On a long, jerky breath she subsided. Sanburne's hands smoothed down from her wrists to her fingertips, then moved to the buttons of her bodice. Very quietly, his eyes on the task at hand, he said, "Listen. Are you listening?"
"Yes," she muttered at length.
"I want you to trust me, Lydia."
What quick work he made of the buttons. He had done this a thousand times, clearly. "Why?" She tried for a laugh, but it sounded unconvincing. "You want to give me counsel?"
"I'm not so generous as that," he said. "No, I want your trust because I want your honesty. You must have gathered by now that I value that. Plainspeaking is rare, and I believe ... I believe I could come to depend on it, given time."
It was a strange answer. And it brought something strange out of her in return. Her wariness collapsed. It twisted into a weird wistfulness that clogged her voice as she spoke again. "Then be honest with
me"
Finished with the buttons, he helped her up, then withdrew a pace, linking his hands behind his back in a movement that struck her as oddly formal. "What do you wish to know?"
Her first impulse was born out of an old reflex: almost, she asked,
What do you really want of me?
But even as the question came to her, its purchase faltered. She could no longer doubt that he saw something in her that attracted him. He thought her . . . lovely. And she believed him. Otherwise she'd never have come with him into the boathouse. Her conviction in his sincerity had been the aphrodisiac that prompted this episode.
But she also remembered their exchange in the hallway outside Mrs. Ogilvies flat. He had not wanted plainspeaking, then. "Why should my honesty appeal to you? What do you really want to hear me say?"
"Anything you like."
The answer left her dissatisfied. It struck her as evasive, and too easy. She'd asked the wrong question. "What are you afraid to hear me say?"
He gave her a wry little smile. "I think you've already said it, Lydia. You have a talent for that."
"So I am like your boxing club, then. Another way for you to hurt yourself." She laughed unhappily. "And another way to humiliate your father, no doubt?"
"God, no." He came toward her, but she retreated a quick pace—she did not trust herself when he was touching her—and he stopped immediately. "All right," he said, and raked a hand through his hair.
"No.
This isn't about my father at all. You see very clearly, Lydia. And sometimes I can't. I—you endure these things with grace. I don't." He exhaled. "And it is so easy
not
to endure. To simply let yourself get. .. lost in it, in all these feudal trappings. And to start to believe in them. Give me another year like this, I'll become another one of these mindless cuckoo birds, bowing and primping for lack of anything better to do." He laughed, and it was not a happy sound. "I'll become my goddamned father, won't I? And if I don't? If I broke out? Why, then I might find myself as—as
useless
as you call me."
He was not a man meant to stammer. It hurt her ears to hear it. "No," she said, and moved forward to press her lips to his. When she withdrew, his expression had changed. He looked . .. arrested. "I can't help you with that," she said softly. "Your fate is your own making, James. You have no idea how lucky you are, in that regard."
His voice dropped to match hers. "Fine. Forget that. You want freedom, don't you? I understand that, too. I know better than most how the rules of good society can imprison a woman. Perhaps I can help you."
I
am not your sister,
she almost said. But instinct stopped her. He danced around these issues for a reason. And God save her, but she knew, all at once, that she did not wish to drive him away. "It s not your job to rescue me."
"Certainly not. But life isn't fair. If you require an opportunity, I could give you that."
She no longer knew exactly what they were talking about. Nor did he, she suspected. They stared at each other in the gathering silence. One of them was going to have to break it, and ask the questions that needed asking. But she had learned her lesson. It would not be she who spoke first.
A knock sounded at the door. With a gasp, she dove behind the skiff.
Now came the squeak of hinges, and a feminine voice: "They have decided to go boating in the moonlight," said Mrs. Chudderley. "If Miss Boyce is here, I suggest she walk with me to the house."
