Bound by Your Touch (7 page)

With a start, she realized Lady Stratton was awaiting her reply. "On the contrary." Her calm tone did her proud: she would not allow the lady to needle her. "My fathers interest lies in antiquity, but for myself, I find studies of contemporary culture to be more stimulating."

Mr. Romney spoke up. "Tylor is the chap that argues we're no different from savages. Won him a place at Oxford, no less."

Lydia smiled. "Yes, I suppose you could summarize it thusly." To Lady Stratton, she continued, "He believes that all human races come from the same stock, but that cultures evolve at different rates. His conclusion, of course, is that research on primitive cultures proves very helpful to understanding the origins of our own society."

Mr. Fillmore frowned. "I can't expect that pagans and pygmies have anything to do with where
we
came from."

The conversation had caught Sophies attention. "Well, I for one quite agree with Mr. Tylor! One need only visit St. Pancras at six o'clock to conclude there are savages in our midst. Have you seen the way those bankers trample over each other to make their trains?" She made a mock shudder. "It quite terrifies me!"

Laughter passed down the table. Sophie had missed the point, of course, but she had reinstated the mood very cleverly. She had a knack for such things that Lydia feared she would never master.

Alas, Ana now spotted an opportunity to draw approval in her own direction. She leaned forward and said, "But those aren't the sort of savages my sister wishes to study. She dreams of going to Canada to observe Indian tribes. Can you imagine?"

"Indians!" The countess set down her wineglass, clearly appalled.

"It was only a passing fancy," Lydia said hastily. Mentioned once, casually and on a rainy afternoon, to her dratted, loose-lipped sister! "It would not be so unusual," she added, when the countess's frown deepened. "Many scholars have taken to studying Indian rituals. For instance, did you know that certain tribes practice a ritual called podatch, in which they deliberately give away the most valuable items they own? Think of it—what a grand riddle! To treat ones treasures like rubbish."

Sanburne laughed.

I
should ignore him,
she thought, and looked around the table for the next remark.

But all eyes fixed on her—except Sophie's. Sophie was smiling down at her plate.

Lydia shifted uncomfortably. Had she said something outre? She did not think so. The lace at her neckline was scratching her; she felt the intense urge to pull at it.

The hush lengthened. Her fellow guests would give her no quarter, then; they wanted a show. "Very well," she said on a breath. "You find the idea amusing, Viscount?"

His face lifted. A three-year-old caught playing in the mud could look no less cherubic. "Oh no, Miss Boyce. I was only thinking that you've already made your point about primitive rubbish—and in a more public setting than this one. I simply wonder that you find the subject fascinating enough to dwell on."

She gave him a cool smile. "But of course. Rubbish is an important part of daily life, is it not? It thus provides a key to unlocking the patterns of our mundane existence. Although . . ." She arched a brow. "I admit, it is more illuminating in regard to some people than others."

"Really?" Sanburne opened his eyes very wide, aping confusion. "But I don't follow.
Patterns,
you say?"

He was leading her, of course. Pity for him. "Why, take yourself, Viscount." Conscious of the eyes focused on her, she produced another smile. "You are famed for these antics of yours. But even they might be said to follow a pattern—some mysterious map not of your own devising, but of society's. I do not say this pattern is based on
reason,
oh no. But it certainly possesses its own logic. Why is it that you get away with such japes, when others would be cut for them? How have you come to occupy a position in which no real consequences attach to your actions? The study of various cultures might help us deduce the basis of this privilege—a sort of map, leading to a better understanding of how
our
society evolved to this state."

All attention swung to Sanburne. He raised his glass to her. "Rubbish," he said mildly.

Too late, she realized the significance of his tone: it left doubt as to whether he was confirming her ideas, or commenting on their quality. He saw the moment she realized it—her dratted blush betrayed her—and taunted her with a wink.

