If the impulse to touch and taste had been less ferocious, he would have surrendered, as he usually did to such impulses. But he’d felt this powerful pull before, in Vinegar Yard, and he wouldn’t play the fool again.
“All you had to do was smile,” he said. “And bat your eyelashes and thrust your bosom in his face, and Crenshaw would have done whatever you wanted.”
She gazed at him unblinkingly for the longest time. Then, from a pocket hidden in her black skirts’ heavy folds, she fished out a small notebook and a stump of a pencil.
“I had better write this down,” she said. “I do not want to lose one priceless syllable of wisdom.” She made an elaborate ceremony of opening the battered notebook and licking the pencil point. Then she bowed her head and wrote. “Smile,” she said. “Bat eyelashes. What was the other thing?”
“Things,” he corrected, leaning closer to read what she’d written. “Plural. Your breasts. You stick them under his nose.”
Hers were right under his and mere inches from his itching fingers.
She wrote down his instructions with a ludicrous appearance of intense concentration: eyes narrowed, the tip of her pink tongue caught between her teeth.
“It’ll be more effective if you wear something lower cut,” he added. “Otherwise, a fellow might wonder whether you’re hiding a deformity.”
He wondered whether she had any inkling of the ferocious temptation the long parade of buttons represented, or of how the masculine cut of her garments only made a man more conscious of the womanly form they so rigidly encased. He wondered what evil witch had brewed her scent, a devilish mixture of smoke and lilies and something else he couldn’t put a name to.
His head dipped lower.
She looked up at him with the smallest of smiles. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you take the pencil and notebook and jot down all your fantasies, in your own dear little hand. Then I shall have a keepsake of this delightful occasion. Unless, that is, you’d rather breathe down my neck.”
Very slowly, so as not to appear disconcerted, he drew back. “You also need lessons in anatomy,” he said. “I was breathing in your ear. If you want me to breathe down your neck, you shouldn’t wear such high collars.”
“Where I want you to do your breathing,” she said, “is in Madagascar.”
“If I’m bothering you,” he said, “why don’t you hit me?”
She closed the small notebook. “Now I understand,” she said. “You made the fuss in St. James’s Street because I was hitting someone else, and you don’t want me to hit anyone but you.”
His heart sped from double to triple time. Ignoring it, he gave her a pitying look. “You poor dear. All this scribbling has given you a brain fever.”
To his vast relief, the carriage halted.
Still wearing the pitying expression, Vere opened the door and very gently helped her out. “Do get some sleep, Miss Grenville,” he said solicitously. “Rest your troubled brain. And if you don’t recover your reason by morning, be sure to send for a doctor.”
Before she could frame a retort, he gave her a light shove toward her door.
Then, “Crockford’s,” he told the driver, and quickly reentered the hackney. As he pulled its door shut, Vere saw her glance back. She flashed him a cocksure smile before turning and sauntering, hips swaying, to the drab house’s entrance.
Lydia had a natural talent for mimicry that allowed her to slip easily into another’s personality and mannerisms. According to Ste and Effie, Lydia’s father had possessed similar abilities. He’d failed as a thespian, apparently, because theatrical success required hard work as well as aping skills, and all he worked hard at was drinking, gaming, and whoring.
She’d put the gift to better use. It helped her capture on paper with vivid accuracy the personalities of those she wrote about.
It had also helped her develop fairly quickly a degree of camaraderie with her male colleagues. Her rendition of Lord Linglay’s speech in the House of Lords months earlier had won her an invitation to her fellow writers’ Wednesday night drinking bouts at the Blue Owl tavern. Nowadays, the weekly gatherings were considered incomplete if Grenville of the Argus wasn’t there to do one of her hilarious impersonations.
This night, Lydia entertained Tamsin—whose new name, Thomasina Price, was eschewed in private—with a lively re-enactment of the encounter with Ainswood.
They were in Lydia’s bedroom. Tamsin sat upon the foot of the bed watching Lydia perform before the fireplace.
Though Lydia’s usual audience tended toward the latter stages of intoxication, and Tamsin was sober, she laughed as hard as the men usually did.
At least the girl was amused, Lydia thought as she took her bows. Lydia ought to be as well, but her customary detachment eluded her. It was as though her soul were a house in which nasty things had suddenly taken to crawling out of the woodwork.
