Bound by Your Touch (25 page)

"But—"

"And who are you to advise me, anyway? You are hardly in society. Play the killjoy if you like, but what I do is none of your concern." With a toss of her head, she crossed to the other women, who had gathered to giggle and dart nervous glances at the men. And there went Ensley again, staring at Sophie—and by gad if Sophie did not blush prettily and give a little laugh at his regard.

Oh, this was very bad.

Lydia marched up to Sophie. "I shan't move from your side," she said grimly.

"Then you'll have to follow me."

"Then I will."

Someone turned down the jets on the chandelier. As darkness fell, a cry of excitement broke from the ladies. Lydia grabbed her sisters arm. "I won't let go of you."

"Ninety seconds, ladies! You have ninety seconds to run.

"You're not my mother," Sophie whispered, and wrenched away so forcibly that Lydia stumbled. She knocked into someone—Mrs. Ellis, by the sound of the whispered protest. And then that woman, too, was gone. A pattering of footsteps, a fit of smothered giggles, and then silence.

No. Not quite silence. She could hear the rustling of clothes, and the soft squeak of shoe leather. Hushed breathing came from very near her.

"Forty-five seconds," Ensley called softly. "On your marks, sirs. The ladies are impatient to be caught."

A chill moved down her spine. She was surrounded by gentlemen waiting to give chase. In less than forty-five seconds, she would not want to be in this room.

Holding her breath, she moved toward the door, her hands groping before her, her shoulder tensed in anticipation of brushing against a male body. It was the longest walk of her life, those twelve halting steps. And then her hand hit something. The wall. She felt desperately to the right and left. Her fingers closed on the doorframe. She pulled herself into the antechamber and turned right, picking up her skirts to run toward the hall where the main staircase began.

Her hand had closed on the balustrade when someone grabbed her wrist. A finger scratched down her knuckle. "Got you," Ensley said, and yanked her around to thrust his mouth against hers.

She pushed him away so violently that he stumbled off the stairs, landing in a beam of moonlight that fell from the window high above the front door. "Blast it!" He scrambled onto his knees. "Sophie, what the deuce—"

"Lydia," she said icily.
"Her sister. "

He made a disgusted sound, as if he'd swallowed something foul. "Good God," he muttered. "I thought you were Sophie."

It should not have stung. "Who is married!"

The scowl on his face smoothed into a nasty smile. "Bitter, are you?" He came to his feet. "What are you doing on the stairs, anyway? The conservatory was the safe place for you." As he came toward her, she noticed the halting quality of his steps. The gentlemen must have drunk a great deal of port when they'd withdrawn after dinner. "One might think you wanted to be caught," he went on. "Poor, dried-up little—"

"Not so little," she said. "And I would rather kiss a frog. Now stop this, or you will regret it in the morning."

He took another step toward her. What a sly, self-satisfied slug he was. She was going to have to slap him.

A bright light Startled them both. They turned as one to the window. Thunder rumbled dimly through the walls.

The lightning seemed to call him to his senses. He dug a hand through his hair, muttered something profane, and turned on his heel.

She stood stock-still in the darkness, listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps.
Dried-up,
was she? She had looked in the mirror this morning. Perhaps there were lines around her eyes that hadn't been there four years ago. But if she was no longer a debutante, she was hardly old, either. Although ... it was true that by twenty-six, most women had two children, and another on the way. That was not to be her fate. What of it? She had more important things to do than feel ashamed of herself.

Still. That sound he'd made when he'd realized her identity—retching, almost. He was a cad, a snake. It should not hurt her feelings. She'd been kissed by a far handsomer man than
he.
And Sanburne had seemed to like the experience.
Don't think of him,
she reminded herself.

Mr. Ensley had called her Sophie.
Sophie, what the deuce?
Why had he seemed surprised that her sister might reject his attentions? Why did he feel entided to address her so familiarly? It was almost as if—as if they'd planned to meet, in the darkness.

No. She must be mistaken. Sophie would never do such a thing.

But the possibility of walking down that hall and finding out differently—she could not face it. The
hypocrisy
would infuriate her. Woo George beneath her nose, and then dally with Mr. Ensley?

