Free Elisabeth Kidd by My Lord Guardian Page B

and the Marquess were alone with their brandies later and Lyle made no comment on Sydney’s behaviour, saying only that he was pleased to see Cedric had made some progress after all, but recommending that he keep his Ophelia away from open water for a little longer, just to be on the safe side.
    This faint praise, tactfully conveyed to her by Cedric, caused Sydney no gratification whatever, and she told Cedric bluntly that Lyle doubtless had taken her slip of the tongue as an insult to his “lady love,’’ but was too craven to say so.
    “Oh, I don’t think so,” Cedric said, trying to be fair. “Lyle don’t often hesitate to say what he thinks, and he’s never felt any obligation to come to my sister’s defense, that I’ve noticed. She don’t need it anyway.”
    Sydney scowled, unsure whether this meant that Lyle was simply not of a knight-errant disposition, or that he did not feel so disposed towards Lady Romney. She was likewise unsure of whether she preferred to believe the one or the other of him. He clearly admired Lady Romney, so that if he did not feel romantically towards her, how might he feel towards one he did not admire? No, there was no point whatsoever in that sort of speculation! Indeed, Sydney told herself, she ought not to consider Lyle at all, since he clearly had a way of bringing out the worst in her besides making her feel unaccountably shy and retiring—she was convinced that had she and Cedric happened on anyone else in Arundel that day, her shoes would not have been muddy!
    After a considerable struggle with herself, Sydney concluded that the Marquess of Lyle’s admiration was not a goal to be scorned, little though she might desire it personally, professionally, the ability to impress such a man might be a useful one to possess. Sydney made up her mind to add this skill to her list of those to cultivate.
    The next evening, therefore, she came to dinner in a spring-like new lavender gown, with her hair tied up in a ribbon to match, an amethyst locket suspended around her throat, and a fixed smile on her lips, prepared to do battle with her guardian. But Lyle was beforehand from the start; he looked her over with a quick but comprehensive glance, which greater worldliness would have told Sydney was an admiring one, and attacked from an unexpected quarter before she had readied her defenses.
    “Are you a great admirer of Lord Byron, Miss Archer?” he enquired in a disinterested, ordinary-dinner-table-conversation way over the consommé. “The report from Italy—where as you know, he now resides—is that our once-fine poet has grown sadly fat. He appears to have lost both his talent and his youthful appearance, having let his hair grow long and grey, and his pen dull from disuse.’’
    “I daresay the climate of Tuscany does not agree with him,” Sydney replied sweetly, after only a moment’s hesitation. “Perhaps you had better warn Lady Romney of its unwholesome influence—or has she already canceled her plans to journey there?”
    This sally silenced Lyle for a moment—as he took a sip of wine to hide the involuntary smile that came to his lips—but then he threw himself back into the fray.
    “And then there is poor Miss Jane Austen,” he said. “Such a pity she died before seeing the publication of Northanger Abbey, or realizing her own fame. She was not very old, you know. I expect the lack of recognition of her talent, and the straightened circumstances in which she lived as an unmarried lady had their—ah, unwholesome influence on her.’’
    Sydney glanced at her guardian, but he was unconcernedly helping himself to buttered carrots. Cedric, fascinated enough by the conversation to disregard his own empty plate, remarked that he supposed Miss Austen would have found more satisfaction in knowing her own name to be revered after her death than in having her husband’s live on only through her children.
    “How very liberal-minded of you, Cedric!” Lyle replied, one