She ignored his interruption. “I think you should leave so I can dress.”
“In a moment.”
“Now.”
His tone became hard and gritty. “We’ll talk now. I can imagine the kind of things going on in that virgin’s head of yours and I’m not going to stand by while you cry rape from the top of Nob Hill.” Perhaps she was more like her mother than he first suspected. With what he knew about Madeline, he should have exercised more caution with her daughter.
Lydia finally turned to look at him. His eyes were cold and accusing, and Lydia felt herself recoiling even though she gave no outward sign. “You can imagine any sordid thing you want, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. I’m certainly not going to cry rape. Nothing happened.” She could still feel the heat of his hand on her breast, the caress of his fingers on her thigh and between her legs. Every time she spoke she was aware of her mouth and the things she had been doing with him that did not involve speaking. It wasn’t nothing, she thought, but she would never admit otherwise.
“That’s right,” he said tightly, raking through his hair with his left hand. “Nothing happened.” He could still taste her in his mouth, feel the raspy sweetness of her tongue against his. His skin was warm where she had touched him with her fingertips, and between his thighs, where she had left him aching, he was still hot and hard. “And nothing’s going to happen,” he went on, “so stop looking at me as if you wish it would.”
Lydia stared at him, horrified. “That’s a lie! I’m not wishing any such thing!”
He was. He grabbed his vest, jacket, socks, and shoes and stalked out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. God help him, he thought. He was handling it wrong. All of it. He’d hoped to gain her confidence, not her contempt. He’d never touched a virgin in his life, was never even certain he knew one until Lydia Chadwick, and in less than twenty-fours of meeting her formally he’d had his hands all over her.
He stared at his hands. They were shaking. He dropped his clothes on one of the sofas, padded over the sideboard, and splashed a clean tumbler with bourbon. He raised the glass to his lips, felt the trembling, and finally admitted that he was scared.
Lydia Chadwick held his life in her small, delicate hands and she didn’t even know it. An accusation of rape from her and…He couldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t.
Nathan knocked back his drink and set the tumbler down hard. In the other room he could hear the rustle of clothes and realized Lydia was dressing. He did the same.
Lydia entered the sitting room some ten minutes later.
Her face was freshly scrubbed and her hair had been ruthlessly pulled back, tied at her nap with a scrap of lace from her petticoat. “I’d like a glass of water, please,” she said, standing on the threshold.
“Certainly.” His tone was as flat as hers and just as calm. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever taken place. Nathan poured her water at the sideboard and held it out to her. She crossed the room to take the glass. There was only the slightest pause as she accepted it, careful to place her fingers just so in order not to touch his hand.
“Thank you.” She finished the glass quickly and held it out again.
“More?”
“Please. I can’t remember ever being so thirsty.”
“It’s the alcohol. It does that.” He gave her back the glass. When she was finished this time she placed it on the sideboard. “How’s your head?” he asked.
“Thumping.”
He nodded, expecting nothing less. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “I don’t want to start an argument. I just want you to know that you do not have to escort me home.”
Nathan did not want an argument, either. He chose his words carefully. “I know I haven’t given you any reason to think you’re safe with me, but I made a promise to Father Patrick and Pei Ling that I would see you home. Whatever you think you know about me, I’m a man of my word.” He paused a beat, waiting for her reply. She regarded him steadily and said nothing. “I’ll get your cape.”
Rain lashed at them during their entire journey. There were no cabs on the streets looking for fares, and not many drivers would have asked their horses to climb steep Powell Street under such slippery conditions. Nathan and Lydia were both wet and winded by the time they reached the mansion.
He escorted her to the same side door she had used to make her exit earlier. They stood on the recessed stoop under an eave and caught their breath. The rain was falling so heavily now that it surrounded them like a crystalline curtain. They were facing each other. Nathan was trying to catch Lydia’s eye; she was doing what she could to avoid his stare.
“I’ll come by at seven-thirty to take you to dinner,” he said, speaking softly so as not to wake anyone.
That got Lydia’s full attention, and her features expressed complete disbelief. “You can’t be serious.” But she saw that he was. “I’m not going anywhere with you tomorrow or any other day.”
“You’re reneging on the wager?”
“After what happened a mere hour ago I don’t think your question merits an answer.”
“I see. So you do blame me.”
“I blame myself,” she said quietly. “I blame myself for misinterpreting your character. You’re not so different from any of the others.”