"I am sick of it," she muttered. Sick of playing Sophie's keeper. Let her make her own mistakes. Let her pay for them, too.
Pretty is as pretty does, and it does a great deal.
Let Sophie test that hypothesis.

The thunder rumbled again. She found herself at the front door. She pulled it open to look into the sudden spate of rain. As a child, she'd liked to go out in such weather, to let herself be drenched and buffeted by the elements. "My little Bacchae," Papa had called her. But lightning scared Sophie. She hid in Mama's skirts, never seeing the beauty of it. Had Papa's life depended on it, she would never have gone to St. Giles. She liked pretty things, and pretty people, and dispatched her underlings to do any unpleasant work for her.
I cannot fathom how you deal in trade. As
if she'd never worn a pair of gloves paid for by Papa's artifacts!

Lydia stepped onto the portico. The lawn sloped downward to a little lake that tossed in the wind. When the door blew shut behind her, it seemed like an instruction. She would not go back inside until the game was over.

The house was a Gothic monstrosity, sprawled in the rain like some arrogant gargoyle. As the carriage began to slow, James opened the door and leaped out. He landed unsteadily. The gravel needed combing; the drive was turning to mud in the wet.

As he strode toward the entrance, he noticed something odd. The ground floor was dark. His impatient rap on the front door caused it to shudder and creak open.

The hairs lifted on the back of his neck.

He drew a steadying breath. His mind was racing with all manner of wild possibilities. Phin's fault. Quite a theory he'd proposed about the Tears. But even if a gang of thugs had managed to divine James's destination, there was no way they could have subdued the whole staff, not in such a short time. Something else was afoot, then. He stepped inside the lobby and spotted the dim, wavering halo of a lamp, retreating down the hall. "Ho," he called.

"What's that?" The halo did a little dance, then reversed course, heading back toward him. It shrank suddenly, as the lamp rose: he found himself looking into the Startled face of a maid. "Oh, sir! Have you just come? We weren't expecting any more guests for the night!"

"Has the gas gone out?"

"No, sir, 'twas the guests that did it. They're having a game of chase—or they was. Now they're in the conservatory. Would you like the lamp, sir? I'll fetch another."

He shook his head. "Keep it. And—" It wasn't his house, but what the hell. After the scare he'd been given, he'd rather not be in the dark. "Turn the lights back on." Yes, sir.

He started down the hall. He'd been to Bagley End before, although not in a good while. Someone was playing a piano; he followed the sound of it. Find Lydia, explain the situation, and discover where she'd stashed the other forgeries. Smash them, hand them over to the goon, or give them to Phin, whichever seemed more expedient.
Voilct:
his duty discharged, his sainthood attained.

As he reached the southernmost antechamber, the music grew louder. He slid open the pocket doors and found himself at the dining-room. One mystery solved: the bulk of the staff stood around the glass doors that opened onto the conservatory, watching the guests dance and drink among the trees. He spotted Lydia's sister by a potted palm, gesticulating broadly as she smiled up into a man's face. The chase had roughed her up: her chignon had collapsed, and one of her lace gloves was ripped to the wrist.

As he passed the servants, they jumped and scattered like Startled doves. Mrs. Joyner was here, and Lady Bulmer, and Michael Hancock—nasty piece of work, that boy, but a fine poet. The Pateshalls did enjoy the arts.

Lydia was not to be seen. "Lady Southerton," he called, but the lady was in some sort of grinning daze and did not hear him. He came up and touched her shoulder. "Madam."

She spun around. "Viscount!" She darted a feverish look to her companion. The man was built on slender lines, a delicate blond masher in tight trousers and monocle. He appeared to be one of those unfortunates who turned scarlet after a few drinks. "Mr. Ensley has just finished leading us through a very peculiar variation of hide-and-seek. Oh—do you know Mr. Ensley?"

Ensley. Yes, that was right. "We've met," he said. "Banking heir, yes?"

Ensley flashed a toothy grin. "Can't blame me for it."

"Also a womanizer and a card cheat," James said. "Not that I blame you for that, either. Lady Southerton, where's your sister?"

