The Indiscretion (34 page)

"What?" he said, real helpful.

She glanced up, daring to let a little relief show. "Could –
could we go outside and speak alone, do you think? Because—"

"Why? So you can promise me something I can't have?" No,
no, he thought. That was wrong. Why did he say it? Shut up. Let her talk. "Go
ahead," he said.

She blinked, thinking he was telling her to go ahead and say what
she had to say, right here.

That wasn't what he meant. He stopped dancing. "Here, we
can—" He tried to lead her between couples, do as she asked.

Uncomprehending, she stood there, fixed. They pulled in opposite
directions, then came back, facing each other, both of them a little galled.
Several people close by laughed. Boddington applauded from his chair at the
side, the slap of gloves. Gwyn's high laughter floated over the sound. Out the
corner of his eye, Sam spotted Wendt and his wife. Things were going so well
there – don't screw it up, the viscount's glare said, by messing with my
daughter.

Liddy minded all the attention from the sidelines more than Sam
did. She threw a worried glance around the room, her delicate brow furrowing.
Around his shoulder, her eyes found something she didn't like, because her
eyebrows came down at a deeper angle still, and she said, "Gwynevere
Pieters. She's your Gwyn?"

"Was. Yes."

"Miss Pieters is an heiress." Her tone put some sort of
fault in the statement – his. "Why didn't you mention that?"

He was flustered for a minute, unsure of his reasons, then said
simply, "I didn't think of it. I wasn't marrying her for her money."

Liddy's hands came onto her hips, her chin up. "No. That you
have money. She wouldn't marry the poor country boy you pretend to be."

"I
am
a country
boy."

"Who has a
lot
of
money. Obviously. Who never said in almost four days of being alone
together." She was accusing him of being deceptive and underhanded – a
month ago.

"There was no place to spend it on the moor. It didn't seem
important." He blinked, looked down, then said, "And I liked that you
liked me without it. Besides, I did tell you—"

"Yes, as we were leaving, and then you even took it back.
'Not as rich as John D. Rockefeller,' you said."

"I'm not. More like Vanderbilt. Rockefeller is richer than
both of us together. So now is it all right? Now that I'm rich, can we be
friends?"

She sniffed.

"Can we dance at least? People are staring."

She blinked. They started again.

Her hand at his shoulder, she said, "I have something to tell
you."

"What?" He glared down, bracing himself. Here it comes.
Her eyes went wide, looking up at him, almost frightened. Upset. She bit her
lip, chewing the side of it, and a funny frown took over her face – the inside
tips of her eyebrows rising even though the rest of them went down. A look of
dismay. "Why are you so mean to me?"

"That's what you wanna tell me? I'm mean to you?" He stopped
in the middle of the floor.

She stopped again, too. Stop and start.

"Why are you so mean to me?" he asked, pointing a finger
at her.

"I'm not." She looked surprised, then humble.
"Well, I'm not anymore. I'm good to you."

"You're not." As evidence, "You sent me my
hat."

Her expression grew more bewildered by the minute. She answered,
confusing him, "Because you like it." She furrowed her brow again.
"Don't distract. You're vile to me. You have been. Ever since our archery
competition, where I beat you."

He leaned toward her. "I. Beat. You," he said,
separating the words, drawling them out with Southern emphasis.
Ah. Beet
.
Yoo-oo
.

She blinked, frowned, pressed her mouth again, then took him
aback. "All right," she said. "You beat me. There? Are you happy?"

He wasn't. It must have showed.

Because she said, "No, You're never happy, are you?"

"Not often. But what does that have to do with
anything?"

Her hands drew into fists, which she shook in front of her.
"What does it take to make you give in?" she asked. "What would
make you look at me kindly again?"

Kindly? He looked at her kindly all the time. He went from
confused to confounded.

"All right," she said. "You beat me. I gave you a
handicap because I thought I could shoot rings around you, but you shot better
than I ever dreamed. Next to me," she said modestly, "you're the best
archer here. There. Is that enough?" She spit the question out, fierce.

