Lydia would just bet that he required no padding under his dark green coat.
His cravat, waistcoat, and shirt were a startling white.
In short, he was immaculately put together from the tip of his sable-black hair to the toes of his shiny Hessians.
“Lydia, darling.” Prudence Charring sounded weak with relief. “Thank goodness you have arrived. We were beginning to give you up as a lost cause.”
Her mother tittered faintly, and Lydia guessed that it had been an attempt at a laugh.
“Please, do come forward and meet Huntsforth’s guests.”
Lydia stepped forward and donned the polite society mask she used for introductions.
“This is Mr. Farago, and his sister, Harriet.”
Lydia smiled politely as the young lady, Harriet, jumped to her feet to execute a lovely curtsy.
Mr. Farago stepped forward to clasp her hand, and Lydia was shocked by the tingle that shot through her arm at the contact.
Bowing over her hand, he glanced up at her, and she had to opportunity to see that his eyes were a deep, dark brown, almost black, in fact, with the merest flecks of gold in them.
Lord, but he was handsome.
It was terribly distracting.
“Mr. Farago, Miss Farago… my daughter, Miss Lydia Charring.”
“It is an honour to meet you, Miss Charring,” Miss Farago said with a pretty smile and an accent that Lydia couldn’t quite place. European, certainly. Perhaps French? Her English was so impeccable and spoken so flawlessly that there was just the merest hint of a different inflection. “Your mother has been telling us so much about you.”
Lydia kept her smile, but inwardly she died a little.
Her mother found it difficult to engage in the chitchat that was such an inherent part of good Society. As such, when she had a topic she liked to discuss, she talked incessantly about it. Unfortunately, Lydia was one such topic. In point of fact, she was the main one.
“I do hope it hasn’t been too dull,” she answered with a friendly smile.
“On the contrary, Miss Charring, it has been extremely interesting.” This from the handsome gentleman. Lydia’s heartbeat picked up speed as she heard the same subtle accent in his deep voice as in his sister’s.
She had the ridiculous urge to fan herself. Perhaps Huntsforth was right to keep all the fires banked. This man could heat a room with his mere presence.
“Now that we see the subject in person, I think it is safe to say your mother was modest on your behalf.”
Goodness.
He was a charmer, too.
Warmth crept into Lydia’s cheeks, shocking her. She’d never been the blushing sort.
But then, she’d never met anyone worth blushing about. But Mr. Farago, well…
“Lydia, won’t you have some tea and—is that holly in your hair?”
Her mother’s question brought Lydia’s thoughts back from decidedly wanton places to the situation at hand.
Holly?
Eyes widening, Lydia lifted a hand to pat her chestnut-brown hair. She winced slightly as she felt an array of leaves and berries scattered through it.
“Ah, why, yes, it is,” she answered as though it were perfectly normal for a young lady to go around with foliage in her hair. “I was collecting holly and ivy for the ball.”
A gasp from Harriet saved Lydia from her mother’s disapproving gaze.
“A ball? How exciting.”
Lydia grinned at the younger girl’s excitement.
“Have you attended many balls here in England?” she asked by way of engaging the other girl in conversation and distracting her mother.
“None.” This from her brother. “And certainly none with forest nymphs,” he quipped with a devastating smile, nodding his head at her hair.
Lydia grinned in response. She could run off embarrassed, but what would be the point? It was hardly the crime of the century to have some holly in one’s hair.
“A forest nymph,” she answered, taking a seat beside her mother. “That is a terribly polite way of saying I look like I’ve been dragged through a bush.”
Mr. Farago’s laughter was delectable; raspy and deep.
Dear heavens! She simply must get a hold of her wanton