She looked uncertainly between them. Ensley had gone pale. It was a much better look for him, really. "Ah ... I can't say. I thought she—but no, I haven't seen her since the lights went out. Perhaps she retired for the evening?"

Ensley sniffed. "She went outside."

Lydia's sister glanced toward the glass walls of the conservatory. "Rain," she murmured, as if only now noticing the water that sluiced down the windows. "Yes, then. Perhaps."

A curious reaction. "You say she went into the storm? But why?"

Ensley snorted. "Who can say?" He did not sound impressed with Lydia. "God knows, she's probably lost in the bushes somewhere. I'm sorry, Sophie, but you must admit, your sister is a very wet blanket."

"Is she?" Lady Southerton laughed uncertainly. "I suppose. Very serious, our Lydia."

A bolt of lightning lit the world outside the glass. Cries broke from the guests. James turned away with a snort. He was all for a bit of fun, but if they were exclaiming at lightning, they weren't trying hard enough.

He retraced his steps back toward the front hall. On his way, he ran into Elizabeth, who was patting down her hair and calling flirtatiously into the room she'd just left, "You will have to catch me again, then. Oh— James! What are you doing here?"

"Looking for someone," he said. "If you will excuse me."

A frown pulled at her brow, but she made no objection as he strode onward.

Outside, the rain was coming down hard enough to hurt. To make matters worse, a mist had settled onto the grass, making forward progress treacherous. When a tree root caught his foot, it was a seconds near call as he scrambled to avoid the mud. This was ridiculous. What the hell was she doing out here? And why was
he
bothering to fetch some dimwit bluestocking who should know better than to wander off during storms?

A flash of lightning lit the parkland. It emblazoned the scene on his brain: a wave-stippled lake, two boats rocking on their ties—and the lone figure of a woman in a white dress, standing at the edge of the pier. Good God. He quickened his steps. Was she trying to take ill? Shelter waited a few paces behind her, but she stood with her face lifted to the open sky. The rain was coming down hard enough to sting his scalp; he could not imagine that she liked it slapping into her face, or what might possess her to linger there unprotected. Fright had paralyzed her, perhaps. Lizzie occasionally succumbed to such stupors—spiders, mice, dust motes, a slew of natural horrors that could make her freeze, or flinch and scurry like a spooked colt.

But as he drew near enough to see Lydia's face, his anticipation of hysteria—and the building anger with which he would meet it—faltered. For her lips were parted. Her hands were loose at her sides, palms up, fingers curling as if to beckon the rain onward. And as lightning once again licked the sky, he spied something like . . . euphoria ... on her face.

The thunder cracked so loudly that his glance darted in momentary concern to the boathouse behind her. When he looked back, her
eyes
were open, resting on his. Slowly, she smiled.

A spider danced down his nape. The hairs on his neck lifted. Such a peculiar smile—knowing, aloof, removed. He could not tell what it produced within him, whether the sensation purling down his spine was revulsion (such a fey, curious expression she wore) or some novel variation on lust. He drew a breath and wiped wet hair off his forehead. "What are you doing out here?"

She laughed. It was a wild sort of sound. He wondered briefly if she'd been drinking, although the notion didn't square. "Hello, James." The serenity of her tone jarred him. It did not match that laugh. "When did you arrive:

The staid greeting knocked him off-kilter. "Just now," he said through his teeth. Suddenly he felt foolish. Here he'd gone charging into a storm to rescue a damsel in distress, and instead he found—a jeremiad. A nymph. Some elemental creature who had no need of him.

All right, he was angry. But what else had he missed in her? Would she sprout wings when his back was turned? I
don't like heights,
she'd told him, and
we have no chaperone, it would be improper,
and of course the protestation that in retrospect should have given away her game:
I won't drink the gin.
She deployed these lines like bits of bait, tricking him into uncreative assumptions about her. How ungrateful of her—how very small in nature—to pretend to be so commonplace. The world had need of better things from her.
He
had need of them. "What a toll it must take," he said, not bothering to disguise his temper. "How it must wear on you, to constandy manufacture the appearance of a staid, bookish miss."