Bound by Your Touch (13 page)

A brief silence ensued.

"I've already been lectured about her credentials," Sanburne said to his fiancee. "I believe she's talking to you."

"Yes, yes," Mrs. Chudderley said irritably. "Please— help!"

Lydia considered her. Shy young girls and moonstruck boys saved up their allowances to purchase photographs of this woman. Would they spend their money elsewhere, if they could see her as she was in this moment? For that matter, would Sophie still consider her glamorous?

With a sigh, Lydia decided that they probably would do. After all, even she could recognize a certain brash panache in the way Mrs. Chudderley clambered on all fours. Biting down on a thoroughly inappropriate smile, she marched back to the sofa. "Stand up, then."

"Can't."

Lydia looked to Sanburne, who heaved a dramatic sigh and sat up. Sliding his hands under his fiancees arms, he hauled her upright. "Lizzie's a bit like a children's top," he offered over the lady's head. "Unbalanced, but very entertaining—at least for the first five minutes."

His manner was quite unexpected. He seemed exasperated, even a bit amused—but Lydia detected none of the reproach one might expect from a man whose future wife was behaving so outrageously. Alas that Mrs. Chudderley did not seem to recognize the rarity of his temperament. "Funny," she said, and scowled. "Hurry up, now, do. Reach under and straighten me out. Sanburne won't look!"

After a moment of hesitance, Lydia sank to her knees and reached under the woman's skirts. Her advance was obstructed by a shocking petticoat: crimson silk, with baby ribbons threaded into the hem!

"Oh, look," Sanburne drawled. "Miss Boyce disapproves. She is
blushing."

"What do I care?" Mrs. Chudderley snapped.

"Perhaps you should," Lydia muttered.
Or I will leave you tangled like a fish in a net.
She fought up through the lace and finally located the problem: the disgraceful petticoat had gotten twisted. She could not imagine how that had happened. "This back-shelf style is ridiculous. You could support a tea-tray on it!"

Sanburne laughed. "Excellent. Ring for some Earl Grey; Lizzie can make herself useful for onceI'

"Stuff you," Mrs. Chudderley said rudely. "Anyway, I meant to have it sewn in with half-hoops, but the seamstress is an
idiot."

One good yank brought the petticoat around. The bustle settled into place. "There," said Lydia, and came to her feet just as a knock sounded.

A tall, dark gentleman poked his head through the doorway. These pretty men traveled in packs, it seemed. "I've had her carriage brought around." His sober manner relieved Lydia. At least someone in the group had his head screwed on straight. "Are you all right, Elizabeth?"

Mrs. Chudderley sniffed. "Sanburne is so
mean,"
she said, and launched herself across the room, staggering from bookshelves to chairs for balance.

When her hand came down precariously near to a priceless statue, Lydia took a quick step forward. "Careful," she said sharply. "That is the Lady of Winchester!"

The gentleman sprang forward from the threshold to grab Mrs. Chudderleys elbows. She submitted with a limp flop onto his chest, saying plaintively,
"You
will not be mean to me, will you?"

His free arm closed around her waist. "Never." He glanced over the lady's head to the viscount. "I'll drop her home, shall I?"

Sanburne had retreated to slouch against a bookshelf.

His hands hooked casually into his pockets, he seemed unmoved by the sight of his fiancee in another man's arms. "Good luck with that." His laughter sounded unkind. "She will want to go to the Trocadero."

Mrs. Chudderley turned in the man's arms. "I will
not.
Though ... I shouldn't mind oysters from Rules'. May we, Phin?"

"Home," the man said gently. He drew her out the door. It closed, shutting them into an ominous silence.

The viscount stared at the space vacated by his fiancee. Lydia could not read his expression. If Mrs. Chudderley had not given him those bruises, what had happened to him? It looked as though he'd been hit by an omnibus.

The depth of her curiosity alarmed her. He was a simpleton with a taste for flash, that was all. If she could not keep her eyes from him, it was only for the same reason that terrible accidents drew a crowd. The fascination he exerted was entirely morbid.