Restless and uneasy, she moved to her dressing table, sat, and started unpinning her hair.
Tamsin watched her for a few minutes. Then, “Men are such odd creatures,” she said. “And I begin to think the Duke of Ainswood is one of the oddest. I cannot quite make out what he’s about.”
“He’s one of those people who can’t abide peace and quiet,” Lydia said. “If there isn’t a stir, he has to make one. He constantly picks fights, even with his good friends. I’d thought people exaggerated about his troublemaking. But I’ve seen for myself. He can’t let well enough alone. It wasn’t enough to simply put me in the hackney and send me on my way, for instance. He must plague me all the way home as well. I’m not at all surprised that Dain pounded him a while back. Ainswood would try the patience of a saint.”
“I had not heard Lord Dain was a saint,” Tamsin said with a little chuckle. “From what I can gather, he and the duke are two sides of the same coin.”
“That may be, but Ainswood had no business picking a fight with him on his wedding night.” Lydia scowled into the small mirror. “The brute might have considered Lady Dain’s feelings at least.”
She didn’t know why she was still so outraged about the mill in Amesbury.
Dain was nothing to her except a very distant relative. Her mother had come from a lowly cadet branch of the Ballisters, and they’d ceased to admit her existence once she had married John Grenville. So far as Lydia knew, no living person was aware of her connection to the Ballisters, and she was determined to keep it that way. The trouble was, she couldn’t keep herself from caring about Dain, though he was, as Tamsin said, Ainswood’s match in wickedness.
Lydia had stood outside St. George’s Church, Hanover Square, on Dain’s wedding day. Like her fellow journalists, she’d come only for the story. But when Dain had emerged from the church with his bride, his ebony eyes glowing in a most unsatanic way while his lady looked up so lovingly into his dark, harsh countenance…Well, the long and short of it was, Lydia had come perilously near bawling—in public, amid a crowd of her fellow reporters, no less.
It was absurd, but she’d felt an aching affection for him ever since, and an even more ludicrous protectiveness.
She’d been furious with Ainswood when she’d heard how he’d spoiled Dain’s wedding night with the stupid brawl, and the anger lingered, against all reason.
Tamsin’s voice broke into her thoughts. “But the duke was highly intoxicated, wasn’t he?”
“If he could keep on his feet and utter coherent sent
ences, he couldn’t have been as drunk as people seem to believe,” Lydia said. “You have no idea the capacity such men have for liquor, especially overgrown louts like Ainswood.” Her eyes narrowed. “He was only pretending to be blind drunk. Just as he pretends to be stupid.”
“Yes, and that’s what I meant about finding his behavior so odd,” Tamsin said. “He isn’t in the least inarticulate. Obviously, it wants a very quick intelligence to keep up verbal sparring with you, Lydia. If that had been a stupid man in the carriage, I’m sure you would have tied his tongue in knots. Instead…” She paused, frowning. “Well, it’s difficult to say who won tonight’s war of words.”
“It was a draw.” Lydia took up her brush and angrily dragged it through her hair. “He had the last word, but that was only because of the push he gave me before I could answer. And shoving me was so childish, I could scarcely keep a straight face, let alone trust myself to say anything without going off into whoops.”
“Oh, look what you’re doing!” Tamsin cried. “You’ll be tearing out clumps of hair and making red welts in your skin.” While she spoke, she came off the bed and crossed to the dressing table. “Let me do it.”
“You’re not my maid.”
Tamsin took the brush from her. “If you’re vexed with His Grace, you should not take it out on your own scalp.”
“He let Crenshaw get away,” Lydia said tightly. “And now he’ll make himself scarce, the swine, and Mary Bartles will have to go home and be treated like filth. She isn’t like the others—”
“I know, you told me,” Tamsin said.
“She isn’t used to hard treatment,” Lydia went on angrily, despite the soothing strokes of the brush. “Men are so despicable. He will get away without doing a dratted thing for the poor girl.”
“Perhaps the duke will speak to him,” Tamsin said.
Lydia jerked away from the brush. “What the devil does he care?” she cried. “I told you what he said after reading Mary’s note. He went straight back to provoking me.”
“Perhaps his pride would not allow—”