Page 4 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Aunt Agatha pressed her back again, but Ashford did not appear to take heed of her rudeness, drawing out an enamelled snuffbox from his pocket and, unconcerned and unhurried, flicking it open.

‘I am here, today, to ask if you would do me the very great honour,’ he said, ‘of becoming my wife.’

In novels and plays, a proposal was usually accompanied by excess of emotion: tears, choked voice, shining eyes at the very least. It had never, to Lydia’s knowledge, been followed by a gentleman taking a pinch of snuff to each nostril. This was wrong. This was all so wrong, but Lydia did not know what to do, how to fix this, and everyone was looking at her. Ashford, brows faintly raised in question, Uncle Edmund frowning meaningfully – she could even feel Aunt Agatha’s glare upon her back.

Lydia took in a deep breath. She just had to say it. Just had to say the words – and be sent to Aunt Mildred, and sentenced to a miserable life until she could find some means of escape.

‘Miss Hanworth?’ Ashford prompted.

‘Um, I-I—’ she stammered.

She had spent her whole life exerting effort to curb her tongue and yet now, when she needed words most, they were gone from her.

‘A-a great honour,’ she managed, with difficulty. ‘And I – yes, I …’

She had not finished the sentence. How it was to end, she did not know, but when Uncle Edmund heard ‘yes’, he began clapping his hands.

‘No! I—’ Lydia began.

‘I think this calls for a tipple,’ Aunt Agatha said, reaching for the bell, and then Ashford was approaching.

Lydia took in another sharp breath. Decline, now, she told herself. You can still decline, now.

‘You have made me very happy,’ he said, bending his head briefly over her hand. She had seen men display more emotion over purchasing a horse!

Say something, anything, a voice in her mind was clamouring at her. Stop this now, before it is too late.

‘I …’

Nothing came. Whatever magic words could have averted this horror, she could not muster them. For the next half hour, she was silent, watching as Aunt Agatha and Uncle Edmund, eager as puppies, swarmed around Ashford, almost beside themselves with nervous joy, assailing him with a flurry of flattery and questions and trivialities. Ashford, in turn, was civil and calm. He gave responses that were courteous but not encouraging, behaving toward them, in short, with the polite tolerance of one who considers himself superior. He stood to take his leave at the earliest opportunity, explaining that he was bound for Kent that afternoon.

‘Before I go,’ he told them, ‘I must ask that news of the engagement be kept between us.’

‘We … cannot send a notice to the journals?’ Uncle Edmund asked, smile fading. He had no doubt planned to write to every journal, every single member of their acquaintance just as soon as Ashford left the room.

‘My father wishes to announce the betrothal himself,’ Ashford said. ‘At Lady Phoebe’s masquerade ball. His Grace has … a strong sense of occasion.’

An edge of fond exasperation entered his voice as he spoke about his father. It was the most emotion he had shown all morning.

‘I will depend upon your discretion, until then.’

His tone brooked no argument.

‘Of course, of course,’ Uncle Edmund said. ‘I should rather die than—’

‘It is to be kept secret?’ Lydia interrupted, her voice returning at last.

‘Such disappointment,’ Uncle Edmund said archly. ‘Someone is eager to spread the news!’

It was not disappointment rising in Lydia’s chest. It was hope.

‘For ten days, only,’ Ashford told her. ‘The duke’s request.’

‘And you shall be at Hawkscroft, together!’ Aunt Agatha said.

‘Yes, of course.’ Ashford sent another smile in Lydia’s direction. She did not return it. ‘I thought her house party would make a fine opportunity to introduce Miss Hanworth into our circles – before the news of our engagement is made public.’

‘So kind,’ Aunt Agatha enthused. ‘Lydia was so excited to receive the invitation!’