Bound by Your Touch (39 page)

"Indeed no," said Mr. Pagett, as he laid his hand atop hers. "For your sister shall be waiting for our return." His eyes turned to Lydia. "You will come live with us, won't you, Miss Boyce? I think Lady Southerton would be selfish to insist on keeping you to herself."

Ana smiled, and put her free hand atop his. "There was a promise between us," she reminded Lydia. "I have not broken it, so you mustn't either."

There was no resisting Ana's smile. No doubting it, even now. Amidst its radiance, something within Lydia began to thaw—just a little, just enough, to remind her soul of the suggestion of warmth. "We'll see," she said gently. "But I thank you for it."

"I should have some say in it," said Sophie. "Why was I not informed of this arrangement? Suppose"— here she paused briefly, as the buder entered the room and bent to whisper in George's ear—"suppose Ishould not like to live without a sisters company?"

George looked up. "Lydia," he said. "You have a visitor."

"At this hour?" Sophie frowned. "How odd. Tell them we are not receiving."

George hesitated. "Well, I would do, but it's Lord Moreland."

"Moreland? What on earth?"

The fear that filled her was of an order she'd never known. Had something happened to James? She bolted to her feet. "If you will excuse me," she said, and ran out.

In the doorway to the drawing room, trepidation brought her to a stop. "My lord," she said. "I—is he all right?"

The earl gave a grim little smile as he turned to face her. "Your astonishment matches mine," he said dryly. "Had someone told me ten days ago that I would be playing emissary for James, I should have called him God's greatest fool, and tossed him out on his ear."

Emissary. That did not sound as ominous as her fears. Bewildered, she stepped inside. But the other chairs were empty. "He did not come with you?" she asked hesitantly.

Moreland snorted. "That would have made sense, wouldn't it. So, no, of course he didn't. He directed me to speak to you on his behalf. I understand that he has addressed neither your father nor Lord Southerton, so I will admit I find the request somewhat harebrained. If it discomforts you, I will gladly ignore it."

Harebrained was one word for it. She could barely believe this. He had sent his father?
James
had sent
Moreland"*

And then realization swept through her, so rapid and momentous that she could barely keep track of her emotions. Amazement. Disbelief. The beginning of real hope—the first genuine moment of hope in what felt like a very long time. It took a long moment to recover her voice. She felt warm and giddy, as if she'd drunk a gallon of gin. "No," she said, and her voice broke on the syllable. "The viscount understands me quite well."

"Don't be so sure," Moreland said irritably. "He had another oudandish request for me." He reached into his jacket and extracted a bundle of papers, which he held out to her with a hand that shook a little.

Her own were similarly unsteady. She took the papers, and then, at his nod, untied the twine binding them together.

The first sheet held details of a journey: a steamer to New York. A train to Toronto, Canada. Beside the name of this city, written in a firm scrawl, was the annotation,
From there, God knows how we get across the continent to the Indians. But what do you say? A honeymoon in the land of rubbish.

She folded her lips together, whether to keep from laughing or sobbing, she did not know. With rumbling hands, she flipped to the next piece of paper.

It was a special license.

Moreland had fastened her with an uncomfortably close regard. "Yes," he murmured. "Perhaps he does know you, then. Well, at any rate, I will have your answer, and then do the proper thing, and consult your father. I reckon it's James's place to do it, but so long as he's hiding like a green boy, I might as well see the thing through for him."

Don't,
she almost said.
This is no concern of my father's.

But instinct stopped her. The earl did not look at all at ease in his role. His shoulders were
set
in a stiff, fierce line, and his fingers twitched over the handle of his cane. No doubt James was equally uneasy, wherever he was lurking. He must feel he'd taken a great gamble, putting this task in his father's hands.

My God.
The magnitude of his action fully dawned on her. He had gone to Moreland for her. He had forged some sort of reconciliation.
For her.
Had she asked for proof of love, he could not have done better.

