Sweet Fire Page 8

  “You may want to ease up some,” he said, filling her glass. “Or I could add a little water.”

  “I’m fine.” Staring up at him defiantly, she held on to the tumbler when he tried to take it back.

  Nathan shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s your head.” He put the decanter of Scotch on the floor by Lydia’s sofa and returned to his seat. Stretching his long legs in front of him, he crossed his ankles and stared at Lydia over the rim of his glass.

  “I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that,” she said.

  “Like what?”

  She lowered her lids so that she could see Nathan through a narrow slit, set her mouth grimly, thrust her legs in front of her, crossed her ankles, and raised her glass to about the level of her nose. She sat like that for several long moments and simply stared back at him.

  “I see,” he said, tamping down a smile at her perfect mimicking. When she resumed her earlier position, he asked, “Does it bother you so much?”

  “It makes me feel rather foolish,” she answered honestly. “It’s one thing to be foolish, quite another to be made to feel so.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, sitting up a little straighter and drawing back his legs. “You’re my guest after all. I’ll make an effort to please.”

  Lydia doubted it was something he did often, and his concession warmed her. Or was that the Scotch? She giggled.

  She was definitely beginning to feel the effects, Nathan realized. That girlish giggle was surely the beginning of the end. He started thinking about how he was going to get her back inside her Nob Hill mansion without alerting the entire household.

  “Did you know Mr. Moore before this evening?” Lydia asked, interrupting Nathan’s planning.

  Except for the slight narrowing of his gray eyes, there was nothing Nathan did to reveal his surprise. “What makes you ask that?” he asked, prevaricating.

  “Your accent. It’s very similar to Mr. Moore’s. It’s natural that two Englishmen would have gravitated toward one another here in San Francisco.”

  “Is it? I hadn’t thought about that. Did Mr. Moore tell you where he’s from in England?”

  She nodded. The movement made her chin nudge the rim of her glass and a little Scotch splashed the back of her hand. Embarrassed by her clumsiness, she quickly pressed her hand to her mouth and sucked in the droplets, never noticing how Nathan’s cold eyes took on an edge of warmth as they followed her movement and came to rest on her wet mouth. “He’s from London,” she said. “Where are you from?”

  “London. But don’t put too much significance into that. I don’t think you could understand how big London is.”

  “I should like to see it some day,” she said dreamily.

  Nathan could have said the same. It was the one place he could never return. Without a governor’s full pardon, banishment from England was forever. “It’s an incredible city,” he said instead, remembering the place of his childhood. “Exciting. Crowded. Noisy and dirty. Narrow, winding lanes lined with tenements and palaces bordering the most beautiful parks in the world. There’s mind-numbing poverty and wealth that can hardly be imagined.”

  “You make it sound very much like San Francisco.”

  “Do I? Yes, I suppose in some ways it is, though if you repeat that I’ll swear I never said it.” He finished his drink and set the glass aside. “London is centuries old; poverty and riches go back so many generations they’re bred in the bone, for the most part, inescapable. There’s a certain acceptance of fate that’s missing in your city, Miss Chadwick. Here wealth is only decades old and people remember their roots. Men and women still believe they can aspire to be something different than their class would dictate. I admire that.”

  “Do you? I confess that surprises me.”

  “Oh?”

  “What do you know about any of it, Mr. Hunter?” She gestured to the room at large, indicating the richness of her surroundings. “You seem quite content to have accepted what good fate and fortune have bestowed on you. If Mr. Moore were saying these things, it would be understandable. He came to my party this evening because he knew it was a charity event. By your own admission you came to play cards with my father. Did you know Mr. Moore was raised in an orphanage much like St. Andrew’s? He escaped the London slums and made something of himself.”

  “You admire him.”

  “Yes…yes, what’s not to admire? He’s obviously met life’s challenges head on. He’s personable and interesting and—”

  “Don’t forget handsome.”

  Lydia blushed and then asked herself why she should deny it. “Yes, he’s handsome. He has kind eyes, a wonderful smile, and he’s very polite.”

  “A paragon among men.”

  She wrinkled her nose at Nathan, disgusted with his dry humor. “Think what you will. You could do worse than to emulate his manner.”

  Since there had been a time when Nathan thought much the same way, he couldn’t find it in himself to fault Lydia for her shortsightedness. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he said, noting that that seemed to satisfy her. She was looking around the room again, shaking her head slowly from side to side, her eyes as big as silver dollars. Nathan had no difficulty reading the expression on her face. She was still astonished that she wasn’t home. Her half-smothered giggle seemed to punctuate her thought. Above the rim of her glass her smile was a trifle giddy.

  “You’re well on your way to being pie-faced,” he observed. “How does it feel?”

  Her grin widened. “Wonderful. I’m enjoying myself immensely.” She spoke carefully, sounding out the individual syllables. “Are you?”

  “I can’t remember when I’ve been so entertained.”

  Lydia’s brows drew together as she considered what he said. It wasn’t worth so much effort, she decided, and her features relaxed. “Do you know I was angry with you this evening?”