"I knew all that."

"What then?" Her agitation grew.

Oddly enough, he liked seeing it. It made him feel alive,
affecting. At least he counted for something. "The other."

"What other?"

In the shade, Liddy:
He might have
said:
Admit you want me. Say you're sorry
you sent my hat back, that you want me gone, all so you can look good to people
you can't even be yourself with. Say I'm the one, you need me. Want me
. He
couldn't bring himself to utter the words privately, though, let along
publicly: Other conversations in the room had stopped.

He said instead, "You never paid me what ya owe me."

"Oh, God—" Liddy rolled her eyes. "You are
obsessive—"

"You are a witch." So
who would care that a witch didn't want him?

She pretended to laugh, but she wasn't amused. The cello and piano
grew soft, then died off midmeasure. Utter silence.

He told her, "You say you hate being a hypocrite, but that's
as shy of the truth as a pig is of feathers."

She laughed again. Uncomfortably. "Oh, how lovely," she
said. But she was flustered, shaken. She looked about them, toward her family.
"What a – a marvelous way with words—"

"I have plenty of words. Try these: You're a hypocrite, a
wanton, judgmental, pompous, a snob, manipulative, a shrew—"

She visibly winced.

"You have prefigured ideas of what people are supposed to be
like – whether diplomats or men who talk with an American Southern accent:
You're a bigot—" He broke off. Yeah, these were enough reasons not to want
her; he'd finished.

People were sitting on the edges of their chairs, though one or
two had stepped or turned away awkwardly. In either case, the entire room was
transfixed, though not because baiting him and her was funny anymore: Her
parents, family, neighbors, friends – some his, too, now – watched with the
fascinated horror that onlookers watch a ship sink or a building collapse in a
conflagration.

While Lydia, her mind reeling, laughed again, breathless, hurt.
Pigs and feathers … wanton … pompous … hypocrites and shrews. She tried to make
Sam's rebukes into a joke. "Yes, but – but other than – this, you like me,
right?" How unfair for him to say these things. Because some were true.
Not all, but some; some were partially true at least. She found herself staring
at him through a liquid focus, glistening eyes.

"No—" he said.

Her heart stopped. Her throat closed.

"I don't like this." He lifted his arm out toward the
room, the house, the situation, a wide-armed gesture that took in perhaps all
of Yorkshire: with her at its center.

She looked around. Everyone was motionless; they were all blurry.
She rolled her lips into her teeth, pressing, and waited to breathe again, to
swallow.

What's wrong with her? she thought. A shrew. So what. Clive called
her a shrew all the time – he called all women shrews. Boddington said what he
liked, and she knew when he was being a fool. Why? Why should
this
jackass's opinion matter?
I don't care
, she thought.
Let Sam Cody think what he will. Let him say
what he wants.

Yet there was no denying the feeling, the deep ache, as if her
heart beat against a bruise. Her feelings regarding Sam had become delicate,
miserably easy to hurt, something to be careful with. She stood there, unable
to mend the injury. She cared horribly. How insecure. How childish, she told
herself. Stop it!

It still took a few benighted heartbeats to realize, no, how frustrating,
how heartbreaking: how in love.

The revelation brought her up short. In an odd way, it made her
feel better – it made her feelings clearer. My God, she was in love with him.

Now what?

Nothing. He didn't love her. Look at this mess.

"Excuse me," she said. With careful precision, in one
long-gloved hand, she picked up her skirts. With great dignity, Lydia pushed
past him.

She walked across the open floor, across a perfectly hushed music
room.

Behind her, her mother – even she was nearly speechless – called
out weakly, "Ly – Lydia?"

Her father called her name.

Others, Meredith perhaps. Boddington. She ignored them – if only
she were the righteous heroine to all this as they thought.

Near the door, Clive tried to take her arm, but she shook free.
"I'm fine," she said.

