Page 104 of Gone with the Rake

“Rough!” the rat yapped. Not a rat. A very tiny dog.

“Or perhaps I did meet you before,” the woman mused, looking Lydia up and down with thinly veiled distaste.

Lydia resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

She had done her best to avoid the marchioness during her stay, but they had crossed paths several times. And yet, every single time, the vile woman had pretended not to recognize her.

Lydia smiled sweetly. “I don’t remember you either, madam.”

She kept her gaze steady, her expression neutral. She had no desire to provoke the woman or point out her glaringly inappropriate lack of mourning attire.

“Oh.” Lady Wakefield seemed genuinely surprised by Lydia’s reply. Lips pursed in a pout, she stroked the fur of her dog—who let out a couple of yelps—as she walked toward the door.

“Are you Thornton’s new fiancée?”

Lydia shook her head. “Oh, no.” She sighed dramatically. “I am a prisoner here, as the servants will attest. Not allowed to leave the premises, I’m afraid.”

Lady Wakefield raised a brow. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely. I am bored, so I am hoping you will do me a service and chat with me for a bit? Do you mind me inquiring where you are going?”

The marchioness narrowed her eyes, running her gaze slowly up and down Lydia’s form as if sizing her up. The little dog yapped at Lydia from its perch in her arms.

“Away from this dreadful place,” Lady Wakefield drawled. “I have inherited quite a few estates. This house is no longer my home.” She turned toward the door and muttered under her breath, “Thank God.”

“Pardon me,” Lydia said, stopping her just before she could slip outside. The marchioness exhaled impatiently. “But there’s something wrong with your bonnet…” Lydia scrunched her nose, inspecting the fabric. “Do you mind?”

“My bonnet?” Lady Wakefield twirled around, searching for a reflective surface. Finding none, she gave an irritated sigh and leaned slightly toward Lydia, her dog sniffing suspiciously at her hands.

Lydia frowned, concentrating as she twisted and adjusted the fabric, smoothing down the edges.

“What—Pardon me, are you done?” the marchioness asked irritably.

“Yes,” Lydia replied with a smile. “The lace was attached very strangely to the fabric. You must be careful which milliners you shop from, my lady. There are so many charlatans in these parts.”

“Indeed,” the woman scoffed.

She stopped at the threshold, glancing out at the servants loading her trunks onto the carriage.

“Alas, I cannot follow you farther,” Lydia murmured behind her, watching the scene over the marchioness’s shoulder. “The servants would likely pounce on me.”

“As much as I would hate to miss that spectacle,” Lady Wakefield said drily, “I shall bid you good day.”

She left, hips swaying, her steps light—probably aided by the fact that neither the absurdly heavy choker nor the obnoxious diamond earrings were weighing her down anymore.

Her tiny dog gave one final yap over her shoulder.

* * *

Lydia arrived in London on horseback a few days later.

She had managed to steal a few more items right out of the marchioness’s trunks while the woman sat in her carriage, waiting for them to be brought down.

Lady Wakefield had too many possessions; it was unlikely she would even notice something was missing. And even if she did—there was no way she would trace it back to Lydia.

If she somehow did, she had no way to prove it.

Then, once the marchioness had left, Lydia packed a few things of her own for the road, tucked away her newly acquired jewelry, stole the tiger’s clean livery, and donned it to escape the house undetected.