The suite was cold. The heavy fog that had cloaked their passage from Miss Bailey’s to the Silver Lady pressed against the windows like a living thing. While Lydia stood huddled by the door, Nathan closed the drapes and started a fire.
He sat back on his haunches and raised his palms to the heat and crackle of the flames. Without looking in Lydia’s direction he said, “Are you coming or going? I can’t tell.”
“I haven’t changed my mind, if that’s what you mean.” Although her words held a touch of bravado, Lydia’s eyes were still darting nervously about the room, taking in the things she hadn’t noticed on her brief first visit.
The suite was rather expensively appointed, indicating again that Nathan Hunter had money to spend. There were two small damask sofas facing each other on either side of the fireplace. A bright Oriental rug filled the space between them. The brocade drapes were ivory and they matched the high-backed armchair situated between the two windows. The end tables, sideboard, and wainscoting were all dark walnut, lending the room a rich, warm elegance.
Lydia avoided looking to her left where the door to
Nathan’s bedroom was only partially closed. Some things were better not explored.
She realized that Nathan was watching her. As if he could read her thoughts, a half-smile played at the corners of his mouth. Lydia’s own mouth pursed primly in disapproval.
“Shall I take your cape?” he asked blandly, coming to his feet. “Or would you rather wear it the rest of the evening.”
“I can manage, thank you.” Lydia slipped out of her cape and hung it on the brass rack behind her. Because she didn’t know what to do with them, she crossed her arms in front of her as if she were still cold.
“You’d be warmer over here.” Nathan stood in front of the fire a little longer, waiting to see if she would approach while he was there. When she didn’t, he took pity on her and went to the sideboard to pour their drinks. As soon as his back was turned he heard her move quickly to the fireplace. “The selection is somewhat limited,” he said as he poured his own drink.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
He turned, raising his own tumbler for her to see. He caught her off guard, with her back to the fire and the hem of her gown raised almost to her knees. She dropped her dress quickly and looked everywhere but at him. “I’m having Scotch,” he said, a small pause between each word as he tried to get his thoughts back on center. A brief glimpse of Lydia’s shapely calves and slim ankles had captured his imagination and scattered his thoughts. “Scotch,” he repeated. “Are you certain that’s what you want?”
“I’m certain.” She sat down on one of the sofas in a corner nearest to the fireplace and pretended to study the oil painting above the mantel.
Nathan brought Lydia her drink and followed the direction of her gaze. “It’s not very good, is it?” He sat down opposite her. “I never cared much for landscapes. I notice your family has a considerable collection of artwork.”
“Papa showed you the gallery?” she asked.
“I saw it,” Nathan answered, evading the question slightly. “You’re not drinking. Wouldn’t you prefer something else?”
“Oh, no…no, this is fine.” To prove her point, Lydia took a mouthful of the Scotch and swallowed. She forced a smile and blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears that appeared instantly in her eyes. In the end she couldn’t quell a gasp when the Scotch hit her stomach. Fighting fire with fire, Lydia took another quick swallow.
“Just how wide would you say your stubborn streak is?” he asked, watching her struggle not to choke. “I can’t think of many young ladies who have your kind of grit.” It was a bit of a lie since Nathan actually couldn’t think of one. He’d met plenty of women who could drink their fair portion of whatever swill was put in front of them, but they were a common sort, women of the street, thieves and beggars, hardened by life in a way Lydia Chadwick could not possibly know. They did what they had to do to survive.
Lydia, he thought, was a curiosity. She did what she did because she wanted to. As far as he knew she had never experienced a need that hadn’t been met, a wish that hadn’t been fulfilled. It was clear to Nathan that Samuel Chadwick doted on her. Yet she didn’t appear to be spoiled, as he might have expected, but headstrong and full of purpose and determination.
Her eyes intrigued him. Sometimes they seemed impossibly large in her heart-shaped face, and so dark that the cobalt blue color appeared to be black. They were rebellious eyes, most often defiant or stubborn in their expression, yet in their very depths Nathan had the impression of a pervasive sadness, as if rebellion were there to shutter a wounded soul.
“May I have another drink?” asked Lydia, showing Nathan her empty tumbler. “No, you stay where you are. I can get it myself.”
It was just as well that she interrupted his fanciful thoughts, Nathan decided. He wasn’t certain he liked where they were headed. Sentiment had no place in his plans for Lydia Chadwick.
He handed her his tumbler and followed her with his eyes as she went to the sideboard. Her carriage was poised and graceful. The stark blue evening gown he’d chosen for her from among Ginny’s things emphasized the slender line of her back and the smallness of her waist. Her shoulders were narrow and her arms were long, the wrists small and delicate. He recalled holding her against him, first in the alley, then in the ballroom, and still later in the brothel. Each time he had been struck by the way she had fit to him so easily. She was not a tall woman, yet her high and slim waist gave the impression of legs that went on forever. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed that before now. It was not the sort of thing he usually missed when he was looking at a woman.
Then he remembered the yellow gown. Whoever had suggested she could wear yellow and yards of ruffles hadn’t done a kindness to her.
He accepted the drink she held in front of him. “You can put your feet up,” he said when she returned to her sofa. “A person doesn’t generally go about getting drunk as stiffly as you. You’ll find it much easier if you try to relax a little. And you can stop worrying that I’m going to attack you. I haven’t yet, have I?”
