Bound by Your Touch (4 page)

Ana blushed. "He is very kind. He said he would pay a call tomorrow."

"Lovely." Things were moving right along. "But you
will take
Sophie with you. If he arrives in a two-seater, you will insist on our barouche." He had pulled this trick before, and Ana had gladly conspired with him. She did not yet grasp how vulnerable a young woman was to missteps—or, for that matter, how easily a gentleman might lose interest thanks to an error of judgment which
he
had encouraged.

"I have promised it already," Ana said testily. "Sophie says a letter came from Papa?"

"Yes. He's preparing a shipment, and wanted me to contact his clients."

"Did he send any word for me?"

"I'm sorry, dearest. It was all business."

Ana wrinkled her nose. "It's always business with him!"

As it must be for the rare scholar who had not inherited a fortune to support his interests. "He's very busy, dear. If he doesn't finish the excavation before the rains begin, the whole season will have gone to waste."

A little sigh was the only acknowledgment Ana paid to this logic. She used to show more sympathy, but lately, Sophie's attitude was coloring her view. "George was saying yesterday that it's a shame Papa never visits us."

Offense brought Lydia upright. "Would he foot the bill for Papa's project? That would certainly make it possible for him to visit. But George never offered."

"Maybe he would." Ana shrugged and wound her fingers together in her lap. "He says the antiquities trade is very lowering for a gentleman. It isn't right, of course, but some people might say that Papa digs in graves for things to sell."

She sucked in a breath. How dare he give voice to such rumors! "Ana, I cannot
believe
you did not object to this!" Oh, she would not rest until she secured enough money to abandon this trading business! The Egyptian government vetted every piece that Papa exported, but it still opened him to the most
intolerable
remarks. "Really, have a little loyalty! You live under George's roof, but he is not your father!"

"Of course he isn't." Ana hesitated. "Lyd, why do you and George dislike each other?"

Was she that obvious? "Don't be silly. I simply object to his criticisms of Papa." As Ana's frown deepened, she said more sharply, "He has no right to say such things."

"I know." Ana reached out for her hand. "It's all right. Once I'm married, you can come along with me. I promise it. Why, I shan't marry anyone unless he agrees to let you come!"

The offer might have soothed her, had she not heard Ana make a similar declaration last week about her puppy—who, despite their best efforts, continued to piddle on the carpet and chew up slippers. "How kind," she said dryly. "But when you find this paragon, do have a care." She reached down and gave Ana's hem a yank. "He may feel that only actresses flash their ankles."

"How rude!" Ana sprang off the chair. "And I was only trying to be nice!" Stalking over to the sideboard, she made an officious show of rearranging a bouquet.

Embarrassed of herself, Lydia began to apologize— and then Ana bent over, showcasing her newfangled bustle in all its glory. Lydia's mouth snapped shut. She had objected to it at the milliner's, but Sophie had overruled her. As a result, Anas backside now occupied three times the space that nature had intended for it, and quivered so violently that one might assume a small animal lurked beneath her skirts. Horrible thing! It was obviously intended for one purpose only: to draw a gendemans notice to areas it should not stray.

A sigh announced Sophie's return to the room. She was on the outs with the housekeeper, whom she blamed for the soggy biscuits the guests had received. "Incompetence," she muttered as she sank onto the chair beside Lydia. "Most unfortunate."

Lydia nodded grimly toward the sideboard. Ana had moved on to the newest bouquet, an eruption of luridly pink tea roses, threaded with bushy sprigs of colchi-cura, columbine, and geranium. The note had included no signature, but the language of the flowers, joined together, clearly admitted their origins. I
shall ever remember; my best days fled; I am resolved to win; I expect a meeting.
"Entirely unfortunate," she said.

Sophie lifted a brow. "You're certain it's from San-burne? It's such an awful arrangement, and he's rumored to have very good taste."