She wasn't. Not at all. She started to cry at the base of the
stairs, where she hiked up her skirts. She took the staircase, the landing, and
the next rise of stairs at a run. She was sobbing uncontrollably by the time
she entered her rooms.

22

Those
who see any difference between soul and body have neither.

Chameleon
, December 1894

S
ome time later – it seemed hours, though it was undoubtedly less –
Lydia
found herself
collapsed, quietly numb, on the floor of her dressing room, her dress only
partly off, because it had a lot of hooks at the back she couldn't reach, and
she hadn't yet been able to bring herself to ring for Rose. Alone. Never had
she felt so alone.

She thought of the moor and how marvelous it had been to believe
she had in Sam one person – what a huge difference just one made – who
understood, who accepted and sometimes even approved of, her struggle to be, to
find, who she was beyond what others expected. Unless, apparently, it was what
he expected. He wanted her to be as she was on the moor all the time, the
runaway lady's maid. Not the daughter of a viscount and all that implied – all
that he found … pompous and … well, those other things. How much must he
despise her to be willing to humiliate – repudiate, abase – her in front of
everyone?

Well, she simply didn't care, she told herself – which, alas, sent
her into tears again. She cared too much what that stupid man thought. And,
thus, round and round her ruminations went, no respite. Hurt mingled with anger
mingled with humiliation, shame, such shame somehow … that he had stood up and
proclaimed her faults right as she had been hoping, praying, he would see her
as wonderful somehow: worthy, even after all the trouble she'd given him,
accepted, flaws and all. But, no, he rejected her for them.

Footfalls on the landing at the top of the stairs interrupted her
mental lambasting of herself. Rose. Oh, Rose, surely! At last the girl had
forgiven her. She must have heard of the debacle in the music room and was
coming upstairs early to help. Lydia scrambled around eagerly, gathering up her
discombobulated skirts and half-done dress.

But it wasn't Rose – Lydia immediately found herself pulling at
her dress's neckline, holding the whole thing up against her: Sam came into the
dressing-room doorway.

Folding his arms, he leaned one wide shoulder against the jamb,
the full sight of him disarming her anew. He wore his hat, his Stetson from the
moor. White shirt, white vest, a black evening suit with a white rosebud
buttonhole – and black-cherry boots with a jet-black cowboy hat, silver beads
gleaming on the thin band, the brim putting a shadow over his eyes. "There
you are," he said.

"Here I am." She tried to pull herself together
emotionally, yet still there was a little catch in her breath as she sniffed
once.

He said nothing for a full minute, only staring at her out from
under the dark brim of his hat. What a mess she must be, eyes swollen, dress half-off,
hair coming down. Then he said, "I have it wrong, don't I? I mean, you
sent me the hat to be nice."

She frowned, sniffled again. "Well, yes." What else in
the world could she have meant?

"What a fool," he murmured, shaking his head and looking
down at his boots.

A fool? Who? Her? Him? Whomever, she blurted the rest, the worst,
since they seemed at rock-bottom anyway: "And I'm late."

He glanced up, uncomprehending, as if she'd just said she was late
for a tea party. He made a face, then said, "Liddy, anyone would wait
if—"

"No. My menses. It hasn't come." She added irritably,
insult to injury, "And I chuck up every morning now."

His chin came all the way up as his mouth opened. It stayed in
that shape, an O. Words didn't come out, and after a moment he only drew in
air. He put his hand to the back of his head, rubbing the hair at his nape. The
gesture tipped his hat slightly forward, lower over his eyes. Finally he said,
"Well." There followed a protracted pause, as if he were trying to
take in something that wouldn't quite assemble in his mind. Then he asked,
"By me?"

The anger that lay so closely intertwined against her hurt and
shame reared up, a surge of fury. Idiot … bastard … howling jackass! "Oh!
Oh, get out of here!" She threw the closest thing she could find, a shoe.
"Get out of my life! You are the most thick-headed, insensitive—"

He dodged. "So this means yes, right?"