Lydia blinked widely, drawing her feet up beside her more in reaction to his harsh and sarcastic last statement than because of a need to relax. “I don’t think you’ll attack me,” she said, her voice husky from liquor and weariness. “Why would you want to?”
Nathan ignored her last query. He could give her at least three reasons why he’d like to show her the bedroom: her eyes, her legs, and her sulky, generous mouth. “Stop looking at me as if you expect the worst then,” he said sharply. “We’re here as a favor to you, nothing else.”
She nodded and quickly lifted the tumbler to her lips again. The Scotch did not taste quite so foul and fiery as it had at first. “Will it take very long to get drunk, do you think?”
“At the rate you’re going, not long at all.”
“Oh. That’s good then.”
Nathan didn’t respond. A long uncomfortable silence built while Lydia worked on her drink and Nathan nursed his. When they finally spoke it was one of those awkward situations where it happened at the same time. After some disagreement about who should go first they both fell silent. Nathan filled Lydia’s glass a third time and watched in some amazement as she knocked it back in three swallows. She held the tumbler out again.
“You may want to ease up some,” he said, filling her glass. “Or I could add a little water.”
“I’m fine.” Staring up at him defiantly, she held on to the tumbler when he tried to take it back.
Nathan shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s your head.” He put the decanter of Scotch on the floor by Lydia’s sofa and returned to his seat. Stretching his long legs in front of him, he crossed his ankles and stared at Lydia over the rim of his glass.
“I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
She lowered her lids so that she could see Nathan through a narrow slit, set her mouth grimly, thrust her legs in front of her, crossed her ankles, and raised her glass to about the level of her nose. She sat like that for several long moments and simply stared back at him.
“I see,” he said, tamping down a smile at her perfect mimicking. When she resumed her earlier position, he asked, “Does it bother you so much?”
“It makes me feel rather foolish,” she answered honestly. “It’s one thing to be foolish, quite another to be made to feel so.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, sitting up a little straighter and drawing back his legs. “You’re my guest after all. I’ll make an effort to please.”
Lydia doubted it was something he did often, and his concession warmed her. Or was that the Scotch? She giggled.
She was definitely beginning to feel the effects, Nathan realized. That girlish giggle was surely the beginning of the end. He started thinking about how he was going to get her back inside her Nob Hill mansion without alerting the entire household.
“Did you know Mr. Moore before this evening?” Lydia asked, interrupting Nathan’s planning.
Except for the slight narrowing of his gray eyes, there was nothing Nathan did to reveal his surprise. “What makes you ask that?” he asked, prevaricating.
“Your accent. It’s very similar to Mr. Moore’s. It’s natural that two Englishmen would have gravitated toward one another here in San Francisco.”
“Is it? I hadn’t thought about that. Did Mr. Moore tell you where he’s from in England?”
She nodded. The movement made her chin nudge the rim of her glass and a little Scotch splashed the back of her hand. Embarrassed by her clumsiness, she quickly pressed her hand to her mouth and sucked in the droplets, never noticing how Nathan’s cold eyes took on an edge of warmth as they followed her movement and came to rest on her wet mouth. “He’s from London,” she said. “Where are you from?”
“London. But don’t put too much significance into that. I don’t think you could understand how big London is.”
“I should like to see it some day,” she said dreamily.
Nathan could have said the same. It was the one place he could never return. Without a governor’s full pardon, banishment from England was forever. “It’s an incredible city,” he said instead, remembering the place of his childhood. “Exciting. Crowded. Noisy and dirty. Narrow, winding lanes lined with tenements and palaces bordering the most beautiful parks in the world. There’s mind-numbing poverty and wealth that can hardly be imagined.”
“You make it sound very much like San Francisco.”
“Do I? Yes, I suppose in some ways it is, though if you repeat that I’ll swear I never said it.” He finished his drink and set the glass aside. “London is centuries old; poverty and riches go back so many generations they’re bred in the bone, for the most part, inescapable. There’s a certain acceptance of fate that’s missing in your city, Miss Chadwick. Here wealth is only decades old and people remember their roots. Men and women still believe they can aspire to be something different than their class would dictate. I admire that.”
“Do you? I confess that surprises me.”
“Oh?”
“What do you know about any of it, Mr. Hunter?” She gestured to the room at large, indicating the richness of her surroundings. “You seem quite content to have accepted what good fate and fortune have bestowed on you. If Mr. Moore were saying these things, it would be understandable. He came to my party this evening because he knew it was a charity event. By your own admission you came to play cards with my father. Did you know Mr. Moore was raised in an orphanage much like St. Andrew’s? He escaped the London slums and made something of himself.”
“You admire him.”
“Yes…yes, what’s not to admire? He’s obviously met life’s challenges head on. He’s personable and interesting and—”
“Don’t forget handsome.”
Lydia blushed and then asked herself why she should deny it. “Yes, he’s handsome. He has kind eyes, a wonderful smile, and he’s very polite.”
“A paragon among men.”
She wrinkled her nose at Nathan, disgusted with his dry humor. “Think what you will. You could do worse than to emulate his manner.”