The wet lawn sparkled with trapped rain. Lydia's skins gathered mud and weight, forcing her to kick up her skirts before each squelching step. Mrs. Chudderley, apparendy too lithe to be affected by such mundane things as dirt and gravity, floated ahead, her pretty head lifted high, her skin smooth as porcelain in the cold light. Occasionally she directed a thoughtful glance over her shoulder, and made a little humming noise beneath her breath—a sound of amused curiosity, perhaps. It made Lydia's face burn.
At the portico, where they paused to shake out their skirts, Mrs. Chudderley said, "You will call me Elizabeth. And I will call you Lydia, which is a lovely name, by the way."
As the silence drew on, the woman's brows lifted expectantly. Lydia had no choice but to clear her throat and say, "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now we're on informal terms, Lydia, I will ask you: what are your intentions toward James?"
Her skirts fell out of her nerveless fingers. "I—is that not a question more often addressed to the gende-man?
Elizabeth laughed. "And here I'd fancied you a New Woman. Darling, James is like a brother to me. I would have to be blind to miss his interest in you. And don't mistake me; I'm not opposed to it. Since that whole sad business with Stella, he hasn't taken an interest in much of anything. Well"—she shrugged—"except his factories, of course. But that's to do with her, anyway."
The offhanded tone did not fool Lydia. Something in the lady's manner—the quirk of her head, or that quick, sideways glance—betrayed her. She wanted to be asked to elaborate, and Lydia saw no reason to resist. "What do you mean?"
"Hasn't he told you?" Elizabeth glanced off across the lawn. A party of guests was winding down toward the lake, encircled by a handful of servants whose torches cast writhing shadows along the grass. "Perhaps I am wrong, then. You know about his sister, of course."
"A little," Lydia said uneasily. "Who doesn't?"
"Well, his factories are meant for women like her. Women of lower birth, of course—who are trapped in a bad situation with no means to get out. He gives them employment, and for a small fee, their children can go to a creche on the site or attend the school they run there. It keeps him entertained, at any rate." She smiled. "You look flabbergasted, darling. Did you think him a total waste?"
She searched herself for the answer. I
could come to rely on your honesty.
"No," she said slowly. "Despite his best efforts."
"Indeed," said Elizabeth.
They stepped into the front hall. It felt like eons since she had run out into the rain. She had left this house on a wild impulse, and with every step she took, the ache between her thighs reminded her that she returned a different woman. Her emotions were veering wildly, between glumness and numbness and something that felt curiously like excitement. Was this what they called hysteria? As if to prove it, she blurted out, "What do you think you are wrong about?"
Elizabeth had mounted the stairs. She turned back, one lily-white hand draped over the balustrade. "Why, that he is in love with you. I hope you won't get ideas— it's quite possible that I'm wrong. Certainly you're not at all the sort I would expect to pull him from this melancholy. But if its only a dalliance, I shan't oppose it, either. Anything to bestir him from this
endlessly
bleak mood. It's grown so tedious." With a little shrug, she turned and continued on her way.
Lydia stood in astonished silence. Only an acknowledged beauty could make such a leisurely exit: the straight, slim line of Elizabeths back, and her failure to so much as glance again over her shoulder, announced her utter unconcern at the turmoil her comments had occasioned.
A maid scutded through the hall, a bottle of port clutched in her hand. Her curious look prompted Lydia to take a deep breath and start up the stairs herself.
As she reached the first landing, the sight of her face in the long mirror startled her: pale and red-eyed, as if she were about to cry. As if her body knew something her brain had yet to recognize. She stared at herself for a long moment.
Lydia Boyce, fallen woman.
Lydia Durham, Viscountess Sanburne.
Her cheeks warmed. Oh, lovely. She, who had never believed herself a typical sort, now blushed at the fantasy of marrying a recreant. And wouldn't that be a great joke, anyway. The ton's resident darling, forced to pluck his plain brown bride from the shelf. For all his apparent disregard of others' opinions, she could not imagine he would handle mockery so well. He liked being adored. He'd all but bragged about it. And as for Mrs. Chudderley's bizarre speculation—it deserved no thought. Sanburne had not spoken of love, much less matrimony. He had simply promised not to
abandon
her. Even a high-priced whore might have expected a better offer: carte blanche, a lodging of her own.