"Who else, you nit? Could there be anyone else like you?
Anyone as maddeningly inconsiderate, as mean, or who could drive me as
insane—"

He made a kind of alarmed frown, lips pressed, his brow drawn
down. This momentary look of concern passed quickly into the darnedest
expression – for the life of her, the corners of his mouth lifted faintly,
almost into a smile. "I'm glad to hear I'm special to you," he said.

As Sam stood there, so many things came rushing in on him. The
hat. It was a present. She had meant it as a gift. He'd suspected as much after
his awful explosion and her tears in the dancing parlor. But now he knew it and
he suspected something else: She cared about him. She cared what he thought,
how he felt, what he did. And this was good. Very good.

If only he weren't so damn bad at fixing stuff like this. He was
great at making messes, but not so good at … at reaching out, cleaning them up.
He quaked a second, not sure where to go, what to do. Bad? He wasn't bad; he
was a failure at it. Half the time, he couldn't even take a hand that was held
out to him.

"I'll do right by you," he told her. "You know
that, don't you?"

"Right?" she repeated, then snorted. "No, thank
you. I don't want anyone taking care of me or doing things for me or to me –
I'm not sick, I'm just pregnant. I don't need pity or help. You've done
enough." She added with a kind of teary snort of laughter, "No
medicine," but that really confused him because he wasn't offering her
any.

Sam was lost for a minute. How to bring the two of them together
after so much hurt and misstep? Union, friendship. Love. How did a man make it
all work, when he had failed at it – at connection – pretty much all his life?

Love
making
. The idea
popped into his mind. He was good at that. And the next thing he knew, he felt
a smile inside himself he had to hold back. He said, "So you're
pregnant."

She only rolled her watery eyes up at him, then pulled a sarcastic
face.

"Now wait a second here, Lid," he told her,
"there's a good side to it."

"Oh, certainly, from your viewpoint at least:
You're
not pregnant."

"No, no, you can't
get
pregnant."

"I
am
already, you
– you—"

He held up his hand before she strained herself finding more names
to call him. "Easy, there. What I mean is, now. You can't get pregnant
again. You already are."

Her large brown eyes fixed on him. "Pardon?" she said.
Ha, he had her attention.

He let his grin show in what he hoped was a disarming way. "I
mean, remember that penalty kiss? How I just sort of wrestled you down
and—" Whoa, just thinking about it made his pecker shift around in his
trousers. Oh, yeah, this was a great plan, he thought.

"What penalty kiss?" She said it deadpan, straightening
her back like a ramrod was down it.

"The one at the edge
of the trees." He raised his eyebrows, teasing, smiling, and said,
"Where I sort of chased you down."

"Don't get cute with me, Sam Cody."

Cute
. Oh, yeah, he
was cute all right. He felt his grin broaden. "The penalty kiss," he
repeated. "You can't have forgotten about that. It was so goshdarn
wonderful—"

She said quickly, "I don't remember any—"

He laughed. He loved it when she lied. He couldn't help it; he
just did. "Well, don't worry, darlin'. I'll remind you."

"Don't 'darlin' me. You said awful things to me
downstairs—"

"I take them back." He rethought that. "Well, some
at least."

She rose up slightly, her eyes widening. "Some?" She
threw something hard, another item from the dressing room floor, a shoetree.

He jerked his leg to keep from being hit as he said, "Most of
it was true." Then laughed: "Like now. You are a shrew, you
know."

"Oh!" she said in frustration. "Well, I certainly
don't want to hear about it in front of everyone, my family, my friends."
She gave a snort of outrage. "Even your stupid Gwyn heard what you said,
not to mention some others of my acquaintance who aren't that fond of me:
ridiculed by His Excellency the U.S. ambassador. You humiliated me."

He stopped smiling and pushed back the brim of his hat. "And
for that, I'm sorry. You have to forgive me."

"I don't either have to. And I don't."

He laughed. "All right. That'll make the penalty more fun, I
guess."

