She tried to pull her hand away, get it free of his, but he would not allow it.
“Have you never considered marriage?” he asked, leaning closer still.
Psyche hesitated, her heart pounding. If she told him yes she had, he would no longer think himself safe with her and she would lose what little time she had left with him. And yet—
“Have you?” he persisted, his hand still holding hers.
She swallowed a sigh. “Of course not,” she replied, keeping her voice bright and teasing. “Don’t you remember? A woman needs a husband like a fish needs wings.”
The strangest expression crossed his face. It could not be disappointment, perhaps it was distaste, because she had repeated her unwomanly sentiment yet one more time.
Then his face cleared and he chuckled, patting her hand again. “Of course. I had rather forgotten. Too bad.”
Too bad about what? Psyche wanted to know, finally able to withdraw her fingers. But while she was trying to muster the courage to ask, Professor Davy called the audience to order and began his lecture.
Nitrous oxide, as laughing gas was rightly called, appeared to be a most interesting chemical. But Psyche found the professor’s lecture difficult to follow. She had no need to inhale any gas to induce giddiness—the earl’s presence was more than sufficient to make her lightheaded—and the professor, though his style of delivery was lively, seemed to suffer from a kind of awkwardness with words which made his thoughts somewhat abstruse. Added to that was her own inability to keep her mind off the earl.
Finally she gave up and let her thoughts slip where they would. She recalled every minute she had spent with the earl, second by second, savoring her memories. They would have to last a lifetime, those memories, since if before she had not married because she did not love, now she would not marry because she did love. She loved the best catch in London, a man determined not to be caught, a man who sought her company only because it was safe.
She sighed and stirred restlessly in her chair, turning so she could see Amanda. The girl was gazing at the stage with rapt attention. And beyond her Overton sat scowling fiercely.
The earl leaned closer, letting his eyes feast on Psyche. If only there were some way to tell what she was thinking. “A useful emotion, jealousy,” he ventured. “Amanda plays it well.”
Psyche merely nodded, her face grave.
“Do you think jealousy a useful emotion?” he asked.
She frowned, obviously puzzled. “Useful in what way?”
He smiled. “In bringing people together.” He was treading on dangerous ground here and he knew it, but he wanted to hear her thoughts on the matter, to discover what she believed. Or just to hear the sound of her sweet voice.
She nodded. “I’ve heard of such things but—”
Professor Davy looked out over the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I need a volunteer. Some good soul who will be willing to demonstrate how this amazing gas dulls the senses and obviates pain.”
The professor waited, but there was no response from the audience. “Come now,” he called. “It’s not dangerous. Not at all.”
People looked at each other, twittering nervously, but still no one replied. The earl leaned toward Psyche. “I dare you,” he whispered, mischief in his eyes.
“Oh no.” Psyche frowned. She didn’t intend to be made a fool of, to perform some ridiculous thing while people watched, and laughed at her. She smiled at him with artificial sweetness. “Why don’t you go?”
He shook his head. “I have already experienced the effects of the gas.” He frowned and stroked his chin. “So, it appears I am to be disappointed today. I thought Lady Bluestocking was game for anything.”
He was doing it again! Throwing Lady Bluestocking up to her! Daring her! But she wouldn’t take this bait. She couldn’t.
And then Amanda spoke. “Oh, guardian,” she cried. “How disappointing! No one is volunteering. I know! I shall do it myself.”
Overton practically growled. “You’ll do no such thing.”
Amanda pouted prettily. “But, guardian, I want to see—”
“I will do it,” Overton said, rising to his feet and starting forward.
Psyche turned quickly to the earl. “I never thought-”
“Nor I,” he returned, a bemused expression creeping over his face.
Overton reached the front of the room. He looked rather stiff. Psyche thought, and more than a trifle anxious, but he straightened his shoulders.
“Ah,” cried Professor Davy. “We have a volunteer. Come forward, brave soul, and let us see you.”