A breath shuddered from her. She turned away from her spiteful reflection, heading down the hallway to Sophie's door. When her light rapping won no response, she tried the handle. Sophies maid was sleeping on a cot in the corner. The bed itself was empty, the sheets pressed crisp and smooth.
So Sophie had gone boating with the others. That was all.
But as she turned away for her own room, a sick feeling touched her stomach. Perhaps there was something to Sanburne's philosophy of love. Sophie had barely traded fifty private words with George before accepting his suit. All the things which had led her to declare her love for him—his fine manners, his face, the luxuries he could provide—had nothing to do with how he'd treated her. And now she complained of him constantly, and ungracefully labored beneath the weight of all her fulfilled expectations. She should have made him prove himself, Lydia thought.
For that matter, Sophie should have proved herself to him.
In her room, she found Ana already asleep. A telegram was propped by the lamp. Papa had wired from Gibraltar with a theory: he had run into an acquaintance on board the ship, a mutual friend of his and Hartnett's. To his grave dismay, this man suggested that Hartnett had struck up a friendship with Overton shortly before his death. Papa did not like to think that an old friend might have conspired with his bitter competitor to undermine his reputation, but the possibility could not be discounted.
She lowered the telegram. It made sense. Carnelly had mentioned that Overton's stuff had also gone awry.
It was shocking, but not inconceivable, that Overton had arranged the mix-up of deliveries in order to replace Hartnett's real antiques with frauds. A nasty scheme, but a sound way to discredit a competitor.
She knew what she should feel: relief at a credible explanation, and a fine rage at Overton. But her emotions felt oddly blunted. I
would not abandon you.
What had he meant by that? She wished she could believe him, but Moreland would no doubt tell a different story. There lay James's real error—and Sophie's as well. Once love was declared and loyalty given, one could not go back on one's word, not if one expected to be believed ever again.
With a sigh, she folded the telegram and tucked it into her valise. Time to visit Carnelly again, she supposed.
Chapter Thirteen
The express to London bore only a few passengers at this hour of the morning. A university student with a cowlick, mooning over a letter whose margins were covered in hearts. A mother with a boisterous little girl, who gave James a toothy grin as he passed. A grizzled don scowling at the latest translation of Herodotus. And finally, the woman on the green mohair bench across from him. She'd not spoken a word since he sat down. Buttoned to the throat, one hand braced against the wall to resist the rocking of the carriage, Lydia Boyce looked the last thing from friendly.
In other times, other moods, he might have teased her for it. But amicability was eluding him. He'd not slept more than an hour. Shortly after dawn, he'd finally abandoned bed for a stroll. He'd found her in the front hall, directing a footman to ready the coach. This woman whom he'd lain down with last night, whose thighs had trembled beneath his kisses, intended to leave without a fare-thee-well. It enraged him. "Running away unchaperoned," he'd said sarcastically. "Not only cowardly, but also, dare I say it, a bit
unwise."
She'd looked at him a long moment, during which her brow tightened slightly, as if she were trying to bring him into clearer focus. Concern had touched him. "Did you misplace your spectacles?" The question had sounded mocking, but only in order to disguise a worry so large as to seem ludicrous. She could hardly take the train alone if she couldn't see properly. "Don't do this," he'd continued.
"Stay
and talk to me." And to his astonishment, a blush had warmed his face. At that, his mouth clamped shut more tighdy than an oyster. Idiotic schoolboy babble.
"I'm sorry," she'd said pensively. "I must return to town. A pressing matter, I'm afraid. We'll speak some other time, when I'm thinking more clearly."
So she got to flounce off and postpone the discussion until it suited her? "We'll talk now. I agree, you aren't thinking clearly. You're in no state to travel unescorted."