She wanted him here, now, all at once, with a need that nearly crushed her. Her breath jerked in her throat. But she would not cry in front of the earl. From the look of him, the rapprochement had been fragile at best, and she did not think James would appreciate it if she gave Moreland unnecessary advantages.

The thought caused a wisp of sadness to intrude upon her wonder.
We will be rather alone,
she thought. She would not want her father at their wedding. And they would not be spending holidays at Moreland's house. Not for some time yet, at least.

But there was Ana. In a few years, perhaps Stella would be with them as well. And their own children, eventually. A new cycle, a new chance to make things right.

Our children.

She had stopped dreaming of it long ago. She had known such things were not meant for her. But now she could not doubt it. Had he pulled down the moon for her, James could not have proven himself more effectively.

She put a hand over her mouth. It was necessary: her lips were useless in this state. She pressed on them, forcing the blood back into them, so they could firm enough to hold and shape words. "Where is he?"

Moreland snorted. "Cowering in his coach, no doubt."

"And
where is the coach?”

His eyes widened. "Good God, Miss Boyce. Control yourself. Where else would it be, but on the curb?"

She flew out of the room. Down the hallway. Past the astonished porter, who was too slow for her. The doorlatch was ancient and stubborn; it wrestled against her slippery palms, but she would not let such trifling things stop her. Down the steps now, her skirts tripping her once; she grabbed them up in great handfuls as she raced past the gate.

He had been watching for her. He knew her better than she did. The door of the carriage began to open. But she knew him as well. He was not useless, in or outside this little world of Mayfair. And if he wanted to prove it, why, there was no better place than Canada to start doing so.

His arms caught her, and he pulled her up inside. "Cheers," he said with a grin. "Did you like my surprise?"

She clasped his cheeks. "You are impossible," she muttered, and pressed kisses over his face. "Sending your enemy to court me. Another lady might have taken offense."

His fingers hooked behind her ears, to direct her mouth to his. After a long, delicious moment of tangling tongues and clinging lips, he murmured, "We've made a truce of sorts. Did he not tell you? Old bastard."

She pulled back a little. "You must not expect me to do the same," she whispered. "Not yet, at least. It will take time."

His smile softened. "We have time," he said. "The rest of our lives. What do you say?"

She paused. Caution was such a hard habit to shake. "I did not know you had an interest in Canada."

He cleared his throat and spoke soberly. "I have always known exactly what awaits me here, Lyd. I saw my future very clearly—and I realized I did not like it. I saw
myselfclearly
enough to fear that there was nowhere else with a use for me." His hand slid down her arm; his fingers found hers, twining through them and tightening. He smiled at her. "I can't say Canada was ever on my list. But when I factor you into my visions of the future, nothing seems clear to me but
you.
Darling, I hesitate to say that—I know you're a creature given to plans and objectives. But you must believe me when I tell you what it means to me. It means that possibilities have returned to my life." He lifted their linked hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckle. "It means
that you
are my freedom, love."

"Yes," she whispered. That was it exactly. "And you are mine."

"I should hope so. I rise to meet your expectations, and you . . ." His smile turned devilish. "You sink to my level most beautifully. So—yes. I have a deep and passionate and
abiding
interest in Canada." His brow lifted. "So long as you do, of course."

"Yes!" She leaned forward to press her mouth to his. "Canada is lovely," she breathed against his lips. "And you are lovely."

His laughter ghosted into her mouth. "That's my line, Lyd. You are supposed to think me
handsome"

"Yes, well," she said happily, "I'm not so conventional as I seem."

"Never say!" He reached up to rap the roof of the carriage.

As the vehicle abruptly started forward, she clutched onto him. Her balance required no aid, but she thought it only polite, when one's lover was regarding one with such intimate admiration, to behave like a lash-batting coquette. "And where are we going, sir?"

His grin was purely lascivious. "To anticipate the honeymoon, mademoiselle—unconventionally, and somewhere far outside Mayfair."

"Praise Canada," she murmured, and lay back along the bench, grabbing him by the shirtfront to pull him with her.