  “You were?” Nathan asked politely. He wondered if he should warn Lydia that the drink was loosening her tongue. Doubting that she would take heed of anything he might say, he let her go on.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I didn’t want you to win that last poker hand. I think you knew it, too.”

  “I knew it. But what could I do? I had the winning cards. I would have won whatever wager was made. You didn’t have to agree to that wager. Samuel would have let you bow out gracefully.”

  “I did it for the—”

  “Oh, please,” he said, scoffing her. “Have the decency to be an honest drunk. You agreed because it was Brigham Moore who you hoped might hold the winning hand.”

  “My father held a full house,” she said a shade haughtily. “Remember? I thought it was very likely that he would win.”

  “That may be so, but you hoped Brig would.”

  “If you knew that why did you insist on showing your cards? You could have just folded. The pot would have gone to the orphanage just the same.”

  “Would it?”

  “Of course.” Lydia paused, taking another full swallow. She thought she could acquire a taste for Scotch. “Are you saying Mr. Moore would not have honored that part of the wager?”

  The last thing Nathan wanted to do was say anything against Brig. That would surely send her flying into his old friend’s arms. Nathan unbuttoned his evening jacket and pulled out the paper marker in his vest pocket. He leaned forward and held it out to Lydia, letting it dangle between his thumb and forefinger. “Say the word and I’ll put it in the fire.”

  Lydia couldn’t believe she’d heard him correctly. In the library, when he’d won the hand, he’d seemed so pleased with himself. She came to the only conclusion she could. “You don’t want to take me out to dinner at all, do you? You only did it to spite me, because you knew I wanted to go with Mr. Moore.” Belatedly she realized what she’d finally admitted to Nathan Hunter. Her chin lifted a notch. “So? What if I did want to have dinner with him at the Cliff House? The wager was his idea, wasn’t it? At least he wanted to go with me.”


  Nathan gave her a hard, steady look. “Do you want me to pitch this in the fire or not?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not going to make this easy for you by reneging on my part of the wager. You do with it what you want to do.”

  He leaned back, sighing. Her logic confounded him. Nathan hoped it was the alcohol that had her talking in circles. Once they were married he was going to lock the liquor cabinet and carry the key on him. He folded the marker again and put it back in his pocket. “I’m keeping it,” he said. “I’m taking you to the Cliff House tomorrow and I won’t allow you to use your impending hangover as an excuse to get out of it. Your eagerness to go to dinner with Brig is hardly flattering.”

  Lydia rolled the tumbler between her palms and stared down at her empty glass. “I’ve been rude. I’m sorry.”

  Nathan shrugged.

  She looked up to see why he hadn’t answered. He was still watching her closely, his clear gray predator eyes holding her motionless. She refused to repeat her apology, unaware that it had already been acknowledged with practiced indifference. Leaning over the edge of the sofa, Lydia reached for the crystal decanter. “Ooooh,” she said, holding her head as a wave of dizziness washed over her. “I think your rug is spinning, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Nathan.”

  “Hmm?” She glanced up at him and smiled. “What’s that again?”

  “You may call me Nathan…and judging by your grin, I think you’ve had quite enough.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Enough.” He moved the decanter back to the sideboard and returned to Lydia’s side in time to catch her tumbler before it dropped to the floor. “How do you like being drunk?” he asked a moment later when Lydia herself slipped off the sofa and onto the floor.

  “Am I?” she asked. “Am I really?”

  Judging by her voice, Nathan decided she was completely pleased with herself. “You’re about as shikkered as I’ve ever seen a sheila. And you’re going to feel crook come sarvo.”

  Lydia knew she was drunk. She’d heard what he’d said and hadn’t understood a word. She frowned up at Nathan, wishing he’d stop towering over her and sit down.

  “I said you’re about as drunk as I’ve ever seen a girl, and you’re going to feel terrible by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Well, I feel fine now,” she said with a sense of practicality. “Except for having to look up at you. It makes my neck ache.”

  The long line of Lydia’s throat was completely exposed to Nathan. At his side his fingers itched to close around it and throttle her just once. “I’ll sit down,” he offered.

  Lydia patted the floor beside her. “Here.”

  “I don’t think—” Her eyes darted down quickly, hurt by his refusal. A moment later he was sitting beside her, his back against the sofa. “It would have been easier,” he said, “if you’d have let me put you back on the sofa.”

  “Too high.”

  He found himself smiling at the grave, wise pronouncement. “I see.”

  “You may call me Lydia.”

  “All right…Lydia.”

  The silence that grew between them this time was a comfortable one. Out of the corner of his eye Nathan saw Lydia’s lashes flutter as she tried to stay awake. When her head lolled toward the fireplace he gently brought it back and let her rest it against his shoulder. It was not long before she turned entirely in his direction, her legs curled to one side, and snuggled trustingly in his arms.

  There were worse things, Nathan supposed, than dealing with a shikkered Lydia Chadwick.

