Page 152 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘Are you …?’

She held up a hand. ‘Still thinking. Do not rush me.’

‘I’m not rushing you,’ he said. ‘But we are in somewhat of a secluded spot – we can’t stay out here all night or people will talk. If you do not feel the same way …’

‘It is not that.’ Lydia shook her head, trying to understand her own reaction. ‘ It is not lack of feeling but …’

He waited.

‘You have made a fool of me,’ she told him. ‘Many times, now.’

‘As have you, of me,’ he pointed out.

‘Oh, not enough, not nearly enough,’ she said. ‘You have made decisions for me, again and again, proposed and jilted me with nary an explanation either time—’ She cut herself off. ‘Oh, this is old ground now!’

‘You cannot help if you still feel it,’ he said quietly. His lips quirked into a smile. ‘Would that there were a fetid tarn here, for me prove my devotion.’

Lydia cocked her head to the side, attention arrested. What an interesting thought!

Ashford narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you …?’

‘We have a fountain.’ She pointed. Ashford followed the direction of her finger.

‘It was a jest,’ he said. ‘Not a serious suggestion.’

‘It was your best idea yet,’ she disagreed.

She sidestepped him to approach the fountain, pleased to find it just as large and deep as it looked from a distance.

‘I am not going into the fountain,’ Ashford told her very firmly. ‘Not in my evening dress. Not at Mrs Lindell’s waltzing-ball. Everyone will think me deranged.’

Lydia threw a challenging look his way. Then, maintaining eye contact, she slid off her left glove. He watched her with narrowed eyes. She eyeballed the fountain, taking aim – realization crossed his face.

He surged forward, hand outstretched. ‘Don’t!’

Too late. The glove landed with a soft splash, in the centre of the fountain.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘What a predicament.’

He glared at her, then at the glove, then back at Lydia again.

‘I could leave it in there,’ he threatened.

‘You could,’ she said. ‘Although, it is not how I should go about proving my trustworthiness.’

Ashford eyed the glove again. ‘I suppose it belongs to a dead relative, too?’

‘My great-aunt’s cousin,’ Lydia agreed promptly. ‘We were very close.’

Ashford snorted. He took a tentative step forward, examining the fountain’s floor with a great deal of misgiving. ‘And this would constitute enough of an apology for you?’

‘It would help my thinking,’ she said. ‘Perhaps even tip the scales in your favour.’

‘You don’t wish to give any firmer reassurance than that?’

‘No,’ she pronounced with great relish.

Ashford heaved a sigh. ‘Very well.’