Never Love a Scoundrel by Darcy Burke Page B

terrible second that she was going to sob. She abruptly turned away from his departing coach and forced herself to walk to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s house, though she really wanted to go home and bury her head beneath a pillow.
    That had been such a lovely interlude until he’d accused her of being like her aunt. An accusation that was terribly and unfortunately true. Shame washed through her.
    Slowly her lungs relaxed and she began to breathe normally. Had she really been on the verge of tears again? Perhaps she should cry. Maybe that would help. But the more she thought about it, the drier her eyes felt.
    She trudged up the steps to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s house. Her footman moved up beside her and rapped on the door.
    She was shown directly to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s private sitting room upstairs, where her hostess was sitting at her small secretary. She looked up as Lydia entered. “Good afternoon, dear.” Her welcoming smile faded. “What’s the matter? You look pale, as if you’ve seen a carriage accident. You haven’t, have you?” She stood up and met Lydia, putting her arm around her shoulders and guiding her to the settee.
    Lydia shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”
    “Tell me all about it while we’re waiting for tea.” She sat with Lydia on the settee and smoothed the skirt of her pale blue day gown.
    Lydia removed her bonnet and gloves because she always did when it was just the two of them. There was nowhere she felt more comfortable. “I’ve just encountered Lord Lockwood.”
    Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s eyes lit with interest. “Oh? You looked rather dashing together waltzing at the Whitmore Ball.”
    “You’re not playing matchmaker, are you?” Lydia asked.
    “So what if I am?” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones lifted a shoulder. “You’ve made no secret to me about wanting to marry. And Lockwood is a good man, no matter what anyone says.”
    Lydia knew very well who “anyone” meant. Her aunt. “Regardless, it’s not worth considering. I don’t believe he’s interested in me in the slightest.” Ha, he’d made that quite clear.
    Why did it bother her so much? Perhaps because he was only the latest gentleman to find her lacking. Goodwin had already moved on, or so it seemed. After dancing with her thrice in recent weeks, he hadn’t paid her more than cursory attention since the prior week.
    The tea tray arrived, and Mrs. Lloyd-Jones poured out. She gave Lydia a compassionate smile. “You will find someone.”
    How many times had Lydia heard that exact sentiment? Too many to count. And too many to believe it any longer. She’d had just as many offers here as back home: zero. Yet she had to keep trying. She thought of the cold, dark nights, the jostling carriage ride over thirty miles to the nearest town, and the dearth of anyone near her age, and she inwardly shuddered.
    Mrs. Lloyd-Jones broke into her self-pitying reverie. “You should consider Lockwood.”
    Had the woman not heard her? “There’s nothing to consider. As soon as he learned I was Margaret’s great-niece, he couldn’t avoid me quickly enough.” And he’d been quite plain in the street a few minutes earlier on the subject of her aunt and gossip. No, there was nothing for her there.
    Mrs. Lloyd-Jones sighed. “A vicious cycle, isn’t it? You want a life of your own, but people make assumptions about you because of your aunt and you can’t form the sort of relationship that could lead to more. We must find a way around this.”
    Lydia’s stomach pitched again. They’d discussed this topic before, but for some reason it was just too . . . painful today. She forced herself to smile, and tried very hard to make it genuine to put her hostess—and friend—at ease. “I’ll find a way. Eventually.”
    “In the meantime, I think I’ll champion this Lockwood match. I’m sure he’s not disinterested. You’re the only young lady who’s drawn his favor.” She arched her brow at Lydia. “You don’t mind, do you?”
    Lydia didn’t