He read the passage where the tip of her finger had come to rest. Though couched in awkward legal language, it was only a provision that set out the same duration on copyright and renewal that was already in the Statute of Anne. No need to include it, really.
Lyman was selfish enough to inch closer and breathe his answer into Della’s ear, instead of speaking aloud. “It only means they can apply to renew the copyright after it expires, but you likely don’t need to worry about that. It lasts fourteen years, and a guidebook won’t have any value after that long.”
She shuddered against the caress of his voice, and it took every ounce of self-control to pull back before he ran his mouth down the small of her neck and tasted the heat of her skin. They weren’t alone. Armstrong or her brother might look over at their whispering anyminute. Lyman pulled back and turned away, looking to the painting on the far wall and struggling to get himself under control. He could read the contract later.
It was nothing. This was nothing. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see that she didn’t understand the words, and he’d whispered in her ear to protect her pride, that was all.
He had a great deal of practice with lying to himself.
They made it through the contract discussions somehow, Armstrong offering explanations to Miss Danby’s brother, who did nothing more than nod and say, “I thoroughly agree,” a few times.
“Would you like to wait and have your solicitor read it over?” Lyman suggested, fearing Miss Danby might be utterly without guidance, if this was the best she had.
“I’d rather have done with it than postpone things further. Tell me, doyouthink it’s a sound deal, Lord Ashton?”
Lyman’s heart began to race. There it was again, that thoughtless trust she had in him. Why should she put herself so completely in the care of a man she barely knew? And with the same confidence she did all things, sure in the knowledge that no one would ever want to harm her.
Because she believes you to be a good man, and you haven’t had the decency to show her what you really are.The thought slithered into his mind unbidden, leaving a trail of slime in its wake.
Do better, then, he told himself, in a futile effort to chase the feeling away.Do the best you can, at least.
Lyman picked the contract back up and skimmed through, looking for any differences with his own agreement.
“You’re only offering sixty pounds for the book?” he observed, raising his eyes to Armstrong. “After I take my share, that’s only forty for Miss Danby. You gave me a hundred and ten for mine.”
“Lord Ashton, surely you see that this book is more of a risk thanyour own. We were confident that readers would want the opinion of a viscount on fashionable life in London. While Miss Danby’s idea has potential, we don’t expect it will reach the same audience.”
“Not thesameaudience.” Lyman agreed. “But their money is the same, isn’t it? I’m sure you can do a bit better than sixty.”
In the end, Armstrong relented and they came out at eighty pounds. Once all had signed and the ink was dry, Lyman saw them out to their carriage, which awaited them on Paternoster.
“Thank you,” Miss Danby’s eyes lingered on him for a long moment. “I appreciate what you did.”
“It was no more than you’ve a right to.” He inclined his head, hoping his discomfort at the praise didn’t show too plainly. He always chafed at compliments.
“Where is your carriage, my lord?” Mr. Danby asked, peering at every coach that happened by, as if one with the Ashton livery might materialize from the fog.
“I walk most everywhere I go,” Lyman admitted, unwilling to lie in front of Miss Danby. Not when she had just placed her trust in him.
“Walk? In town?” Danby couldn’t conceal his surprise at this. A moment later he recollected himself. “Well, I suppose it must come in useful for your books if you know every neighborhood.”
Lyman murmured something like an assent, but Danby didn’t really seem to be listening. He was already on to his next idea.
“It was so wonderful to meet you. Why don’t you call on us sometime? Not for Della’s little project, I mean, purely a social call. We’d love to get to know you better.”
“Oh.” Lyman shot a glance to Miss Danby, but she appeared as unprepared for this turn as he was, her dark eyes growing round. “I—”
“Our parents are having an intimate get-together the Friday afternext,” Danby continued, without seeming to realize that he’d just interrupted a viscount. “You should join us.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.” Miss Danby and her brother were too young to have run in the same circles as he had nine years ago, but their parents might recall his marriage to Ellen and its unsavory conclusion. He doubted he’d be as welcome as Peter Danby presumed.
“Nonsense. You’d be doing us a service. My parents are always trying to getthisone to join us more often, instead of—” Danby cut himself off without finishing his sentence, a mild panic contorting his features.
“It’s all right, Peter,” Miss Danby said, in a tone of long-suffering patience. “Lord Ashton already knows about my club.”
“Ah.” Her brother drew a breath, his shoulders loosening. “Yes, of course. Well, as you can imagine, they do wish she’d attend the usual events a bit more often instead of frittering away all her time at that chocolate house.”
“If they wanted me at the rout, they might have scheduled it on a Monday, when they know I’m free.” Though her manner was easy, Miss Danby’s eyes had lost their usual warmth.