Since there had been a time when Nathan thought much the same way, he couldn’t find it in himself to fault Lydia for her shortsightedness. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he said, noting that that seemed to satisfy her. She was looking around the room again, shaking her head slowly from side to side, her eyes as big as silver dollars. Nathan had no difficulty reading the expression on her face. She was still astonished that she wasn’t home. Her half-smothered giggle seemed to punctuate her thought. Above the rim of her glass her smile was a trifle giddy.
“You’re well on your way to being pie-faced,” he observed. “How does it feel?”
Her grin widened. “Wonderful. I’m enjoying myself immensely.” She spoke carefully, sounding out the individual syllables. “Are you?”
“I can’t remember when I’ve been so entertained.”
Lydia’s brows drew together as she considered what he said. It wasn’t worth so much effort, she decided, and her features relaxed. “Do you know I was angry with you this evening?”
“You were?” Nathan asked politely. He wondered if he should warn Lydia that the drink was loosening her tongue. Doubting that she would take heed of anything he might say, he let her go on.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I didn’t want you to win that last poker hand. I think you knew it, too.”
“I knew it. But what could I do? I had the winning cards. I would have won whatever wager was made. You didn’t have to agree to that wager. Samuel would have let you bow out gracefully.”
“I did it for the—”
“Oh, please,” he said, scoffing her. “Have the decency to be an honest drunk. You agreed because it was Brigham Moore who you hoped might hold the winning hand.”
“My father held a full house,” she said a shade haughtily. “Remember? I thought it was very likely that he would win.”
“That may be so, but you hoped Brig would.”
“If you knew that why did you insist on showing your cards? You could have just folded. The pot would have gone to the orphanage just the same.”
“Would it?”
“Of course.” Lydia paused, taking another full swallow. She thought she could acquire a taste for Scotch. “Are you saying Mr. Moore would not have honored that part of the wager?”
The last thing Nathan wanted to do was say anything against Brig. That would surely send her flying into his old friend’s arms. Nathan unbuttoned his evening jacket and pulled out the paper marker in his vest pocket. He leaned forward and held it out to Lydia, letting it dangle between his thumb and forefinger. “Say the word and I’ll put it in the fire.”
Lydia couldn’t believe she’d heard him correctly. In the library, when he’d won the hand, he’d seemed so pleased with himself. She came to the only conclusion she could. “You don’t want to take me out to dinner at all, do you? You only did it to spite me, because you knew I wanted to go with Mr. Moore.” Belatedly she realized what she’d finally admitted to Nathan Hunter. Her chin lifted a notch. “So? What if I did want to have dinner with him at the Cliff House? The wager was his idea, wasn’t it? At least he wanted to go with me.”
Nathan gave her a hard, steady look. “Do you want me to pitch this in the fire or not?”
“Oh, no, I’m not going to make this easy for you by reneging on my part of the wager. You do with it what you want to do.”
He leaned back, sighing. Her logic confounded him. Nathan hoped it was the alcohol that had her talking in circles. Once they were married he was going to lock the liquor cabinet and carry the key on him. He folded the marker again and put it back in his pocket. “I’m keeping it,” he said. “I’m taking you to the Cliff House tomorrow and I won’t allow you to use your impending hangover as an excuse to get out of it. Your eagerness to go to dinner with Brig is hardly flattering.”
Lydia rolled the tumbler between her palms and stared down at her empty glass. “I’ve been rude. I’m sorry.”
Nathan shrugged.
She looked up to see why he hadn’t answered. He was still watching her closely, his clear gray predator eyes holding her motionless. She refused to repeat her apology, unaware that it had already been acknowledged with practiced indifference. Leaning over the edge of the sofa, Lydia reached for the crystal decanter. “Ooooh,” she said, holding her head as a wave of dizziness washed over her. “I think your rug is spinning, Mr. Hunter.”
“Nathan.”
“Hmm?” She glanced up at him and smiled. “What’s that again?”
“You may call me Nathan…and judging by your grin, I think you’ve had quite enough.”
“Oh, but—”
“Enough.” He moved the decanter back to the sideboard and returned to Lydia’s side in time to catch her tumbler before it dropped to the floor. “How do you like being drunk?” he asked a moment later when Lydia herself slipped off the sofa and onto the floor.
“Am I?” she asked. “Am I really?”
Judging by her voice, Nathan decided she was completely pleased with herself. “You’re about as shikkered as I’ve ever seen a sheila. And you’re going to feel crook come sarvo.”
Lydia knew she was drunk. She’d heard what he’d said and hadn’t understood a word. She frowned up at Nathan, wishing he’d stop towering over her and sit down.
“I said you’re about as drunk as I’ve ever seen a girl, and you’re going to feel terrible by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Well, I feel fine now,” she said with a sense of practicality. “Except for having to look up at you. It makes my neck ache.”
The long line of Lydia’s throat was completely exposed to Nathan. At his side his fingers itched to close around it and throttle her just once. “I’ll sit down,” he offered.
Lydia patted the floor beside her. “Here.”
“I don’t think—” Her eyes darted down quickly, hurt by his refusal. A moment later he was sitting beside her, his back against the sofa. “It would have been easier,” he said, “if you’d have let me put you back on the sofa.”
“Too high.”
He found himself smiling at the grave, wise pronouncement. “I see.”
