by Jo Goodman
Nathan had been wondering the same thing, but he didn’t say so. “She’ll be fine. She got in a little over her head this time, I think.”
“That’s Miss Liddy.” There was a certain fondness in her voice that did not go unnoticed by Nathan. “She has the heart of a lion.”
And the straight-thinking sense of a jackaroo, Nathan thought disparagingly. Hell, a tenderfoot on a sheep ranch had more sense than Lydia Chadwick. Nathan took the needle from Lydia’s fingers and gripped her firmly around the wrist, pulling her to her feet in a single motion. She didn’t resist him, a turn of events which Nathan accepted with mixed feelings. He led her into the hallway and down the stairs to Ginny’s room.
The bedroom was warm thanks to a small coal stove tucked in one corner. Nathan watched in some amazement as Lydia meekly complied with his suggestion that she sit on the thickly padded footstool beside it. He poured water from a porcelain pitcher on Ginny’s bureau into the matching bowl and washed his own hands. He carried fresh water over to Lydia. In spite of the warmth, she was chilled through.
He knelt on the floor in front of her. “Here,” he said, lifting the basin to her lap. “Put your hands in here and I’ll wash them off.” He scrubbed her skin with a washcloth, noticing for the first time how small and soft her hands were in comparison to his. Yet he had seen for himself that they were capable hands, as deft and skilled as they were graceful. He thought of his own rum daddles, rough and calloused after more than a decade of hard labor, and realized how inadequate they had been to this evening’s task.
“You have beautiful hands,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
Nathan self-consciously curled his long fingers into fists. He got to his feet quickly, picked up the basin, and emptied it. He rinsed his face at the bureau. Turning to Lydia, Nathan rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. “I left my jacket upstairs. While I’m getting it, I suggest you find something of Ginny’s to wear. You’re about the same size, I think.” When Lydia looked at him blankly, a frown furrowing her dark brows, he pointed to her yellow party gown. “It’s ruined.”
Lydia’s eyes dropped to her ruffled bodice. It was indeed ruined, stained with blood along the edge, at the waist, and where she had absently adjusted her short, puffed sleeves. There were handprints on the skirt of the gown, black now that the blood had had time to dry. “Yes,” she said, nodding once. “You’re right. It’s quite ruined. I can’t go home like this.”
She seemed at a loss as to what to do so Nathan repeated his suggestion.
“Oh, but I don’t think I could wear something of Ginny’s.”
Nathan frowned and asked sharply, “Why? Because it’s a whore’s dress?”
Lydia’s head jerked up. She was not adept at hiding her hurt, and it was there for Nathan to see in the dark blue depths of her eyes. “N-no. Of course not.” Ginny’s clothes won’t fit, she wanted to say, but was too embarrassed. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll think of something.”
Nathan wasn’t certain he trusted her. He opened Ginny’s wardrobe, selected a severely cut sapphire blue evening gown, and tossed it on the four-poster. “Put that on,” he said, brooking no argument. “I’ll ask Ginny just to make certain there’s no problem.” At the door he paused. “Be here when I get back, Miss Chadwick.”
In the attic he helped Ginny clean and dress Charlotte’s body, then take the bloody linens to the washroom in the cellar. Ginny was effusive in her thanks, but Nathan didn’t pay much attention. He hadn’t done anything as far as he was concerned and his motives weren’t as altruistic as Ginny made them sound. When he came to the attic Charlotte and her baby weren’t nearly as important as making himself less repugnant in Lydia’s eyes. He wondered if he had failed because of that. Maybe there was nothing to be gained by doing the right thing for the wrong reasons.
Thirty minutes after he left Lydia, Nathan found himself holding his breath while twisting the brass handle in Ginny’s door. He let it out slowly when he saw Lydia was still in the room. She was standing at the window, her back to him, dressed in the gown he had chosen. She didn’t move when he entered and he wasn’t sure she had even heard him. Yet when he came to stand behind her, her slender shoulders heaved once with a sob she couldn’t contain, and when she turned it was to step into his arms.
Lydia did not question that she should seek comfort and strength in the embrace of Nathan Hunter. For once she put her needs first and she needed someone to hold her now. It had never felt quite so important to have the touch of another human being. She required nothing of him save kindness. She could not know then it did not come easily to this man.
Nathan absorbed her shudders. He felt the damp stain of her tears through his shirt and the soft, silken strands of her hair against the underside of his chin. Her skin held the delicate scent of lilac and the freshness of her, the purity of her spirit touched him unexpectedly. He didn’t know what to do with her; he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He held her loosely, somewhat stiffly, not pressing the sudden advantage the evening’s odd events had given him. It was enough to hold her and let her imagine he was feeling her pain, when in fact he knew little about sharing any emotion.
