Bound by Your Touch (38 page)

The words cut into him. His hands tightened around her arms. "You were not wrong."

"You have no idea—"

He set her away to peer into her face. "Remember whom you speak to. I have
every
idea what it is like to feel betrayed—fundamentally betrayed—by the man you love most in the world. I have lived with that feeling every day for the last four years.
Yes,
it burned me. And I thought it had destroyed my faith. My hope." He waited for her eyes to return to his. "You brought me awake. When you came to me, you made a promise. Whether you recognized it or not, it was
binding,
god-damnit. You are not going to turn away from me now."

A struggle played out in the small twitches of her mouth. "I will not," she whispered. "I keep my promises. But.. ."

"But you are afraid," he said flatly. "If your father could betray you, what hope I would not? You forget one thing, though: I am in love with you, Lydia. And whether or not the knowledge has managed to percolate up from your heart to your brain, you love me back."

For a moment she looked gratifyingly startled. And then, on her next breath, she frowned and said, "What of it?"

"What of it?" He laughed in disbelief. "I will tell you
what of it:
I would like to marry you. Good God! I should not be surprised that this is the way it happens. I want to share the rest of my life with you, Lydia. My bed, my thoughts, my properties—Christ, my bloody antiquities collections. You like the Lady of Winchester? You may have her. You may have all of it, if you please. Or if you like, you may smash a statue nightly, as the spirit moves you. I don't care; so long as you're down the hall, I'll be content."

As she stared at him, he could not, for his life, guess what moved through her brain. But when she spoke, her tone was despondent. "I have nothing to give you."

"Excellent, because I don't want anything from you but yourself. That is what love means, Lydia." He laughed again. "And now I sound like you. There's fun."

The volte-face did not amuse her. She turned away from him, and her head drooped, baring the graceful slope of her nape. "I did not tell you the worst part."

He put a hand to her shoulder to turn her back to him. Looking down into her face, into those sad, sloping eyes, made his own ache. "Say it, then."

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "I gave them to him. I gave him the Tears."

"Of course you did. What else were you to do?"

She squirmed out of his grip. "Don't you understand? He will get off scot-free. No harm to his name. I reckon I should be grateful. It will make my sisters' lives much easier." Her eyes were welling. "But there will be no justice for him. None!"

"Lydia, you had no choice."

"Of course I did! I claim to be a woman of principle? I could have returned them myself." She grimaced. "Let
him
see what it feels like to be betrayed."

"No," he said. "I
know
you. You cannot be the architect of his downfall—no matter how fitting it might seem to you right now."

"
You
are the one who is constantly raging on about hypocrisy." She gave a broken laugh. "Here was a chance to break the trend. How can you ever look at me with respect?"

"Easily. Did you not hear a word I just said? The bit about love, and all that?"

Her expression turned distant. "But perhaps love is not worth your trust. Just look at my sister. It goes off, like milk."

"Ours would not."

"How can you know?"

"Because of you," he said. "Because when you believe in something, you fight for it. At any cost, you fight."

"And I have been made a fool for it," she muttered.

He considered her, frustrated. The right thing to say eluded him. She was in a black place, that much was clear. "I know you feel very dark right now, but the hurt will dull."

"It eats at me," she whispered.

"But not forever, Lyd. Eventually you will find it in yourself to forgive him—to love him for what he was to you, what he did
i'oryou,
even if you loathe what he did to others. And I will be there the whole time. I'll help you through it."

He could not read the look she gave him. "I had never thought to hear such a thing from you," she said. "You, who have made your whole life into a vendetta against Moreland."

"I was wrong to do it," he said slowly. The odd smile she gave him in answer made him very uneasy. He did not know how to convince her. True, his words did not match his past actions, but—

Realization broke over him. He laughed softly. Brought low by his own terms. No wonder she could not have faith in him. "You're thinking me a terrible hypocrite, aren't you?"

"No," she said, but there was no conviction in her denial.

He came to a decision. "There are a few thin^ I have to do." He grinned at her alarmed expression. "But this discussion is hardly finished. I will call on you tomorrow."

"My father will be here," she said glumly, and turned away, back to her valise.

It was the hardest thing James had ever had to do. But he would do it for her. It was the only thing he could give her that she did not yet have of him.

His father sat behind the great desk in his study. Lemon wax and ink—that peculiar blend of smells conjured so many associations in his mind, all of them dark. As a child, he'd only been summoned here to receive punishment. Great thwapping cracks of a cane. The flat of his fathers hand. Little infractions, James thought, the smallest things had won him beatings. A broken vase, knocked over during a game of chase. A spot on his suit. Failure to finish his supper.

Stella had been luckier. She had often crept in, against Moreland's orders, to tease and pet him. He had grumbled, but tolerated it. "The study is what separates us, James," she'd said once. "It was where I learned about love, and where you discovered resentment."

He watched Moreland struggle to his feet, reddening from the effort. And suddenly it came to him: the anvil would drop sooner than he'd imagined. Soon enough, this study would be his, and he would wipe it clean of the scent of lemon wax.

The thought should have gladdened him. But instead it dropped like a knife into some place deep within him, sealed until now, and released an overpowering wave of regret.

Things could not have been different between them. He saw his father—and himself—too clearly to indulge in that fantasy. They were too similar, both too stubborn, determined to cling to their principles, and, less honorably, to hold on to the wrongs done to them. God, he had nursed this hatred too long. At one time, it had powered him through life; he'd deceived himself into thinking it a noble cause, which lent his world a piquant edge. Now it had become a burden. He'd grown sick of it. It was tedious. If Stella did not require it, neither did he.

