Bound by Your Touch (32 page)

He spoke first. "So you will continue with this, then."

"With—with trying to figure out the truth, you mean?"

"If that's what you call it."

"What else am I to do?"

"Leave town," he said. "Spend the week in the country. Let your father handle his own mess."

Had her earlier words not registered? "I have told you I cannot abandon him."

"No," he said. "I suppose not." And then, with a strange laugh, he added, "Of course not. Nothing will make you back down."

She was relieved. It was not in her to have this argument again. "You understand me, then."

He nodded once. "I do. I am done with you, Lydia."

The words fell into the space between them. She could not have heard them correctly. They were not for her. "What?"

He spoke coldly and slowly. "I have already been down this road. I have watched one blind, obstinate, forceful woman kick and fight her way to ruin. I have not had the pleasure of watching her die, but it seems you are determined to provide me that chance. I will not take it, Lydia. You walk alone from this moment onward."

"No," she whispered.

"Yes.
This is not a game. Those men this morning meant to harm you. Had I been carrying a gun, there would be bullets between their eyes right now, and a great deal of blood on the ground. Do you understand that? We have moved beyond dumb rocks, now. We are dealing in death. You are playing with it. The boy at the Empire held a knife to my throat. He will do no less for you. If you do not step away from this—if you do not let your father solve his own problems, as any grown man should—then you will end up in the ground. And I will not stand by your grave and weep for you."

She tried to swallow. Her throat fought against it. The image formed in her mind: a stormy day. A crowd of mourners, crows flocking around the kill. Fresh roses, bloody blots on the upturned soil. And him standing in the distance, his coat flapping about him. Refusing to cry.

A chill trembled through her. It was so vivid, it felt like a premonition.

"I do not
want
to do this," she burst out. "I do not want to endanger myself! But what are my choices? James—"

"Your choices are very clear," he said flatly. "A great many people think your father guilty. Right or wrong, you must accept that, and let
him
be the one to manage it. Or you can go it alone. Gamble your life on your belief in him. And lose."

She blinked back tears. Anger? Devastation? She did not know. Nothing was clear to her at this moment. It was all an illogical muddle, fueled by the most irrational thought of all: the wish to move to his side. That he would hold her hand as he said these horrible things.

Ridiculous! Anger,
yes,
that was what she felt; most of all, for herself. "What do you care if I land myself in a mess? You would not cry even if you had your way, even if I abandoned my father and threw myself at you. Have you ever claimed to love me? And what would my feelings for you be worth, if I proved capable of doing such a thing? Would you want the love of someone like that?" Her voice broke into desperation. "You blame your father for claiming to love Lady Boland, but not fighting for her. How would I be any different? To abandon my father because it was
convenient!
Tell me, James—you want nothing more than to see your sister free. Would you give up on that? If the whole world told you she was mad, would you accept that she belonged in an asylum? I think not!"

He took a long time to respond. Minutes passed before he spoke again. "You have already made your choice." He sounded weary. "I am not going to try to convince you otherwise. I know how well that works. They say history repeats itself, but it will not with me."

She sat frozen until the coach slowed. Already home? Her startled glance alit on Sophie's house, then shot back to him as he leaned past her to open the door. A footman was waiting. She had no choice but to exit.

As she set foot on the stair, he spoke again. "It was not a game, though." His face was lost in the darkness of the interior, but she thought she saw him shrug. "You should know that. It stopped being a game some time ago." And then he said, "Good evening, Miss Boyce."

Chapter Fifteen

As she entered the front hall, she heard Ana's laughter floating down from the floor above. She leaned against the wall to listen. Such an ebullient sound, uncomplicated by anything but joy. She wished James might have heard it. He might have understood, then. Ana had been born with her face to the sun, and if that sun tried to set, all of them would gladly burn themselves to hold it up for her. Even Sophie would do so. One did not surrender love when it became painful.