He wasn’t any better than Brig, he thought, and perhaps he was worse. Lydia was a complete innocent. What chance did she have against either himself or Brigham Moore? Did she even understand the kind of careful calculation and planning that was being used to win her trust? He set Lydia away from him and handed her a handkerchief. “Take this, wipe your eyes, and blow.”
Confused by the harshness in Nathan’s tone, Lydia gave him a watery, tentative smile and thanked him. Just below the surface of her skin she was cold again, and in her heart she was aching with sadness. “We should go, I suppose,” she said finally when he didn’t say anything. She folded the handkerchief neatly and tucked it under the sleeve of her gown. The tatted edge of the handkerchief peeked out to decorate her wrist. “What time is it?”
Nathan consulted his pocket watch on the platinum fob. “Almost midnight.”
“I suppose Papa is beside himself with worry by now.”
“I think Pei Ling told him you were ill and indisposed to visitors. I’m fairly confident Father Patrick will keep your secret as well.”
“And you?”
“Your parents aren’t going to hear about tonight from me.” That would hardly win him a chance at her hand. The Chadwicks most likely frowned on their daughter delivering babies in brothels.
“Good.” She raised her chin a notch, a gesture that Nathan was beginning to recognize as Lydia’s challenging stance. “Then I don’t want to go home just yet,” she said.
Nathan didn’t so much as blink. He wasn’t surprised. Jackaroos did indeed have more sense than Lydia Chadwick. “What is it you want to do?”
“Get drunk.”
She made it seem perfectly reasonable. “Have you ever been drunk, Miss Chadwick?” he asked politely.
“No.”
“Do you even drink?”
She sniffed a shade haughtily. “Of course I do.”
“Wine with your dinner or perhaps you sneak a glass of port after the meal.”
“I drink sherry. In fact, I’ve already had some this evening.”
One of Nathan’s brows was lifted slightly, as was the corner of his mouth. The look of dry amusement was cool and remote on his features. “Oh?” he said blandly.
“You’re laughing at me,” Lydia said. “Go ahead. I don’t know why men can use any excuse to drink themselves silly and a woman can’t even do it when she’s witnessed two deaths in the space of an hour. Charlotte was not my friend, Mr. Hunter, but I had come to know her in these past few months and I think the world’s poorer for her passing. I wanted to offer her baby a good place to live, with people who care, and he never had even the tiniest chance. I couldn’t get a doctor who wasn’t a drunk to come here. I couldn’t make a difference.”
Raising her hand to her mouth, Lydia managed to hold back a harsh sob
. She finished quietly. “Watching Charlotte go like that…the life just seeping out of her…just seeping out.” She forgot about the handkerchief and swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. Impatient with herself, angry about injustice, unfairness, and her own inadequacies, Lydia pushed past Nathan and headed for the door. “I’ll take myself home, thank you.”
Nathan stopped her, hooking his hand around her elbow and bringing her up short. “Oh, no. I promised Pei Ling and Father Patrick—” Lydia tried to shake him off, “—that I would bring you home safely. I don’t—” She yanked harder and found herself brought flush against Nathan’s hard body, “—don’t think it matters if I bring you home drunk.”
Lydia stopped struggling. Her eyes, when she looked up at him, seemed impossibly large for her face. They darted over Nathan’s face, trying to measure his sincerity. “Really?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t really know any places.”
Nathan eased his grip on her elbow. “Does it really matter where we go?”
She shook her head. “But I don’t want to stay here.”
“That wasn’t what I had in mind. What would you say to the Silver Lady?”
“In the gambling hall?”
“In my suite.”
Lydia didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Have you changed your mind?” Nathan asked. It was difficult to read the course of her thoughts as they played on her features now. “You can, you know.”
“No.” The chin was thrust forward again. “No, I haven’t changed my mind.” She hesitated a beat, then said quickly, “I was embarrassed before…in the alley, when you…and then you insisted I go to your room…I didn’t…that is, I’ve never done anything like that before. I couldn’t imagine what you might think of me, or rather I could. That’s why I left. And then you showed up at my party—as my father’s guest. I was…mortified.” She closed her eyes a moment, reliving the memory. “That’s why I treated you so abominably. You’d seen me in that alley with those men. I thought you might believe I was—”
“Asking to be assaulted?” he finished for her.
“Something like that.”
“And you’re telling me now, that even though you’re going to accompany me back to the Silver Lady, it’s strictly because of your newfound interest in liquor.”
“I was?” She flushed a little. “Yes, I suppose I was.”
“What did you think you were saying?”
“Thank you,” she said. “I was trying to say thank you.”
Chapter 3
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 lat
er 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.