Mrs. Fillmore stirred in her seat. "Surely you do not mean
society's
devising, Miss Boyce, but our Heavenly Father's. Society has no mind, no spirit, with which to design our actions!"

Lydia pulled her
eyes
away from Sanburne's. Her heart was beating rather more rapidly than necessary. The rogue—pulling faces, as though they were flirting! "Of course not," she said. "I did not mean to call it an architect; only to say it consists of a sort of pattern, which shapes everything—including those choices that we believe we possess."

The lady huffed. "You sound like a heretic!"

"Then I apologize, Mrs. Fillmore. But surely faith in science need not negate faith in divinity. If society has a pattern, then can't we believe God created that pattern, and had some reason for doing so?"

"Here, here," said the earl. "Let us not forget, Mr. Darwin himself believed in a higher power."

"I appreciate the heretical element," Sanburne drawled. "It is the only remotely interesting aspect to this argument. There is nothing sensible in what I do, Miss Boyce; I act on whim, as the spirit takes me. Indeed, I pride myself on it."

"Regrettably," Moreland snapped.

"Obviously you do." Lydia grinned into his overly handsome face.
Got you.
"Although I would not have thought you'd admit to it. Since it evidently means so much to you, I will say no more. A fool's paradise is too easily disrupted."

A hush fell over the table—broken only by Moreland's guffaw. She became aware, suddenly, that Sophie was glaring at her. Why, she had gone too far. She had openly insulted him, called him a fool. But oh, what a scalawag he was! His mouth was still smiling, but it did not match the intensity of his look: she had surprised him; that much was clear. It looked now as if he were trying to see into her brain.

Well, stuff his curiosity! All he would uncover in her was disdain. It was amazing what an heir might get away with, when the rest of them labored so onerously beneath the weight of a million stupid expectations.

"Lovely weather," Ana murmured. "I hope it will hold."

"Indeed," said the countess. "Although I thought yesterdays lightning storm to be rather unusual."

"May I say," the viscount murmured, "I do like a woman of impassioned opinion. It always bodes well for other matters."

Mrs. Fillmore gasped.

He was trying to force her retreat, and in the most impertinent manner imaginable. Lydia refused to look away. She could feel shocked stares pressing on her from every direction, but she did not care now. "Very well, Viscount. You have misunderstood me, so I will explain it more simply. Even when you are piqued—"

All heads swung toward his laughter. "Piqued? Do you call this
piqued?"

"—you act in keeping with your character," she said more loudly. "Did you ever ask yourself why you would act so consistently, if there were not some pattern ready-made for you to follow? You are an actor who plays his role very well, but
you
did not make the role possible. Society did! Given the opportunity, science could deduce the pattern that guides your actions, and account for every one of them!"

"Ha!" Moreland pounded the table, making the crystal rattle. "This is capital! Not feeling so original now, are we, James?"

At her side, Mr. Romney straightened. "A flaw! I spot a flaw, Miss Boyce! One might exercise this science to good effect where heathen communities are concerned, but you are speaking of
civilized
society— that is, Christian society, premised on God's own laws. To claim the power to divine
that
pattern is heresy indeed ... as Mrs. Fillmore has noted," he realized, and sat back with a nod to the lady in question. She nodded back stiffly.

"And yet, could we not view it as a pursuit that may lead us to a better understanding of God's laws?" Lydia looked around the table, seeing only bafflement and titillation—and, on the countess's face, an odd litde smile. "An exercise in faith, a pursuit to better divine the Lord's intent. Either way," she added, a sideways glance at Sanburne's bored expression prompting her to malice, "the viscount has declared himself unafraid of heresy. He finds it
exciting."

Her taunt elicited a grin from him. "As, apparendy, I must! I have no say whatsoever in my actions, and am a perfect mannequin. How relieving. I had long suspected that guilt was a useless pastime!"

"Oh, don't mistake me, sir. There are other roles available to you; you only choose to play
this particular
role."

