Bound by Your Touch (10 page)

The war between her wills played out on her face. It took her a full minute to give in to temptation, but that was no surprise. He had already gathered she was bloody-minded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "What fault?"

"Why, what but pride, Miss Boyce. You think a great deal of your intelligence."

She pursed her lips. The movement exposed a hint of dimple. In conjunction with her starchy manner, it seemed wholly incongruous. A mere anatomical fluke, he told himself, just a trick of her tightened lips. Nevertheless, he found himself staring at it, wondering what he might do to make it deepen. Breathy gasps, flashing dimples: the idea came to him that Miss Boyce s body liked to sabotage her.

"Of course I do. I'm a woman. If I don't think highly of my intellect, who will?"

He wrested his eyes from the dimple. Such a peculiar mix of affront and bravado. Her sisters were the acknowledged beauties, but Miss Boyce had her own charms—made particularly visible now, in the context of her improvisational honesty. Her eyes were alert with intelligence. The other night, he had looked into them and discovered they were heavy-lidded. This gave her a perpetually sleepy appearance, so she looked always as if she had just risen from bed. He smiled, suddenly won over. She had risked her own comfort to come here. Let her have her victory. "Touche, darling."

She did not like the endearment. Her face, so bright when she defended her learning, went as dark as a shuttered window. "But let me come to the point. You must wonder why I'm here."

"To beg forgiveness for your fathers foul deeds, I suppose."

Her mouth tightened further. Christ, but that dimple conspired against her. It drew attention to her mouth, which was overly wide and completely unfashionable, and suggested prospects that were not appropriate to the moment. Or, for that matter, precisely legal.

Amusement stirred in him. Odd, unexpected, and undeniable: he was wholly attracted to her. At some primal level, his body took note of hers. The imperative it issued was blunt and unpolished: five thousand years ago, he would have dragged her off to a cave somewhere. And no doubt Miss Boyce of the Stone Age, bereft of an education to sharpen her tongue, would have sharpened a rock instead, and neatly gutted him.

He realized that she was nearing some conclusion. "Sorry, I missed that. Can you start over?"

Her gaze leveled on him. She had resolved not to be provoked: it was clear in the set of her jaw. "I will repeat it very slowly," she said, in the manner that mothers used with recalcitrant three-year-olds. "I know that my coming here is beyond the bounds—"

"Even when you break the rules, you insist on reminding me of them? Really, Miss Boyce, have mercy."

Her voice sharpened. "But I wanted to appeal to you in person."

"Oh, you do."

Her eyes widened briefly. She started to say something, then thought better of it. No doubt she had interpreted his statement correctly, but did not want to believe it. Poor Miss Boyce. This sober, tight-laced scholar, trapped against her will in a figure that smelled like flowers and communicated with his body in a secret language that perhaps even she did not recognize. No wonder she swaddled herself. The thought of inadvertendy soliciting male attentions must no doubt appall her.

"Listen," she said, and came to her feet. "I paid a visit to Mr. Carnelly."

"Did you?" It did not surprise him, for some reason, that she would feel entided to bowl into the East End. "How was it? Did you sample the chestnuts? They're very tasty."

She rolled her eyes. Pretty eyes, the exact shade of a harvest moon. Her best feature, he thought. And then, as she began to pace the perimeter of his carpet, he revised his opinion. When Miss Boyce moved, she . . . bounced. He turned to follow her progress. Oh, yes. While the lady did not seem desirous of providing entertainment, she also seemed unable to prevent herself. She walked as though there were springs in her feet. Some forgotten governess had
^-
no doubt despaired over these long, bouncy strides.

He realized he was smirking like a schoolboy. Embarrassing, really. The woman took less note of him that she would of Canadian rubbish. Still, he could not resist his curiosity. "Do you hunt?" He could see her as a horsewoman; she was what his Scottish nanny might have termed a strapping lass. Since it produced such serendipitous effects, top to bottom, he could not mind it.

She pivoted. The violence of her movement suggested some strong emotion, and her fingers were twined together before her, pressed into her skirts like a secret prayer. But her face and voice remained composed. "No, I dislike horses. And please let us stick to the point, Viscount. I regret to tell you that your conjecture was correct. The forgery did originate from my fathers shipment."

He smiled. "How kind of you to confirm what I already know. Perhaps next you'll introduce me to myself. I hear I'm very popular."

The dimple peeked out. He silently congratulated himself. "However," she said with emphasis, "the forgery's inclusion does not mean my father had knowledge of it. I believe the shipment was sabotaged—the correct piece switched for the false one. At any rate, I have wired to Egypt. I'll let you know when I learn more."

"I see," said James. "So, you've come to tell me that while my facts are correct, your conjectures should sway me to disavow them?"

She blinked. His vocabulary had startled her. Oh, she was too easy. She fell into her preconceptions of him as easily as a fish into water. "No," she said, but her denial sounded uncertain. "Only that I wish to—oh, to apologize, I suppose, for the horrendous mix-up. It could never have occurred to me that your accusations were sound—although misdirected, of course."