"Ha! That's not the only rumor I heard today." They went on for hours. Sanburne was a rascal, a ruffian. A veritable Adonis, and an excellent sportsman. He drank heavily—but with style. He was a most modern sort of heathen: his maternal uncle had left him a great deal of land, which he'd sold to purchase some filthy factories in Yorkshire. Now he made a fortune bilking laborers of their life's blood, and delighted at every opportunity to rub his father's nose in his commercial talents. "The flowers are definitely from him," Lydia muttered. Remembering the profusion of gemstones that sprouted from his fingers, she added, "I find them quite in character. He's as gaudy as his bouquet."

"Glamorous,
Lydia. He's very popular, you know."

"Popular! With a whole lot of drunkards and South Africans, no doubt. Mrs. Bryson was telling me all about it. She says that his parties are famous for all manner of ill-bred mashers."

Sophie snorted. "Any man without whiskers is a masher in her book. And his circle's very smart—about as smart as the Marlborough House Set, I'd reckon, but even harder to crack, because they've all been friends for ages." Her sudden sigh reeked of envy. "Do you remember when George used to take an interest in society?
He
might have known Sanburne. Why, when we first married, there wasn't a party he didn't attend. Now look: all he wants to do is sit around with his clubmen discussing politics. Even the wives talk of nothing else."

What did you expect? They are politicians.
Lydia knew better than to say it, though. Address one complaint, and Sophie would only find another; she was constandy discovering new reasons to be disappointed in George. No doubt a kind and noble sister would help Sophie to see his strengths.
Good luck to you, Ana.

"Not that Sanburne wouldn't make a brilliant catch." Sophie pulled out her little book. "Do you have a pen?"

Lydia let out an astonished laugh. As the only matron amongst them, it had fallen to Sophie to play Ana's chaperone. She carried a little diary she called her "campaign journal," in which she kept a list of well-born bachelors, adding relevant details as they became available. But this was too much. "You can't think to add him—he's already contracted to Gatwick's daughter!"

"Is he? I can't get a straight answer for it. Besides, they say she is in love with someone else."

"Oh, that's just what we want for Ana: a man who antagonizes his father for fun, and keeps a fiancee who doesn't care for him." Lord, what a tangle. Lydia could not understand these high-flyers. They had nothing better to do than make hashes of their lives, while the rest of the world cheered them on for it. Never mind that lesser mortals would be tossed out on their ears for such tomfoolery.

"Well, I wouldn't
push
her at him. But if he showed an interest. . ."

Here was
exactly
why Papa had asked her to keep an eye on Sophie's matchmaking. "Absolutely not. And what of Mr. Pagett? I thought you'd vowed to have a proposal within the fortnight."

Sophie sat forward, her lip jutting mutinously. "And so I will, but you mustn't get pushy. Preach all you like about old rocks and foreigners, but when it comes to
gentlemen,
you don't know a thing."

Lydia's mouth dropped open on a silent syllable. If only these walls could speak, they would make a rebuttal for her! "Indeed? I know
nothing!
When Gladstone joined us for supper last week, and you nearly fell asleep in the soup, who rescued the discussion?"

"You droned on about Home Rule for half an hour," Sophie snapped. "I am surprised
he
did not fall asleep. George was mortified."

"George was grateful for my intercession," Lydia said sharply. He had even given her a weak smile of thanks.

Sophie gave a one-shouldered shrug. "He felt too embarrassed for you to say anything, I suppose."

Embarrassed for her, was he?
George was not mortified three years ago,
she thought.
When he assaulted me in this room, when he grabbed me and groped me and kissed me, he did not find me wanting
then. "Mr. Gladstone asked my opinion of the subject," she said between her teeth. "So 1 responded. And what
were
we meant to talk about, then? Your decolletage? Ana's newly abundant posterior? Really, Sophie, what are you teaching
her
with this behavior? Pretty eyes aren't the only asset a woman might possess—and little good they serve when a man has nobler interests than flirtation!"

Sophie smiled at her. "There's your mistake," she said sweedy. "You mistake disinterest for nobility. Dear Lydia, just because a man doesn't find
you
attractive doesn't mean he has no interest in flirting with other, prettier women. So you see, there is no need to set your example for Ana: she will never need the skills that
you
so much require."