"Lydia," Sophie said sharply.

"And what is
this role,
Miss Boyce?" Sanburne leaned forward. "Come, let's not dance around the matter: what
is
my act? Am 1 a wicked man? Recount my sins for me, darling—describing them at length, please. You know me so well, after all; and scientists, I hear, prize accuracy of detail above
all
things."

"Sanburne," Lady Moreland said reprovingly.

Lydia held up a hand. She did not need to be defended. "It's true, I do not know you well enough to begin," she said calmly. "And to invest your acts with the proper significance, I should require a period of observation, in which to situate your behavior in its natural element. Which I suspect"—here she slid a meaningful glance over the fine spread of silverware and china, the civilized decor and elegant furnishings—"is something else entirely."

"A period of observation." Sanburne sounded speculative. "Yet it took you less than a minute to decide the stela was a fraud." The smile that curved his lips boded no good for her: it was dark, considering, a little malicious. "Why is diat, I wonder?"

Moreland chortled. "Still sulking over your humiliation at the Institute, James?"

The countess rose. "I believe we will withdraw now."

The gendemen stood along with the ladies, no doubt bound for the smoking room. Mr. Romney was already patting his jacket to locate his cigarettes. Sanburne, however, remained in his seat; thanks to his impromptu appearance, he had no partner. Lydia felt his regard like a blunt nudge between her shoulder-blades as she recessed on Mr. Romney's arm through the door.

In the hall, Sophie caught her by the elbow. "What on
earthV

"Go on ahead with Ana. I must visit the powder room."

In the water closet, candles scented with jasmine cast a flickering light across the marble washbasin and maroon wallpaper. She splashed cold water onto her throat and wrists, and then pressed her face into a soft towel. Heavens, but she knew better than this. It was one thing to defend herself against the rascal, and quite another to make a spectacle of herself while doing it. She had fulfilled all of George's worst expectations. Why hadn't she simply ignored him? She could have smiled and let the provocation go unanswered. It was the countess's responsibility to keep talk flowing, not Lydia's. This was a terribly poor example for Ana.

She drew a breath and lowered the towel. Sanburne's arrival had been spectacular, outrageous; that would be the first story the other guests told. In comparison to his shenanigans, her remarks must seem very tame— barely worth mentioning, really. Who was she, after all? Nobody. An aging spinster who
dabbled
in science, who'd been invited as a courtesy to her brother-in-law. She knew where she stood in polite society, the only ^ females more irrelevant than poor spinsters were the maids. Besides, it would not surprise anyone that she nursed strong opinions. They would expect it from a so-called bluestocking.

She pushed off the counter. Too many minutes had passed now. The best way to crush talk was to proceed to the drawing room as though nothing remarkable had occurred. Giving a tug to her lace gloves, she opened the door and stepped out.

Sanburne leaned against the wall a few paces away. "I hope you will forgive my manner at the table," he said. "I am simply agog at your powers of classification. Why, you spotted that forgery so easily, one might think your own father had made it."

Her jaw dropped. This was slander, and the worst kind: it was phrased in such a way that she could not respond without suggesting that she considered him serious.
Do not give him the satisfaction,
she told herself, and forced out a laugh. "What rubbish, sir. You were the one to buy the forgery. I wish you will not punish
me
for it."

He shrugged. "I confess, the idea of punishment generally leaves me cold. But I do find it remarkable, in this case, that a man so admired, so
respected,
would risk his good name and career by trading in fraudulent pieces."

A chill moved through her. "You cannot mean that."

"But I do."

Horrified, she darted a glance down the hall. This man was a loose cannon. It was dangerous to linger here and risk being spotted, but she could not walk away from his accusation. He might repeat it elsewhere, and suspicion was the worst sort of weed: it grew in any soil, no matter how pure. "I beg your pardon," she said icily. "You've cast a very serious slur on my fathers name. I will ask you to explain yourself, or to apologize at once."