“You may call me Lydia.”
“All right…Lydia.”
The silence that grew between them this time was a comfortable one. Out of the corner of his eye Nathan saw Lydia’s lashes flutter as she tried to stay awake. When her head lolled toward the fireplace he gently brought it back and let her rest it against his shoulder. It was not long before she turned entirely in his direction, her legs curled to one side, and snuggled trustingly in his arms.
There were worse things, Nathan supposed, than dealing with a shikkered Lydia Chadwick.
Until the steady knocking at the door roused him, Nathan was unaware that he had fallen asleep. His dreams had been a natural continuation of his waking thoughts, one flowing into another like a stream into a river. The young woman who had figured rather largely in both was still sleeping soundly in his arms.
Nathan stumbled a bit as he got to his feet, his legs numb and unsteady beneath him. He stretched, glanced at the clock, then bent and picked up Lydia. She was lighter than he had imagined. Again he recalled the horrible yellow gown and acknowledged that her dress had indeed been deceiving. Moving quickly toward the bedroom, Nathan laid Lydia on his bed and covered her up to her neck with the quilt at the foot of the bed. She never stirred, not even when his fingers lingered in her hair at a spot just above her temple.
He shrugged out of his evening jacket, vest, and shirt, mussed his hair, slipped into a smoking jacket, and took off his socks and shoes. The knocking at the door was louder now and more insistent. Just before he opened the door Nathan worked up a huge yawn and rubbed his eyes. Anyone could be forgiven for thinking they’d wakened him from hours of deep sleep.
“What do you want, Brig?” he asked tiredly. There was no surprise in his voice, for he felt none. Indeed, he would have been surprised if it had been anyone else. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Actually I do.” Without waiting for an invitation, Brig pushed past Nathan. He went immediately to the sideboard and helped himself to three generous fingers of bourbon. His eyes went from Nathan, who was still leaning against the door, to the woman’s cape hanging on the rack beside him. “Oh, sorry old man, I see you have company,” he said, indicating the cape with a tilt of his chin. “I should have realized when you disappeared from that beano so early that you had a sheila with you.” Brig meant a gala affair. He was rarely cautious about his slang when he was alone with Nathan. “Mind if I have a look?”
Before Nathan could raise an objection or move to stop him, Brig was slipping into the bedroom. All Nathan could do was pray that Lydia had not turned in her sleep or uncovered herself. Brig would find it odd that he was sleeping with a fully dressed woman.
A moment later Brig was back, his disappointment telling Nathan that all was well. “Too dark,” said Brig, “but she’s a bit of a thing, ain’t she? Not like some girls that come to mind.”
“You’re referring to Miss Chadwick, I take it.”
“She’s the one who comes to mind. Pity she ain’t more like her mother. Now there’s someone who can fill out the front of my trousers.”
“I noticed your interest.”
“It’s mutual.”
“I thought it might be. I’d be careful, though. Lydia may object to your spending too much time with her mother. I have the distinct impression that that sort of thing’s happened before.”
“Oh?”
“No information. Just a feeling.”
Brig knew he’d do well to consider that feeling. “I’m surprised you’re telling me. Given that we have the same objective, I’d think you’d want me to fail.”
Thinking about Lydia in his bedroom, Nathan permitted himself a small smile. “Perhaps I think I can afford to be magnanimous.”
Brig snorted. He sat down in the corner of the sofa Lydia had occupied. “So, who is she?”
“That’s none of your business,” Nathan answered kindly.
“What made you decide to leave?”
Nathan sat down on an arm of the other sofa. “I believe Lydia retired for the evening, at least that’s what Samuel told me. With her gone there was little to be served by staying. I left at about the time the entertainment began.”
Brig nodded. “That’s when I missed you.” He took a swift swallow of bourbon. “I didn’t appreciate you winning that hand. That wager was my idea.”
“It was a good one.”
“That’s the second time you’ve interfered with something I planned.”
“We’ve already discussed this, Brig. I thought you said all you cared to before we went to dinner.”
“I thought I had. The more I think about it, the more bloody angry I get.”
Brig didn’t really look angry. He looked slightly drunk. Nathan knew from experience that the latter was more dangerous. “Shouldn’t you be going? I do have a guest, you know.”
“Might as well,” he said, sighing. He gulped back his drink, set the tumbler on the floor, and headed for the door. “Maybe I’ll find someone for myself tonight.”
“Surprised you haven’t already. That’s not like you, Brig.”
“I’m looking for a lady, not a whore.”
“What about Madeline Chadwick?”
“As I said, I’m looking for a lady.”
Nathan thought about Brig’s parting remark for a long moment before he got up and locked the door and turned back the lights. He reasoned he could still get a few good hours of sleep before taking Lydia home. It would probably take at least that long for her to come out of her stupor. Padding barefoot to the bedroom, he found Lydia lying on her back, snoring softly. He turned her on her side, moved her toward the middle of the bed, and got in beside her.
He almost came out of his skin when he realized she wasn’t wearing anything but a thin cotton shift.
“Lydia?” He said her name softly, on an inquiring note. When she didn’t answer, he nudged her shoulder with his fingertips. She didn’t respond. He touched her again, just to make certain she was sleeping. Or rather that was the excuse he put forth when a gremlin thought told him he’d never touched skin as smooth as Lydia’s. “Are you awake?”