Overton stepped forward, smiling nervously. “What must I do?”
“You simply lean over here,” Professor Davy indicated. “And breathe deeply.”
Overton sent Amanda a look that said “I’m doing this for you” and then he bent over the retort.
A few moments later he was laughing and cavorting around the work bench like a man possessed.
Psyche frowned. “He’s going to be up in the boughs when he finds out what a fool he’s made—” But the earl was already on his feet.
He reached the front of the room just as Overton took another big whiff of the gas and began to sway dizzily. “Come on, old fellow,” the earl said firmly. “Come back to your seat.”
Overton smiled crookedly. My word. Psyche thought, the man behaves as though he’s foxed. Laughing gas appeared to be quite a powerful intoxicant.
The earl led Overton back to his seat, one arm firmly around his shoulders, and pressed him down. “Sit still now,” he ordered. “Till the effects of the gas wear off.”
Overton scowled and started to get up, but Amanda put a determined hand on his arm. “Really, guardian she said, her voice sweet yet steady. “You must rest for a minute.”
“Don’t call me guard—guardian,” Overton mumbled. “Call-call me Phil-Phillip.”
Amanda blinked, obviously surprised by such a request. Then she gazed up at him with adoring eyes. “Yes, Phillip. You are so brave, so strong.”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing to it. Just breathe.”
“Still,” Amanda insisted. “It was very brave.”
Amanda’s eyes glowed with love. Psyche swallowed a sigh. Couldn’t that fool Overton see?
Georgie leaned forward from her place on Overton’s other side. “Really, Overton, it was rather brave. Some men would never consider doing such a thing.” She sent Gresham a sharp look. “Some men don’t care about the women they’re with.”
Gresham flushed, obviously hurt. Why didn’t Georgie have more care for the man’s feelings?
“It’s all a silly business,” Psyche intervened. “And may even be dangerous. Professor Davy may know a great deal about this gas, but he cannot know everything.”
Georgie shrugged. “If it were dangerous, the Institution wouldn’t allow these demonstrations.”
Psyche had no answer for that and, though she did change her position to smile at Gresham, the man looked distinctly uncomfortable. Georgie was being most unfair to him. If the earl had ever felt about her as Gresham did about Georgie, Psyche thought, she would never-- Smiling, she turned to Georgie. “Why don’t you go? Surely a woman is just as capable as a man of breathing.”
Beside her, the earl made a startled noise, but she ignored him and continued to watch Georgie.
Georgie hesitated for a few minutes, then she got to her feet and looked at Gresham. “Psyche is right. I will not ask you to do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Though Gresham looked a little green around the gills, he jumped to his feet, too. “I won’t allow you to do it alone.”
Georgie grinned. “Then we’ll do it together. We’ll be part of a scientific experiment.”
“About as scientific as the learned pig!” Psyche muttered.
But Amanda was concerned with Overton, who was still giggling inanely, and Georgie and Gresham were on their way to the work bench where Professor Davy beamed a welcome. Only the earl responded, probably only he had
heard.
“I believe,” he whispered, “that the learned pig is somewhat more entertaining.”
Psyche smiled. “He was amusing.”
The earl stored this information, along with wonder at the beauty of her smile. He would have to see that they visited Farrington’s Folly again. Anywhere that Psyche wanted to go, he would take her. Strange, he thought, how she had invaded his life, taken it over to a degree that he had allowed no other woman, never thought of allowing another woman. And yet he liked it.
He glanced at Overton, still grinning like a silly ass. The man didn’t know it yet, but he’d given himself away with that request that Amanda use his name. Amanda would do it, all right, and hearing his Christian name on the lips of the woman he loved would sink him deeper in the mire.
The earl smiled and shifted his weight, bringing him a few inches closer to Psyche. He was not a man to give up. Someday Psyche would be his. He sighed. But this waiting was getting on his nerves.