"What are you talking about—"

"The penalty." He paused, thoughtful a moment, then
said, "See, I thought I was coming up here to say I was sorry. But now
that I've said it – and had it so ungenerously received – I think maybe I came
up here after all to get those knickers you owe me."

"My what! How can any man have such gall?"

She drew back, as he took a step forward – just enough to reach
behind him and take the doorknob. Her expression registered a startled flicker,
dawning understanding, as he swung the door to, and its latch clicked closed.

She scooted backward, away from him. "Don't you dare—"

He interrupted. "Now, see, I know you're going to fight being
playful about all this, but I can't see any other way around it." He let
himself lean back on the door and look around. How to get close to her without
getting kicked in the shins?

"I'm not over being angry with you, Sam Cody—"

"Right." Children. They were two children at times. But
since they were, well, they might as well enjoy being harebrained. Children
knew how to play at least. "So be angry." He smiled, wiggling his
eyebrows at her. "That ought to make it into a different kinda fun."

Lydia blinked, scowled, and got her feet under her. Oh, no, she
thought. Not on her life. Not over her dead body. He'd hurt her feelings,
really hurt her, and he hadn't made it right. Though she felt a little better
somehow; stronger.

She remembered, "R-Rose will be up any moment." She
pushed herself all the way up, standing, poised, at ready.

The smug American, still smiling, made a click of his tongue and a
reluctant shake of his head. "Actually, she won't."

"Yes, she will. She comes in every night to help me undress.
I was waiting for her."

"Not tonight." His pulled his hand from his pocket and
produced a long, recognizable key. "You see, I found this in the door, so
I locked it. I didn't want us to be disturbed after all the trouble I had
getting in here. No one's coming in."

Lydia frowned at the key to her room, then at him. "Um,
Sam—" She took a step back, a hanging dress making her jump when it came
over her shoulder. She reiterated, "I'm, ah – I'm not very happy with you
at the moment."

He laughed. "And who could blame you. I can be a horse's ass.
What can I tell you?" When she liked this vein, cocking an eyebrow at him,
he continued. "I make mistakes. Sometimes they're painful ones. I told
you, I'm sorry."

She blinked at him.
I'm
sorry?
These two words were supposed to fix her hurt? Perhaps she was being
petty, but they didn't. They weren't large enough; they didn't feel
commensurate to the offense.

He repeated again, softer, "I can't do anything more about it
now, Lid. It's past; it's done." He touched his hat brim, a little salute,
then said, "Thank you for my hat. My appreciation is pretty miserably
delayed in coming, but thank you."

"You're welcome."

She scowled deeper. Her feelings were supposed to be all better
now? She was being too demanding. Vindictive, she told herself. She should
forgive him, let it go. But she couldn't get over her anger; the pain of his
accusations downstairs clung to it, fresh again each time she thought of his
mean words.

Oblivious, he said, "So I'm thinking—" He paused and set
his jaw the way he could, as if putting his tongue on a back tooth. "I'm
thinking that, to start with, I want you on your hands and knees, so I can take
off those knickers personally."

"Oh, no" – she shook her head, backing up into the dress
further – "absolutely not." Outrageous. This was outrageous!
"You can't do this! I'm still furious with you—"

"You'll get over it." He grinned.

She didn't want to get over it. She pressed her lips together
tight. Then had a bright idea. She told him, "All right, I should have
given them to you already. I will." She bent over and reached under her
dress. This would stop him.

What noisy skirts she had. They made a terrible din as she
wiggled, her hands lost in a shushy chum of blue-black taffeta, black tulle,
and black lace frothing in her arms from beneath. She stripped off black silk
knickers. "Here." She tossed them at him.

"Thank you." There at the closed door, he caught them,
making a magnanimous nod, then brought her knickers to his face. With them at
his nose and chin, he tilted his head back slightly, rubbing the silk between
his fingers, and closed his eyes. Voiceless, he let out air through the sound –
"Aah"
– satisfaction.
"Now about that penalty—"