He waited for a full minute, listening to the cadence of her breathing and wondering if she’d heard any part of his conversation with Brig while she’d been undressing. The very idea made his insides curl in a hundred tiny knots. To have come so far only to lose everything because of Brig’s untimely visit could have easily moved Nathan to murder. He’d killed before. He could do it again.
With that thought in mind, Nathan fell into a sleep many times more troubled than Lydia’s.
His hand was on her breast. The full, smooth curve of it filled his palm and his thumb passed back and forth across the nipple. Once. Twice. Again. Beneath his calloused thumb a bud appeared. He touched it, teased it. Her breast was fuller now, harder and warmer. His fingers trailed along the underside curve to her heartbeat, rested there a moment, then moved to her other breast and stroked her skin, brushing her nipple with his knuckles.
Her hand was at the waistband of his trousers. Her fingers traced the edge, dipping just beneath the material at her whim. His skin was smooth here, his flat belly hard. His flesh would retract suddenly in anticipation of her touch.
Without a word passing between them, they inched closer, moving toward the middle of the bed. The hem of her cotton shift was twisted around her hips, pushed there by her movement and the movement of his hands. He caressed the outside of her thigh from knee to hip. His palm traveled across her skin in long, sweeping strokes, becoming slightly more urgent with its pressure and heat on each successive stroke.
Frustrated by the barrier of his trousers, her fingers slid upward, spreading out as they moved up the center of his chest. His flesh changed under her touch and the accident of rubbing his right nipple was then deliberately repeated on his left. Her hand moved along his ribs to the underside of his arm. From there it slid to his elbow and then to his shoulder. Trailing along his collarbone, her fingers slipped around his neck and toyed with the ends of his dark hair, tugging and ruffling, raising prickles at his nape and sending an excited shiver down the length of his spine.
His palm rested briefly on her hipbone, covering her, learning the shape of her body in the curve of his hand. His fingers fell lower, between her thighs now, and nested intimately in the warm and humid contours of her body. Gradually there was movement. First him, then her. He stroked. She responded. There was a sound at the back of his throat that could be taken as encouragement. Her sigh was acceptance.
Her knee was raised, and slid between his thighs. His leg covered the bare length of hers, and when her exploring hand reached his waist again, he took her wrist and dragged it lower until she was cupping the fullness of his sex. He pressed his body against her so there was the friction of his trousers and her palm as she held him.
Their legs tangled as they moved in unison, she on her back, he nearly on top of her. His mouth sought hers, capturing and silencing the small, agitated moan that had come to her lips. There was no nuance in the kiss. No sipping or delicacy of desiring. The kissing had been left too late for the sweetness of budding passion.
Their mouths were hungry. Their tongues entwined in earnest battle and they shared a single breath. They each pressed their advantage, greedy for pleasure. They took from each other. It was more by accident than design that they gave anything in return.
The pressure of his mouth kept hers open. His tongue swept along the sensitive line of her upper lip, touched the even ridges of her teeth. She drew him to her, unsatisfied with anything except the deepest of his kisses and the hardness of his passion.
It was the gasp they shared, the harsh sound of it when they drew back for breath, that brought them abruptly awake.
For a moment they simply stared.
“Oh, my God.” Nathan fairly leapt away from Lydia. He rolled to the edge of the bed, taking some of the covers with him as he jumped up. He stumbled on the puddle of blankets at his feet, kicked them away angrily, and grabbed his snowy white evening shirt. He put it on inside out, jamming his arms into the sleeves with such force that he rent one of the seams.
The drapes were open. Lightning flashed once, illuminating Lydia’s stricken features. It began to storm in earnest, and the sound of rain against the windows was as loud as marbles hitting glass. Nathan lit a bedside lamp and yanked at the drapes’ tiebacks, letting them fall.
Lydia was sitting with her back against the walnut headboard, her knees drawn up to her chest and her shift covering her like a tent. She was staring at the far wall as if the flicker of light and shadow from the bedside lamp fascinated her.
Nathan studied Lydia’s closed posture, the unyielding set of her mouth and the vacant expression in her dark eyes. Most of her hair had fallen behind her back, but a few sable strands touched her cheek and stood out in stark contrast to the whiteness of her complexion.
“I want to go home now,” she said dully.
He found his vest and consulted his pocket watch. It was nearly four o’clock. “There’s still time,” he said. “We should talk.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Hunter. I think—”
“Nathan,” he said.
She ignored his interruption. “I think you should leave so I can dress.”
“In a moment.”
“Now.”
His tone became hard and gritty. “We’ll talk now. I can imagine the kind of things going on in that virgin’s head of yours and I’m not going to stand by while you cry rape from the top of Nob Hill.” Perhaps she was more like her mother than he first suspected. With what he knew about Madeline, he should have exercised more caution with her daughter.
Lydia finally turned to look at him. His eyes were cold and accusing, and Lydia felt herself recoiling even though she gave no outward sign. “You can imagine any sordid thing you want, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. I’m certainly not going to cry rape. Nothing happened.” She could still feel the heat of his hand on her breast, the caress of his fingers on her thigh and between her legs. Every time she spoke she was aware of her mouth and the things she had been doing with him that did not involve speaking. It wasn’t nothing, she thought, but she would never admit otherwise.