Of course, Georgie should know more about a woman’s feelings than he did. The workings of the female mind had always been a mystery to him, though previously he’d had no trouble getting what he wanted. He had no doubt practically any woman in the ton would find him a suitable husband. But Psyche was not any woman, she was Lady Bluestocking.
Psyche leaned forward. Gresham and Georgie had reached the stage. Gallantly, Gresham went first. His face had turned so pale that even at a distance his freckles were visible. He ran a hand through his hair, looking like an awkward schoolboy.
“Just lean over,” the professor encouraged. “Take a deep breath.”
Gresham gave Georgie a strange look and then he inhaled. He straightened, smiling idiotically. “Nothing to it,” he cried, bending again. He took several more breaths. “Nothing at all.”
He straightened again and waved a hand grandly at Georgie. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and while they watched in shock the man slowly sank to the floor.
“Gresham!” Georgie screamed, rushing to break his fall.
The earl was instantly on his feet, hurrying forward to help.
“It’s nothing to worry about.” Professor Davy soothed the murmuring crowd. “The gentleman just inhaled too much, too rapidly. He will recover as soon as he breathes in some regular air.”
When the earl had helped her lay Gresham flat, Georgie got to her feet. “This is terrible,” she cried, rounding on the startled professor. “You should not be allowed to do such—”
“Georgie!” The earl saw that he must take things in hand immediately or he would have a hysterical female on his hands. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her off to one side. “Easy now, Georgie. Gresham will be all right. I’ve seen it happen before.” He shook her lightly. “And besides there’s no need for you to act the fishwife. Why, the way you’re carrying on a man would think—”
She started up at him, tears in her incredible blue eyes, and then it came to him. How could he not have noticed it before? “Good Lord, Georgie! You and Gresham?”
“Quiet!” She looked around, then glared at him. “No one must know. You’ll spoil our plans for you and Psyche.”
“But, Georgie, the man’s head over heels and you don’t give him any hope.”
“He has hope,” Georgie said, a little smile creeping over her face. “And when we have you and Psyche safely wed, I may listen to him with more willingness.”
Her smile broadened. “This was a brave thing he did today. He was frightened but he did it for me. I admire him for it.” She frowned at the earl. “But you needn’t tell him so, understand?”
“Of course I understand. You and Gresham! Well, I’ll be!” He sighed. “Tell me, Georgie. How much longer is it going to take? When will Psyche be mine?”
Georgie sighed, too. “I can’t tell. You know love can’t be rushed.”
Oh yes, he knew that very well. And he knew something else: The minute Overton discovered his love for Amanda, he himself meant to propose to Psyche. And if he had to follow her back to Sussex and camp on her doorstep like a Gypsy till she said yes, well, he would do that, too.
Chapter Sixteen
In the days that followed the earl saw to it that the six of them frequented most of the sights of fashionable London: the tower, the menagerie, Bullock’s, the exhibition of art at the Royal Academy. He arranged excursions to every conceivable attraction within driving distance and almost always, except when Georgie insisted on doing the jealousy thing, he paired himself with Psyche.
She told him that male callers flocked to the house on Grosvenor Square, but Amanda spurned each and every one. And those who still persisted, Overton turned off with harsh words. But the man still made no move himself.
And so one August afternoon, having exhausted all of London’s attractions, the earl scheduled a return to Farrington’s Folly. Helping Psyche descend from the carriage, he found himself wishing, as he had so often lately, that Overton would stop being such a pompous ass and recognize what was so obviously before his eyes. But the man simply refused to see. And Amanda, no matter what anyone said to her, adamantly refused to even consider another man.
The earl swallowed a sigh. And then there was Psyche! Psyche was always pleasant, not cruel to him as Georgie was on occasion to Gresham. And sometimes the earl was sure—or almost sure—that what he saw in Psyche’s eyes was much more than friendship. But still he hesitated.
Perhaps he only thought he saw, perhaps it was wishful thinking on his part, perhaps to Psyche he was only a friend. And if that were true, a proposal of marriage would surely make her see him as no friend at all—and she would drive him from her side in anger and frustration.