"Well?" Moreland barked the word. He was braced, his hands flat on his desk, expecting some harshness, some new hostility to battle. He was already mustering his own weapons: his knuckles were white with the force of his preparations.

James cleared his throat. He expected the words to be difficult to speak. But they emerged as though he had practiced them a hundred times. "I regret this," he said. "I regret that we cannot look at each other with anything save suspicion. I don't think we'll ever get past it. But you should know it does not gratify me any longer."

Moreland s brows drew together. Suspicion stamped every line of his face. "What nonsense is this?"

"The best kind. A little bit of honesty, unvarnished by courtesy. Dwyer will have told you that I went to see Stella."

"Of course he did. Against her express wishes, and my own, you would insist on having your way." With sudden heat, he added, "Damn you, James. You will leave her alone!"

"I will do," James said. "Now I have seen her." He sat down at the desk. The movement seemed to surprise Moreland; he gave a little snort and settled back into his own chair. When he stopped shifting and grew still— determined to stare James down; it was an old trick of his, best practiced on frightened eight-year-olds—James continued. "I understand a little better now why you are so content to wash your hands of her. Its a nice arrangement she has at Kenhurst. Quite a far cry from the other place. Of course, you knew that. And you knew I didn't. Pity, that you never bothered to reassure
me
of it."

Moreland cleared his throat. After a long moment, he said, "I don't need to make explanations to you."

It always came to this, didn't it? He guarded his sense-of entitlement with such inflexible devotion. "I never asked you for anything," James said grimly. "But you could have told me all the same. Instead you let me wallow in my own imaginings." And he must have known exactly what visions James entertained of Kenhurst. They had gone together, after all, to visit Stella at the first place. Only by James's insistence had she been transferred at all. "But of course you wouldn't tell me. Not because it is
beneath
you to reassure your own son, but because it
pleased
you to have the upper hand over me—even in this. Christ, Moreland—even in my fears for my sister. And
that
is what makes you a proper bastard!"

Morelands nostrils were flaring. "You are a fool," he said. "Do you think I've entertained a moment's concern for your fears? You, who make a willing wreck of your life—"

"Yes," James cut in. "I have made a willing wreck of my life. You are right on that count. I have devoted myself to the task, and told myself it was for her sake. That I would force you to regret your actions. To admit you had wronged us both with your bloody-mindedness, and ruined her life for the sake of your pride. But even after 1 realized it was hopeless—that you are too damned full of your own import to ever admit to a failing—I continued. I continued in it solely to spite you." He laughed softly. "Such perverse bloody devotion, all dedicated to
you:
has any child ever been more faithful? Even Stella has forgiven you, but her expectations were always lower. She disregards your faults because she loves you. Myself, I consider the greatest fault here to be my own: I loathe your faults but love you despite them. I would not hate you so much, were it otherwise."

Moreland sat very still. "What game do you have in your brain now?"

"None." James studied him a long moment. "I am tired of this standoff. It
is
childish. I am willing to let go of it. Were never going to like each other. Certainly I will never understand why you encouraged Stella to go back to Boland. But I can believe that she wants to stay in that place now, and that you knew this, and that it has dictated your more recent actions." He shrugged. "That's a start, at least."

Moreland released a breath. "If I could go back in time," he said hoarsely, "I would refuse Boland's suit. But what came after? I could change nothing, James. Neither you nor I could do anything. She was stubborn and reckless and bent on trouble. She was a danger to herself. She must stay there, for now. You must not try to convince her otherwise."

"I have said I won't. But I want something from you."

"In exchange," Moreland said sourly. "I should have known it."

"No," James said. "Regardless, I will let her be. As to this—I suppose I am asking a favor."

Moreland grunted. "This will be good. What do you want?"

"A matter has come up. I need—" God, every ingrained reflex within him shrieked at using that word in his father's presence. He drew a hard breath. "I need you to act as a father to me."

In the ensuing silence, he wondered what went through Moreland's head. "What matter?" the earl asked. His voice was gruff. "I will make no agreement until I know specifics."

"Just what I said," James said. "I want you to play the part of a father. I want you to help me win the hand of the woman I would like to marry. In exchange, I can do no less than play the part of a son."

Lydia had never realized that deceit could be a noble aspea of love. As her family sat down to the dinner table—George and Sophie; Ana and Mr. Pagett; Papa, who could not meet her
eyes,
but who had come to her rooms this morning to tell her, haltingly, that Ashmore had made good on his promise—she held her tongue and smiled as if she meant it. Ana was full of light, radiant under the gaze of her beau. George was on his best behavior for Pagett, full of the wit that had once charmed her into foolishness. Sophie, for once, was enjoying Papa's full attentions. Her quick smiles and flushing cheeks, her teasing remarks to him, made Lydia a little sad. It seemed that Sophie
had
longed to walk into storms to catch his attention. She simply hadn't been able to bring herself to do so.
And it never occurred to me to teach her.
Lydia regretted that, very much.

The realization was enough to keep her quiet, when Papa lied so boldly about his day. He made no mention of the interrogation he'd endured, and no sign of shame marked his demeanor as he spoke of the khedive's affairs and his chummy relationship with his colleagues in Cairo.

James claimed she would learn to love him even if she could not respect him. But she doubted she would ever manage to bring herself to do it, if this was how he meant to go on.

Talk turned to honeymoon plans. Mr. Pagett had proposed Greece as well as Italy, and Ana was by no means averse. "And afterward," she said, laughing, "I shall be so spoiled by the climate that I will refuse to return to gloomy old England!"