“That’s right,” he said tightly, raking through his hair with his left hand. “Nothing happened.” He could still taste her in his mouth, feel the raspy sweetness of her tongue against his. His skin was warm where she had touched him with her fingertips, and between his thighs, where she had left him aching, he was still hot and hard. “And nothing’s going to happen,” he went on, “so stop looking at me as if you wish it would.”
Lydia stared at him, horrified. “That’s a lie! I’m not wishing any such thing!”
He was. He grabbed his vest, jacket, socks, and shoes and stalked out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. God help him, he thought. He was handling it wrong. All of it. He’d hoped to gain her confidence, not her contempt. He’d never touched a virgin in his life, was never even certain he knew one until Lydia Chadwick, and in less than twenty-fours of meeting her formally he’d had his hands all over her.
He stared at his hands. They were shaking. He dropped his clothes on one of the sofas, padded over the sideboard, and splashed a clean tumbler with bourbon. He raised the glass to his lips, felt the trembling, and finally admitted that he was scared.
Lydia Chadwick held his life in her small, delicate hands and she didn’t even know it. An accusation of rape from her and…He couldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t.
Nathan knocked back his drink and set the tumbler down hard. In the other room he could hear the rustle of clothes and realized Lydia was dressing. He did the same.
Lydia entered the sitting room some ten minutes later.
Her face was freshly scrubbed and her hair had been ruthlessly pulled back, tied at her nap with a scrap of lace from her petticoat. “I’d like a glass of water, please,” she said, standing on the threshold.
“Certainly.” His tone was as flat as hers and just as calm. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever taken place. Nathan poured her water at the sideboard and held it out to her. She crossed the room to take the glass. There was only the slightest pause as she accepted it, careful to place her fingers just so in order not to touch his hand.
“Thank you.” She finished the glass quickly and held it out again.
“More?”
“Please. I can’t remember ever being so thirsty.”
“It’s the alcohol. It does that.” He gave her back the glass. When she was finished this time she placed it on the sideboard. “How’s your head?” he asked.
“Thumping.”
He nodded, expecting nothing less. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “I don’t want to start an argument. I just want you to know that you do not have to escort me home.”
Nathan did not want an argument, either. He chose his words carefully. “I know I haven’t given you any reason to think you’re safe with me, but I made a promise to Father Patrick and Pei Ling that I would see you home. Whatever you think you know about me, I’m a man of my word.” He paused a beat, waiting for her reply. She regarded him steadily and said nothing. “I’ll get your cape.”
Rain lashed at them during their entire journey. There were no cabs on the streets looking for fares, and not many drivers would have asked their horses to climb steep Powell Street under such slippery conditions. Nathan and Lydia were both wet and winded by the time they reached the mansion.
He escorted her to the same side door she had used to make her exit earlier. They stood on the recessed stoop under an eave and caught their breath. The rain was falling so heavily now that it surrounded them like a crystalline curtain. They were facing each other. Nathan was trying to catch Lydia’s eye; she was doing what she could to avoid his stare.
“I’ll come by at seven-thirty to take you to dinner,” he said, speaking softly so as not to wake anyone.
That got Lydia’s full attention, and her features expressed complete disbelief. “You can’t be serious.” But she saw that he was. “I’m not going anywhere with you tomorrow or any other day.”
“You’re reneging on the wager?”
“After what happened a mere hour ago I don’t think your question merits an answer.”
“I see. So you do blame me.”
“I blame myself,” she said quietly. “I blame myself for misinterpreting your character. You’re not so different from any of the others.”
“What others?” he asked.
Lydia turned away, groping for the doorknob.
Nathan took her elbow and spun her roughly toward him. “What others?” Even in the darkness he could sense her fear. Swearing at himself under his breath, he let her go. This time when he repeated his question it was done with forced calm and patience.
Lydia rubbed her elbow where Nathan had grabbed her. She could still feel the press of his fingers. “The others who show any interest in me,” she said. “When I tell them I’m not interested in marriage, they try to find a way to compromise me so I won’t have any choice. I’ve fought off more advances than General Grant and I’m not about to succumb to the dubious charms of a foreigner. How much money do you need, Mr. Hunter? Perhaps I can make a draft for you tomorrow.”
Placing his arms on either side of her shoulders, Nathan cornered her against the door. “You seem to be forgetting something, Miss Chadwick, and since it’s pertinent to this discussion, I find it necessary to point it out. As pleasurable as that little interlude in my suite was, it wasn’t initiated to compromise you. I’m not even certain I initiated it. You could have been any whore in my bed, snoring, stuporous, and smelling of alcohol. I seem to remember you crawling all over me, and I’ll tell that to anyone you go running to. Give me some credit for getting out of that bed as soon as I realized who you were.
“As for wanting your money, put that thought away. Your money’s no good to me. I’m only interested in you, and my intentions are so honorable you’d probably find them insulting.”
His declaration left Lydia unable to speak. He called her a whore in one breath, threatened her in the next, and very nearly plighted his troth in the third.
“Good evening, Miss Chadwick,” Nathan rapped out as he pushed away from the door. He turned and started around the house toward the street.