She dashed tears from her
eyes
and took up her correspondence from the silver salver. Ashmore was right about one thing: a wire was waiting for her. Papa would be home by tomorrow night.

The print wavered before her eyes. Her whole body ached as though she'd been slammed into a wall. She could have put it down to the chloroform, but she was not an idiot.

"You're back!" Ana spoke gaily from the top of the stairs. "Goodness, Lydia—did you go straight from the train station to the library?"

"Yes." As she spoke the lie, a cold finger touched her spine. She shook it off and started up the stairs.

"Well, I have the most—" Ana broke off on a sudden frown. "Are you all right? You look unwell."

"A headache," Lydia said, and took Ana's arm to steer her down the hallway. "What were you saying?"

"Only that I have the most exciting news. But are you certain you're all right? Yes? Really? Very well, then." She darted ahead to open the door to Lydia's sitting room. "Lady Farlow has managed to get St. George's for the wedding!"

"Oh, that's lovely." Lydia pulled her into a hug. How sweet her sister smelled, like violets and sunshine and wide-eyed naivete. She would know suffering, in time. All people did. But it would not be for a mistake her family had made. "I'm so happy for you, dear. And
you
are happy,
yes^"

"Terribly," Ana said. "I have always dreamed of being married there." Her cheeks pinkened. "I must confess something else, Lyddie. I haven't told anyone else, but—he kissed me! Out on the tennis court this morning, at Bagley End. We were behind the shrubbery; no one saw. Oh, it was
so
dashing of him! You aren't shocked, are you?"

Far more shocking was the idea that Lydia should be the first to hear of it. She knew how prim Ana thought her. "You didn't tell this to Sophie?"

Ana made a face. "She's been in a terrible mood all day. I don't know what ails her."

Lydia feared she knew the cause. "I'll go speak with her," she said grimly.

She found Sophie draped across her bed, a compress tied over her eyes. The curtains were drawn, and a package of willow bark powder sat open on the washstand. As the mattress sank beneath Lydia's weight, Sophie rolled away and muttered, "I don't want company."

Lydia sat silently for a moment. They were not confidantes, in affairs of love. Of course they weren't. Until recently, shed had nothing to tell that didn't concern Sophie's husband. She hoped that the same was true of Sophie. And if it was otherwise—God above, she didn't want to know.

But her sisters misery was so plain that it compelled her to brave the silence. "Is it Mr. Ensley?"

Sophie ripped off the compress and sat up. "Do not mention him. He is a rude, uncivilized rakehell!"

Lydia digested this for a moment. "You seemed to be enjoying his attentions at one point last night."

"And what of it? That did not give him the right to—
expect
things of me. He said I was teasing him!"

She sucked in a breath. George had cast a similar accusation at her, once. It had made her feel low and ashamed, but now she saw more clearly. Men could restrain themselves better than he'd claimed. She had not deserved such behavior. "Sophie, did he manhandle you?"

A queer look crossed her sister's face. "Not much."

Alarm and the first spark of rage had her inching closer. She would kill this man.
"How
much, dearest?"

"Oh, just stop it! I don't need
your
guidance on the matter."

She shot to her feet. "Fine, but we must tell George directly. This cad can't be allowed to—"

Sophie grabbed her wrist and yanked her back down. "No. Do you hear me? He's not to know.
Ever"

Lydia had never seen her look so shaken. "God above, Sophie. It wasn't
your
fault that he—"

Sophies nails dug into her wrist. "I mean it. Lydia!

If you so much as breathe a word to him, I will—I will throw you into the street!"

Astonishment silenced her. Never, even in their nastiest quarrels, had Sophie voiced such a threat.

Sophie's eyes dropped, and her hand fell away. As a flush began to stain her cheeks, everything clarified. "Dear God," Lydia whispered. "You encouraged him to kiss you."

"I do not wish to speak of it."

"More
than that? God in heaven, Sophie!"