His regard shifted to her. "That's not the Lady of Winchester."

Startled, she cast a glance toward the bust. "Yes, it is."

"As the Yanks like to say: nope, it ain't."

His arrogance needed a knock-down. She threw him an arch look, then walked to the item in question. It sat on a low table, its ancient surface lit by the steady glow of a gas lamp. "The Lady of Winchester is significant for its perfect blend of indigenous and Roman aesthetics," she said briskly. "You see here"—she laid a finger on the diadem in the Lady's hair—"a classically Celtic feature. But you see
here
—in the widened eyes, the long, flat nose, and the downturned mouth—touches more reminiscent of Greco-Roman theatrical masks. It is the lady," she concluded. "I've seen prints of her many times."

He pushed off the wall to stroll to the other side of the bust. "You see
here"
—he rapped his knuckles against its scalp—"a very lovely reproduction of the original, which I purchased and installed in my library two years ago." He looked up, giving her a playful smile—inviting her to laugh with him.

The temptation was so strong that she had to fold her lips together to contain herself.
Do not encourage him! "Of
course. For a moment I thought you might be more learned than I gave you credit for." She turned on her heel.

"Running away?" He sounded surprised. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

Her hand paused on the door-latch. She stared at a knot in the grain. "You did not embarrass me, sir. We are alone, without chaperone. It would be improper."

"Improper? As opposed to what came before? That was a very heroic entry, by the way."

She snorted and gave him a look. As if she'd been instrumental in the making of that scene!
That
honor clearly went to brandy and bustle. "I thought you were assaulting her, Sanburne. But if you were feeding her liquor, its no concern of mine."

"Feeding her liquor? Good God. And here I thought you'd met Lizzie before."

"No matter," she said with a shrug. "I won't breathe a word of it."

"In keeping with your role as the upright moralist."

She laughed, a short sound of disbelief. "A moralist would no doubt preach to you, and then spread word as quickly as she was able. No, Sanburne: if I plan to be discreet, it is out of concern for the lady—and in keeping with my
character."

He crossed his arms and leaned against the back of a chair, looking for all the world as if he were preparing for a lengthy conversation. "So you mean to say that you pass no judgments? That gels poorly with my memory of our recent conversation."

"I pass many judgments," she said frankly. "But unless I'm asked for them, I do not assume that they are of interest, or concern, to anyone but me."

"And if I asked about my own character? Oh, I know you've decided I'm paranoid. But would the scientist share with me her other conclusions?"

The curiosity in his voice seemed genuine. But why would he care what she thought of him? She rubbed an anxious finger over the door latch. He had such a lovely mouth, she thought. Full and well developed. It might have overwhelmed another man's face. But the firm slant of his cheekbones, the straight blade of his nose and that uncompromising jaw, balanced it out very well.

Her fingers tightened. That was his problem, of course. A weaker chin, or muddier eyes, and perhaps he would have endured a few knocks as a child and learned some humility in the process. Clearly his assailant tonight hadn't achieved a thing. "You're a butterfly," she said. "Aimless by nature, useless by choice, and highly decorative. Annoying, when you flap into someone's face."

To her irritation, he laughed. Surely there was no greater nuisance than a man who did not mind being insulted! What weapon could a woman employ against him? "A butterfly? All right, Miss Boyce, well done. Yes, I rather like that. A butterfly, pinned in a very nice glass cage."

Whatever had happened to give him those bruises, it had clearly made him maudlin. "Oh, yes,
Mayfair,"
she said, and pulled a face. "What a
terrible
prison. Would you rather be in the factory with your workers?"

"Been asking after me, have you?"

"Would I need to? I cannot think of any place short of China where your reputation fails to precede you."

His smile was lazy. "I told you I was popular."