Lydia watched him go and then twisted the doorknob to enter her home. It wouldn’t open. She tried again. Nothing. Frantically searching the pockets in her cape lining, she came up empty-handed. She pushed at the door even though she knew it was useless. Oh, God, she thought, wanting to do nothing so much as drop where she stood and cry. Instead she swallowed every vestige of her pride and ran after Nathan Hunter.
She caught him before he had gone very far. “Please,” she whispered, urging him away from the street and back toward the shadows of the mansion. “The door’s locked and I haven’t any key. Pei Ling either thought I had one or someone else locked the door after she went to bed. There’s no light in her room; she probably went to bed hours ago.”
Nathan doubted that. Lydia’s maid seemed loyal to a fault and possessed of a little more common sense than her mistress. Pei Ling was far more likely to have fallen asleep in Lydia’s room waiting for her mistress to return. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Help me get inside, of course.”
“Of course. You’re talking about breaking and entering.”
“It’s my home.”
“It’s my neck,” he said coldly, “and your reputation.”
“My reputation will be in shreds if I can’t get back inside by morning. My father’s up at first light and Pei Ling can’t keep him away from my room forever.”
“That’s supposing she’s been successful thus far.”
Lydia tugged on the upper portion of Nathan’s sleeve. The hood of her cape fell back and the rain quickly wet her hair, making it dark and sleek on the crown of her head. “Please,” she repeated. “I have to get back inside. Won’t you help me?”
Nathan was silent for a while, turning over the choices in his mind. Finally he said, “I’ll be here at seven-thirty to take you to dinner. I expect that you’ll be ready.”
“That’s blackmail.”
He shrugged. “That’s my condition.”
Her hand dropped away from his arm. “All right,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll go with you.” When he didn’t move, she added, “You can trust me, Mr. Hunter. I know something about keeping one’s word.”
“Very well. Show me the other entrances.”
Lydia took him around the house. Every door was secured and without so much as hairpin or penknife between them, Nathan couldn’t pick a lock. All the windows on the ground floor had been closed against the rain. He tested every one and found them all to have their latches in place. Not one could be budged.
“It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” Lydia said forlornly.
“Not necessarily. Show me which windows lead to your bedroom.”
“But my room’s on the second floor.”
Nathan put his hands on her shoulders, turned her
around, and gave her a light push in the general direction they had to go. “Show me.”
Lydia’s room was at the rear of the house on the northwest corner. Nathan felt their luck changing when he heard something flapping above him and realized that the drapes had been drawn outside by the wind. That meant an open window. He showed Lydia where her drapes were slapping wetly against the side of the house, but she wasn’t encouraged. It was an incredible height to scale and there were no means of doing it that she could see.
A downspout hugged the face of the mansion, but Nathan knew it would never support his weight. Twenty years ago he would have shimmied up the thing and never thought twice about it. The granite blocks that made up the house’s outer walls were smooth as glass and much too large to make climbing from seam to seam possible.
His eyes strayed to the portico. Its flat roof was also a balcony for some of the rooms on the second floor. If he stood on the stone balustrade, perhaps, just perhaps, he could haul himself up there. “Whose rooms are those?” he asked, pointing to the row of windows and French doors that opened on the balcony.
“The ones farthest from us are my mother’s. The next one belongs to the dressing room she shares with my father. And those last two windows and door are part of my father’s room.” She sighed. The window that was open, the only one they couldn’t reach easily from the portico’s roof, was the one that belonged to her.
“What about the dressing room?” Nathan asked. “If I got up there and found the window wasn’t secured, would I be able to get into the hallway?”
“Not without going through either my mother’s or father’s room.”
“But if they’re—”
Knowing the direction of his thoughts, she held up her hand and cut him off. “My mother and father share a dressing room, not a bed…not anymore. It’s not the sort of thing they’d tell me, but the servants talk. I’ve heard things,” she finished inadequately.
“All right,” he said, “we won’t rely on a sudden passionate reunion to make our task any easier. The dressing room’s not an alternative. We’re back to your room.”
“Oh, but—”
“Let me worry about it.” The first thing he did was to go to the nearest flower bed, choose a few smooth stones, and fling them at Lydia’s window.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, trying to stay his arm. “Who do you think will answer if I’m not there?”
“Your maid.”
“Pei Ling’s not there.”
“Then what about her room? Maybe we can rouse her. It’s better than taking an unnecessary risk.”
Lydia shook her head.
“Why not?” When she didn’t answer immediately, Nathan pressed her again.
“Because she sleeps with my father, that’s why.”
“I see,” he said, whistling softly under his breath. What he saw was that Lydia Chadwick knew a great deal more than Madeline and Samuel probably suspected. It was too dark to see her eyes clearly, but he hadn’t imagined the pain in her voice, the necessity of saying something quickly because it hurt to express it any other way. “Very well,” he went on. “The balcony it is.”
He led Lydia back to the portico. “Once I’m inside your room, go to the side door and wait for me.”
She shook her head. “You can’t do it like that. The door’s not merely latched, it’s locked. The keys are kept in the kitchen pantry. You can’t go traipsing all over the house for them. You’ll drip water and leave a trail everywhere you go. I’ll never be able to clean up after you. I’m going in the house the same way you are.”