"I said it
wasn't much"
Sophie's shoulders squared. "But if it had been, what of it?" She flopped back onto the pillows.
"George
wouldnt care. If he cared, he would come along with me, wouldnt he? But does he ever? Of course not." She gave a bitter laugh.
"Parliament
is in session. Never mind that half the House is away to the Henley! I might as well be a spinster, too, for all I see of my husband."

A sharpness rose in Lydia's throat, bursting out as a scoff. "Oh, there's a fine justification. You knew what he was when you married him."

"And when I married him he promised to love me, didn't he? Not lecture and scold me as if I were a scullery maid. You've seen him! He barely pays me a word of attention, unless it's to rebuke me for not taking more of an
interest
in his political wrangling. As if I care about the divisions! I told him he married the wrong sister if he wants
that"
At Lydia's muffled gasp, Sophie made an impatient noise. "Well, I don't care. It's true, isn't it? And you needn't look at me as though I'm a monster. I married him for
us,
didn't I?"

A queer laugh slithered out of Lydia. "For us?"

"Yes, and now
I'm
the one who suffers for it," Sophie said stubbornly.
"I'm
the one who must go to these boring dinners and tedious speeches and behave like some dead-dull buttoned-up stick in the mud, all because George's friends might
disapprove
if I show an inch of spine. And meanwhile, you and Ana get to gallivant about doing whatever you please, because George's money will pay for it!"

Lydia stared at her. "Let us be clear," she said slowly. "You misled me. You lied to me. You mocked me behind my back to save kj?"

Sophie waved an exasperated hand. "Oh, for heaven's sake! Don't let's start on
that
again. Where would we be right now, if I hadn't accepted his suit? You're very smart, no doubt, but you couldn't keep the three of us in tea with the money you make from Papa's sales!"

Lydia laughed. "You mean 1 could not keep us in
style."

"What is that supposed to mean? Am I meant to be ashamed, because I prefer to live decendy?"

"No." Lydia's voice felt like venom; it burned in her throat. "I know how much your comfort means to you. I know very well the sacrifices you made to get it! You knew I loved him, but you took him from me anyway. You
took
him and now you complain that he doesn't suit? And better yet, you expect my
sympathy
for it? My God! It is beyond selfish, it is
beyond
childish—"

"Amazing! You're
still
telling yourself that he fancied you first?"

"He did!"

"You were nothing to him!"

"All London knew he was courting me!"

"Great ghosts, Lydia, he never gave two
glances
at you! He befriended you to meet me—that was all!"

They were both on their feet, screaming. Anyone in the hallway would be able to hear. The knowledge throttled Lydia's next words. Sophie, glaring, felt no such constraints. "Just say it, then! Tell me something else I've done wrong! I know how you
adore
playing the martyr!"

Martyr? The accusation momentarily threw her. Early on, she
had
given vent to a righteous sense of injury. But Sophie had never seemed to remark her jabs. "It's been years now," she said with open bewilderment. Years since the anger and heartbreak had shaken her awake at night. That period and those feelings no longer made any sense to her. She saw now, lucidly, that her love for George had been premised on fantasies. The man himself had never made her feel a hundredth of the things that Sanburne did. Their conversations had been superficial, his attentions scripted by etiquette. Oh, she did not want to waste another thought on him. "It really doesn't matter anymore which of us he wanted first. What matters is that you got him. And thank God for it! I mean that, Sophie. I wouldn't want him anyway."

"Ha!" Sophie pointed at her, wearing the same triumphant expression with which she took points at tennis. "And yet you are the one who continues to bring up the matter!"

Lydia goggled at her. "Sophie,
no.
Don't you see? The matter has nothing to do with George at all. It has to do with us." She sank back onto the bed. "You
betrayed
me. You knew that I fancied him, but you let me blunder on. And then you laughed with him over it." She paused. That bit still had the power to astonish her. "How could you do that to me? To your own sister?"