So he was. He behaved very stupidly, and people adored him for it. Ah, the wonders of a title! She pitied etiquette writers; what an onerous task, to convince people that social conventions had any basis in reason. "Indeed. Despite your best efforts, everyone bows and scrapes to you quite willingly."

He sighed. "Unfair, I know. The larger world is moving beyond such attitudes, but you'd never know it in Hyde Park." He looked moodily around the room. "Noblesse oblige. Just keeps on kicking, like a fallen horse that needs a bullet. Ah, well." He shrugged and pulled a flask from his jacket. "I find my freedom where and when I can."

"You will not find your freedom in a bottle," she said scornfully.

He looked up at her, his gray eyes sharp. "And you will not find yours in books, or rules, or books about rules. But that hasn't stopped you from being damned smug about the effort."

The words stung. Did he think it gratified her that the world demanded such punctilious behavior from her? Perhaps he forgot that not every woman could depend on a heroic rescue from the dangers of brandy and a badly sewn bustle. She drew herself upright. "Do you know, I believe my analogy was mistaken. You are not a butterfly, but a billiard ball. You crash about in the most aimless sort of way—"

"Yes, I've gathered you disapprove of me. When you're not kissing me, that is."

A flush warmed her face. Of all places, how dare he mention the kiss here, in the room his fiancee had just exited? "Disapprove of you?" She manufactured a laugh. "No, I'm not so energetic as
that.
Should I disapprove of you, I would have to disapprove of dozens of other gen-demen, all of them over-moneyed and over-privileged and—dare I say it—under-occupied. No, Sanburne, you mistake me entirely. I hate to admit it, for I know it will strike at the heart of your posturing, but I am
bored
by you. You, and your whole little circle I expect, are one of the more typical instantiations. You find them the whole world over. Privilege rarely produces a mind worthy of note, or a manner worthy of emulating—or, for that matter, a lifestyle deserving of interest."

"My." He cocked a brow. "What a mouthful. And yet you have lingered several minutes to engage with me. I suppose I should feel grateful: I would not have expected a scientist to risk her good name for the chance to be
bored."

He was right. The intimacy of this whole exchange struck her suddenly. Why
had
she lingered?

"Do you know," he said more gently—she must look overwrought to merit that tone—"I'm really not trying to provoke you. In certain circles, Miss Boyce, this approach is known as small talk."

"Small talk?" She could not figure out if he was making fun of her, now.

"Yes. Are ladies of science not familiar with the concept? Generally concerns the weather, cricket, the deserving poor. Well, you're right on one count—love-making generally isn't acceptable for discussion." His lips twitched. "Oh. I see by your charming blush that you
do
know the concept!"

She did not dare ask which concept he meant. "You are wicked, Sanburne."

He flashed a row of unusually straight, white teeth. "And you are a good judge of character. Also, of course, fraudulent antiquities. Not to mention that look you can deliver with your eyes: lethal! I say, what other talents are you hiding? At present, they seem potentially numberless."

"Now
you are trying to provoke me."

He grinned. "Yes. Now I am."

The admission disarmed her. She looked at him in bewilderment. "Why?" she asked. "
Why
do you try to provoke me?"

"Hmm." He propped an elbow on the chair as he considered her. "I'm not sure. You amuse me? I enjoy these little chats."

And so did she. That was what kept her here. Against every better judgment in her brain, she enjoyed matching wits with him. Dear heavens! And here she'd assumed that he had none. Her bemusement grew as she studied him. Something about him didn't quite square. Unfortunately, this made him .. . interesting.

"Ah," he said suddenly. "One more thing comes to mind: I admire your mouth, and I'd like to kiss it again. Anything else?. . . No, I believe that covers it."

She swallowed. His inappropriate declaration meant that she had to leave now, which seemed strangely . . . disappointing. "Well," she said.
A little more indignation, Lydia!
"I also possess a talent for a memorable exit." She pulled open the door. "Watch: you will learn something."

"Scared away by talk of kissing? I suppose it is only to be expected, from a woman of your limited experience."