Lightning seared the sky again and the low roll of thunder covered Nathan’s sarcastic reply. “Wonderful,” he said. “That’s just bloody wonderful.”
Nathan stripped off his jacket and tossed it over the balustrade. He stretched his arms, working them like windmills until he was limber. He was used to hard labor, digging and hauling, walking and riding, but it had been a long time since he’d been called on to do something this strenuous and inherently dangerous. He made several tentative jumps, testing the spring and stamina of his legs. When he thought he was ready, he stood on the flat stone railing.
On his first attempt he missed the balcony’s overhang completely and nearly sent Lydia sprawling on the portico’s flagstones as he fell off the balustrade. Glaring at her and ordering her to stay out of his way, he climbed back up and came within an inch on his next try. The third and fourth attempts were ultimately failures. Nathan caught the lip of the slippery balcony but could not hold on to pull himself up. He moved to the end of the railing where a smooth granite column supported one corner of the portico’s roof. This time when he jumped, he wrapped his legs around the shaft and half shimmied, half pulled himself upward. When he was high enough he threw one leg up on the lip of the balcony and hauled himself up the rest of the way. Seconds later he was over the balcony’s decorative railing.
Crouching down, Nathan hurried toward the house. Once he was safely at an angle where he couldn’t be seen from the windows, he stood up, leaned back against the sheer wall of the house, and caught his breath. After a few minutes he looked over the edge of the balcony and saw Lydia standing out in the rain again, watching him. He could imagine the cobalt blue eyes, bright with expectancy, wide with worry. At least Nathan hoped she was worried. There was a very good chance he was going to break his neck for her.
Nathan estimated the distance from where he stood to Lydia’s window as a little more than four feet. The face of the house was rain-slick, as slippery and as cold as ice. He couldn’t just lean toward the windowsill and hope to catch it; there was no toehold, no place to wedge his fingers. He would have to make an angled leap, get his hands and arms inside the window without getting tangled in the flapping and slapping drapes, and pray he didn’t knock himself out when he slammed into the house. He was not hopeful. As he recalled, the flowerbed below Lydia’s window was filled with rosebushes.
Wiping a combination of rain and perspiration from his forehead, Nathan paced off three feet at a right angle to the house, knowing that would make his angled leap to the window just about five feet, a distance he thought he could make, or prayed he could. When he found the proper angle and distance he climbed back over the railing, stood on the narrow lip of the balcony, and didn’t give what he was going to do another thought.
Nathan jumped.
His hands caught the drapes. The rods held for a heartbeat before tearing away from the anchoring wall. Nathan felt them give. He scrambled, feeling as if he were flailing in vain, trying to crawl up something that was falling down, then he felt the solidness of the sill and thrust one arm inside the window. He hung there, swinging under Lydia’s window from the momentum of his leap. With strength born of determination and a certain amount of anger, Nathan managed to get his other arm through the window. He felt another seam in his sleeve give way.
His feet slipped on the outer wall of the house as he tried to find purchase. Just pushing off the house helped Nathan raise himself a little higher. With nothing but grit and a prayer, Nathan pulled himself up until he could shoulder his way through the open window. He rested briefly when he got his upper torso in, then slid the rest of the way through until he was facedown on the braided area rug, his arms tangled in the fallen draperies.
He had done cleaner and slicker second-story work, but considering the amount of improvisation involved in this one, Nathan was pleased with his night’s work—so far.
Water puddled on the floor as he stood up. He untangled himself, kicked the braided rug aside, and pushed open the sash as wide as it would go. Leaning out, he waved Lydia over to the window. “Take off your cape and throw it here.” He was gratified to see that she didn’t hesitate to obey.
The cape was heavy with water, and it took two tosses before Nathan caught it. He let it hang out of the window, twisting it so it lost water and formed a tight rope. “Grab the end and hold on. I’ll pull you up.”
Lydia jumped once at the makeshift rope dangling above her and hung on for all she was worth. Within seconds Nathan was hauling her into the bedroom. She stumbled when he set her on the floor and fell into his arms as he steadied her. She stiffened and he, sensing her discomfort, separated himself from her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I could never have gotten here on my own.”
“If I had my way,” he said caustically, “you’d never get out.”
“Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about the Cliff House tomorrow?”
“Today,” he corrected. “In an hour or so this house is going to be waking. And I’m going to hold you to your promise.”
Lydia could only imagine one reason that he would want to. No matter what he said, it had to be her money. He certainly made little effort to hide his dislike for her. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”
Nathan went to the window, hesitated, then, without warning, turned on Lydia and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her deeply, firmly, and swiftly, giving her no time to react, let alone protest. He didn’t give her time to respond later either. Easing himself out the window, he cursed softly in anticipation of the ache in his legs, and jumped.
The next few minutes he spent covering his tracks in the yard and locating his evening coat and putting it on.
He was ready to leave the yard when he heard his name. He looked up, shielding the rain from his eyes with his hand. At the last moment he dodged the missile that came flying from the window: Lydia’s sodden, soiled, and borrowed dress.
“Get rid of it,” she said in a loud whisper. Almost as an afterthought she added, “Please.”
Nathan scooped up the gown and rolled it into a ball. What the bloody hell, he thought. After the fire Lydia had set in his loins, he’d been thinking of returning to Miss Bailey’s anyway.