He tucked her arm in his—at least she allowed him that—and followed the others into the museum.
Amanda, hanging on Overton’s arm, was looking up at him in that sickening way of young females in love. The earl stifled another sigh. The chit looked ridiculous, all wide-eyed and glowing like that. And yet—he would give a great deal to have Psyche gaze at him in that very same way.
He glanced down at her, but as usual she was looking around. No wide-eyed awe from Lady Bluestocking. In fact, sometimes she scarcely spoke to him at all.
He glanced at the exhibit before which they had halted, a rather sorry arrangement of primitive weapons presided over by a harshly painted wooden figure. From the looks of its feathered headdress, this display was supposed to portray savages from the Americas.
“Fierce-looking devil, isn’t he?” he inquired, bending to Psyche.
She smiled. “Yes. And I suppose even fiercer if one met him when she was alone and defenseless.”
His heart rose up in his throat at the picture—Psyche, his beautiful Psyche, at the mercy of some heathen savage. He swallowed. Thank God such a thing couldn’t happen here. This was a civilized—
A shriek echoed from the interior of the museum. It was followed by another—and then a whole series of screams and shrieks, cries and yells. Pandemonium broke loose and people came rushing out, streaming down the corridor, shoving and trampling all before them.
The earl did not stop to think, but immediately swung Psyche behind him, backing her into a corner against the wall, imposing his own body between her and the panicked crowd. Whatever was out there causing such terror, it would reach Psyche only over his dead body. He braced himself and waited.
Behind him, Psyche stood silent, her heart pounding, her cheek pressed against his back. Everything had happened so fast—the screams, the pandemonium, the rioting crowd. She supposed she ought to be frightened—something was certainly very wrong here.
And yet the pounding of her heart, the trembling of her limbs—those were not due to fear at all, but to the inescapable fact that the earl’s body was pressing her into the wall, into safety. Except, of course, that what she felt for him left her far from safe.
She waited, every sense alert, every nerve recording the feel of his broad back, his strong shoulders against her. And then, inexplicably,
the earl began to laugh, deep hearty laughter. He didn’t sound hysterical—and of course he was not a man to be frightened. But this was not a matter for laughter either.
She tried to peer around him, but his shoulders were so broad there wasn’t enough room, she could see nothing. She tugged at his sleeve. “Southdon! Tell me! Please. What is so funny?”
He stepped aside, so suddenly that she almost fell and he had to put out a hand to catch her by the elbow.
She caught her breath and then she saw. “Why, it’s Toby, the learned pig.”
“Yes,” said the earl.
“But why--”
“Apparently he was running loose and he frightened someone, thus causing the riot.”
She drew herself erect, straightening her bonnet, painfully conscious that the earl was no longer as close to her as she would like. “I— Thank you. You—you risked your life for me.”
She gazed up at him, but he said nothing. If only this rescue meant something, something special to him. But it didn’t. He had rescued her before. Should the occasion arise he would rescue her again. He was that sort of a man.
But standing there in the deserted exhibit room, hanging onto his arm, Psyche faced the truth. She had made a real mess of things by coming to London. Every day that passed made her love the earl more, made her see how impossible that love was. And every day that passed made her feel the pain more deeply.
She had to get Amanda married. And then Lady Bluestocking had to return to the country. Given time—years perhaps—she might be able to forget the earl. Though she doubted it.
His dark face was full of concern. “Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She almost laughed at the irony of it. “No,” she murmured. “I am fine. But what happened?”
His frown smoothed out. “Evidently the pig ran amok. Five hundred pounds of porker coming at one could be rather frightening.”
Psyche sighed. “Yes, but—” She pointed toward the pig, now squatting complacently on his haunches and examining his front feet. “How can anyone be afraid of Toby?”
The earl shrugged. “In a crowd panic is easily aroused.”
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