was Wexin’s, but now there was no chance at all.
Adrian rose and left the room. He retrieved his hat and walked out into the warm summer night.
He knew, had always known. Lydia’s baby was his.
Blast her. She must have known it as well.
Adrian walked fast, the idea of his child being born a bastard filling his mind. Before he knew it he was on Lydia’s street, in front of her townhouse. He stopped.
The reporters were gone.
They had probably dashed off to write their stories.
Adrian stared at her door for several seconds. It was an unforgivable hour upon which to call, but he suspected the household would still be awake on such a night.
He strode to the door and loudly sounded the knocker.
It did not take long for the door to open. “I told you all to bugger off—” Lydia’s butler’s fierce expression turned to surprise. “Oh! I—I beg pardon, my lord, I did not know…” The man peered at him. “What do you want, my lord?”
Adrian stuck his foot in the door. “I wish to see Lady Wexin.”
The butler’s brows rose. “Do you realise the hour, my lord?”
“I am very cognisant of the hour and of what has not taken place here this night.” Adrian put pressure on the door. “I presume she is not sleeping. Tell Lady Wexin I wish to see her.”
The butler still hesitated.
Adrian lowered his voice. “Listen, man. The reporters are gone. No one will know I’ve come. I beg you, announce me to Lady Wexin.”
The butler opened the door and allowed Adrian entry.
Lydia sat in the rocking chair she’d had Dixon purchase for her. She’d hoped to be rocking her baby by this time.
It would be lovely if she could indulge in a fit of tears, yell and scream and pull at her hair, but instead there was only this cold stark terror inside her. By dawn, the world would know she’d become pregnant by another man, a man she’d lain with when her husband, vile man that he was, had been dead only a matter of weeks.
She would have to leave London. Go somewhere where no one knew her, where she could raise her child away from the newspapers and gossip-mongers. Her sister would surely not wish to see her; her parents, if they ever returned, would shun her as well.
How did one sell a house and its contents? Could she afford all the servants? Some would not wish to remain with her, she was certain.
“My lady, do you wish to get ready for bed?”
Mary sounded almost afraid to speak to her. Poor Mary. She had been so faithful, so good about not asking questions. Mary had been the only person who had known for certain this baby was not Wexin’s. Now everyone knew.
“In a little while, Mary.” Lydia tried to appear composed.
A knock sounded on her bedchamber door. Mary walked over and opened it a crack. “It is Mr Dixon.”
Dixon stepped in, looking distressed. “My lady, there is a gentleman to see you.”
Someone sent to verify that she had not given birth, she supposed. “Send him away.”
“It is Lord Cavanley.” Dixon wrung his hands.
Adrian stepped into the room.
“See here—” began Dixon.
Adrian ignored him and walked straight over to her. “Let us speak alone.”
Lydia’s heart pounded. She glanced from Mary to Dixon, both open-mouthed with shock. “It is all right,” she said to them. “I will see him alone.”
Dixon needed to take Mary by the arm to escort her out.
When the door closed, Lydia looked up at Adrian, so handsome in the lamplight. She continued to rock back and forth in her chair. “What do you want, Adrian?” she asked.
“Truth.” His gaze slipped from her face to the round mound of her abdomen. “Is the baby mine?”
She turned her head away. “I suppose you have surmised that I am not carrying Wexin’s child.”
“I never thought you were.” His voice was deep and angry. “Is the baby mine?”
Lydia glanced into his eyes, which were filled with pain. “Do you, like the newspapers, think it might be the child of a gypsy or a manservant?”
His gaze remained steady. “Answer my question.”
She bowed her head. “The baby is yours, Adrian.”
His anger, his pain, his very presence here confused her. She had already released him from any responsibility. Why had he come?
He stepped back. “Why, Lydia? Why keep this from me?”
The cold terror inside her was cracking like thin ice under his gaze. She did not wish to break apart in front of this man, who would be kind to her, as he had been before. His kindness was what had led her to seduce him, but that had been her doing, not his.
“I did not want you to know,” she managed to respond.
“You did not wish me to know.” He looked so wounded.
She could almost hear the crack-crack-crack of her control. Hot tears stung her eyes and her throat felt tight. She could not speak and so forced a shrug in response.
He swung away for a moment before turning back with a piercing gaze. “I offered you marriage, Lydia. I offered to acknowledge my paternity—”
She waved a dismissive hand and struggled to her feet. “You did your duty.”
He came closer to her. “Yes, my duty, but you preferred my child to have a murderer’s name.”
Her cheeks stung as if he’d struck her. He spoke the truth and hearing it made her ashamed. “I—I did not wish to be married, Adrian.” Her voice sounded too fragile, too vulnerable.
“Cut line, Lydia.” His eyes flashed. “You did not wish to be married to me.”
“I did not want to be married to anyone,” she shot back. He twisted away, making a sound of disgust.
She stepped towards him, placing her hand upon his shoulder. “Adrian, understand me. I thought I had a perfect marriage once. It was all lies, vile, evil lies. Do you really think I would trust any man after that?”
He straightened. “I am not Wexin.”
She dropped her hand and wrapped her arms around herself. “Yes. Yes. You are not Wexin, but you are—”
He swung around. “A libertine?”
Lydia