She spoke all the right words, Miss Boyce did. But the stiff set of her shoulders, and the fisting of her hands, suggested that apologizing felt about as pleasant as a sword through the stomach. "Manners," he said sympathetically. "Very tedious. I suggest you shelve them. I don't miss them at all."

"Yes, I can see how they proved inconvenient for you." Her manner was so dry that it took a moment to recognize he was being mocked. He gave her an encouraging laugh. She had a great deal of potential, really. A little less starch and she would be as interesting as her dimple.

"Tell me," he said. "Why should I believe that it was a mix-up at all? How do I know your father isn't deliberately importing forgeries, and passing them off on the strength of his reputation?"

"He would never do such a thing," she said immediately.

"Oh? How do
you
know?"

Her response gave him a brief insight into the life of a carnival freak. She looked wholly taken aback by him—and then, all at once, very pitying. "He is my
father?
she said, in a tone that suggested he might be unfamiliar with the concept. "I know him better than anyone, sir—and so I know that this crime is so far beneath him that the very idea is laughable. However, I understand that you are unacquainted. I will ask you to take it on faith."

"A fine idea," he said. "I'll be glad to take it on faith, if you can explain to me why so many people count it as a virtue. By definition, after all, faith is rooted in ignorance."

She made a sound beneath her breath, a wordless
hmpfr.
clearly, with this remark, he had exceeded her lowest expectations. "Of course, I also intend to compensate you for the mistake. I will purchase the forgery for the same price you paid in expectation of a legitimate antiquity. I hope you don't mind that Mr. Carnelly gave me the figure for it?" She opened her reticule and began to fumble about. "This will put an end to the matter, I expect."

She had it all sorted, didn't she? A proper little businesswoman. Alas for her, he was not terribly in need of money. "I will give you the stela," he said.

She looked up from her purse. "For free?"

The surprised pleasure in her voice had him grinning. He could admire an honest greed. "Not precisely. I do want something in exchange."

She looked wary now. Smart girl "What would that be?"

He drew out the moment with a poetic pause. "Why . .. only a kiss."

Color flooded her cheeks. "You're joking."

"Not at all. Do you know, Miss Boyce, I dropped a hundred pounds last night trying to entertain myself. But I must say, the amusement you provide me, merely by enacting the role of righteous justice-seeker—well, I couldn't put a price on it."

Her chest heaved magnificently. He felt a pang of loss that she was not in evening wear. These horrendous redingotes buttoned right up to a woman's throat. "You are a—"

"Boor," he said, coming to his feet. "Wastrel, rapscallion, heathen, savage, consumer of rubbish, dandy. Yes, I know. I don't profess otherwise. But I think it's a fair trade. You may have your forgery, and my discretion, for two minutes of friendly fun."

"Minutes!" She was gawking at him so vigorously that he could see the rims of white around her remarkable irises. She took a step back. "What on earth!"

Had no one ever kissed her for that long? It just got better and better. He gave her a deliberately dark smile. It sent her back another step. Did she realize what sort of power she gave him, with that simple litde move? "Against the wall again," he observed. "Seems we're uncovering a deviant bent. I quite like that."

She looked around frantically, as if only now realizing that she'd come to the end of the room. "I ... I cannot."

It was fabulous how seriously she took such a little thing as a kiss. One would think he'd asked Joan of Arc to barter her virginity to expedite the second coming of the Lord. "You must have been raised in a cave," he murmured. "I don't think even country girls have a leg up on your naivete."

By sheer luck, he'd said exacdy the right thing. Her chin came up. Her eyes narrowed. Apparently she did not like to consider herself naive. He tucked that piece of information away for future consultation.

"Very well," she said flatly. "But I will have your word: one kiss, and the stela is mine, free and clear. And you will cease slurring my rather!"

"My word," he said. "For two minutes."

With the dignity of a rebel facing a firing squad for political principles, she lifted her face and shut her
eyes.
"Do it," she said between her teeth.

His breath caught. It was the most erotic thing he'd heard in recent memory. The words seemed to take hold of his groin and give a tug.

Oh yes, he had definitely grown perverse. About time, really. "Brace yourself," he whispered, and fought a laugh as she took a tremendous breath, like a diver launching into deep waters.

Lydia expected an attack. What else might she anticipate, when he had issued such a warning? But all he did was set his mouth, very gently, to hers.

She held still and tried not to breathe on him. His lips were warm. She smelled mint again. Did he chew on the leaves? It was not, precisely, unpleasant. As the moment drew out and he did nothing alarming, the muscles in her neck began to unwind. She'd been expecting a kiss like Georges—some rough, bruising contact, full of design. But the viscount seemed content to stand there. Well, it shouldn't surprise her; he seemed lazy by nature. How many seconds had passed now? Surely they were halfway through.

A puff of warm air hit her: his mouth had parted a little. He was laughing, a silent gust of humor.