"How clever you are with cruelty," Lydia said flady. "Are you very proud of it?"

"I only speak the truth. Surely a great scholar like yourself should admire that."

Never had the temptation to confess been stronger. The words were so close to emerging that she could feel their weight and shape on her tongue.

But she would not say it. It had been so long ago. And the tale would flatter her as litde as it did George. After all, he'd had liquor to blame for his behavior. But what reason could she give for the way her arms had twined around him? For a few brief seconds before she'd ripped herself away, his treachery had ... gratified her.
You made the wrong choice,
she'd thought.
You know it now.

As always, the memory made her gorge rise. Amid the self-contempt and anger, only one thing was clear to her. She had wanted to know what it was like to be kissed; she had found out, to her own shame. She took a deep breath. "I won't bother to argue with you," she said, and cleared her throat. "It comes down to this: Papa left the task to
both
of us. We will
both
find Ana a husband."

Sophie yawned. "Papa is in Egypt. And I doubt he would turn up his nose at a future earl."

"Papa would not give a fig for a tide if it meant marrying Ana to a drunkard."

A smirk curved her sister's mouth. "That is not what he told
me."

"What? When?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? He wrote me a letter."

Lydia knew a moment of shock. "He didn't."

"No?" Sophie smiled. "You're not his only daughter, you know."

Common sense reasserted itself. Papa always routed the family correspondence through her. "True enough," she said with a shrug. "Let me see the letter, then."

"Why should I? It wasn't meant for you."

There was no letter, of course. Sophie was only trying to annoy her. What had started this whole argument? Ah, yes. "Well, none of it matters anyway. Sanburne is already linked with Mrs. Chudderley."

"Mrs. Chudderley?" Ana had left off with the bouquets and come to join them. Her bright tone was deliberate: she did not mind quarreling when she was instrumental to it, but when it cropped up among others, it made her uneasy. "The professional beauty?"

Lydia stepped in before Sophie could. "Yes, Lord Sanburne's fiancee."

"Oh! Is he engaged to her? I'm not surprised. You see her pictures in all the shop windows. She's very beautiful."

Lydia did not like the admiration in her voice. "You should pity her. Contracted to a man who appears in public whilst intoxicated! We'll certainly do better for you."

"Ishall certainly do so," said Sophie.

Ana divided an uneasy glance between them. She had no basis for understanding the anger that lived between her elder sisters. By tacit agreement, they would never tell her. "I should hope so," she said, and dropped into an easy chair.

"Gracefully," Lydia murmured. "Do not—plummet, so."

"Let her be," Sophie snapped.

"I'm sure they make a splendid looking couple," said Ana. "What dash he has!"

"Handsome is as handsome does." She realized how prudish and stiff her tone sounded a moment before Sophie laughed.

"And it does a great deal, in my experience." When Lydia looked up, Sophie's eyes were on her. "I am sure you would not disagree with
that,
Lydia."

Lydia stared right back at her. "No, indeed not. I've found that beauty covers any manner of deeper ugliness."

Seated atop his carriage, James had a nice view of the moment when pandemonium swept Epsom Downs. All of London had turned out for the race. Citizens of every stripe drank and ate and brawled together—gawking at fire-breathers, cheering the acrobats, tossing coins to wandering accordionists. The air was sharp with sweat and spilled cider, choked with smoke from grilling sausages and fried clams. The carnival atmosphere might have overshadowed the Derby itself, had the race not ended in a dead heat.

This shocking news did not travel instantly; after all, the crowd ranged, in some places, a half-mile deep. From his perch on the carriage roof—a makeshift island in a sea of heads—James snacked on dressed crab and champagne and watched the oncoming wave of chaos. An astonished bettor, backing away from the news, bumped into a stilt walker, who toppled with a shout onto the blanket of a family who'd been picnicking in the shade cast by James's coach. "This is why I don't gamble," Phin said at his side. "Leave it to chance, lose it to chance."