  Until the steady knocking at the door roused him, Nathan was unaware that he had fallen asleep. His dreams had been a natural continuation of his waking thoughts, one flowing into another like a stream into a river. The young woman who had figured rather largely in both was still sleeping soundly in his arms.

  Nathan stumbled a bit as he got to his feet, his legs numb and unsteady beneath him. He stretched, glanced at the clock, then bent and picked up Lydia. She was lighter than he had imagined. Again he recalled the horrible yellow gown and acknowledged that her dress had indeed been deceiving. Moving quickly toward the bedroom, Nathan laid Lydia on his bed and covered her up to her neck with the quilt at the foot of the bed. She never stirred, not even when his fingers lingered in her hair at a spot just above her temple.

  He shrugged out of his evening jacket, vest, and shirt, mussed his hair, slipped into a smoking jacket, and took off his socks and shoes. The knocking at the door was louder now and more insistent. Just before he opened the door Nathan worked up a huge yawn and rubbed his eyes. Anyone could be forgiven for thinking they’d wakened him from hours of deep sleep.

  “What do you want, Brig?” he asked tiredly. There was no surprise in his voice, for he felt none. Indeed, he would have been surprised if it had been anyone else. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “Actually I do.” Without waiting for an invitation, Brig pushed past Nathan. He went immediately to the sideboard and helped himself to three generous fingers of bourbon. His eyes went from Nathan, who was still leaning against the door, to the woman’s cape hanging on the rack beside him. “Oh, sorry old man, I see you have company,” he said, indicating the cape with a tilt of his chin. “I should have realized when you disappeared from that beano so early that you had a sheila with you.” Brig meant a gala affair. He was rarely cautious about his slang when he was alone with Nathan. “Mind if I have a look?”

  Before Nathan could raise an objection or move to stop him, Brig was slipping into the bedroom. All Nathan could do was pray that Lydia had not turned in her sleep or uncovered herself. Brig would find it odd that he was sleeping with a fully dressed woman.

  A moment later Brig was back, his disappointment telling Nathan that all was well. “Too dark,” said Brig, “but she’s a bit of a thing, ain’t she? Not like some girls that come to mind.”

  “You’re referring to Miss Chadwick, I take it.”

  “She’s the one who comes to mind. Pity she ain’t more like her mother. Now there’s someone who can fill out the front of my trousers.”

  “I noticed your interest.”

  “It’s mutual.”

  “I thought it might be. I’d be careful, though. Lydia may object to your spending too much time with her mother. I have the distinct impression that that sort of thing’s happened before.”

  “Oh?”

  “No information. Just a feeling.”

  Brig knew he’d do well to consider that feeling. “I’m surprised you’re telling me. Given that we have the same objective, I’d think you’d want me to fail.”

  Thinking about Lydia in his bedroom, Nathan permitted himself a small smile. “Perhaps I think I can afford to be magnanimous.”

  Brig snorted. He sat down in the corner of the sofa Lydia had occupied. “So, who is she?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Nathan answered kindly.

  “What made you decide to leave?”

  Nathan sat down on an arm of the other sofa. “I believe Lydia retired for the evening, at least that’s what Samuel told me. With her gone there was little to be served by staying. I left at about the time the entertainment began.”

  Brig nodded. “That’s when I missed you.” He took a swift swallow of bourbon. “I didn’t appreciate you winning that hand. That wager was my idea.”

  “It was a good one.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve interfered with something I planned.”

  “We’ve already discussed this, Brig. I thought you said all you cared to before we went to dinner.”

  “I thought I had. The more I think about it, the more bloody angry I get.”

  Brig didn’t really look angry. He looked slightly drunk. Nathan knew from experience that the latter was more dangerous. “Shouldn’t you be going? I do have a guest, you know.”

  “Might as well,” he said, sighing. He gulped back his drink, set the tumbler on the floor, and headed for the door. “Maybe I’ll find someone for myse
lf tonight.”

  “Surprised you haven’t already. That’s not like you, Brig.”

  “I’m looking for a lady, not a whore.”

  “What about Madeline Chadwick?”

  “As I said, I’m looking for a lady.”

  Nathan thought about Brig’s parting remark for a long moment before he got up and locked the door and turned back the lights. He reasoned he could still get a few good hours of sleep before taking Lydia home. It would probably take at least that long for her to come out of her stupor. Padding barefoot to the bedroom, he found Lydia lying on her back, snoring softly. He turned her on her side, moved her toward the middle of the bed, and got in beside her.

  He almost came out of his skin when he realized she wasn’t wearing anything but a thin cotton shift.

  “Lydia?” He said her name softly, on an inquiring note. When she didn’t answer, he nudged her shoulder with his fingertips. She didn’t respond. He touched her again, just to make certain she was sleeping. Or rather that was the excuse he put forth when a gremlin thought told him he’d never touched skin as smooth as Lydia’s. “Are you awake?”

  He waited for a full minute, listening to the cadence of her breathing and wondering if she’d heard any part of his conversation with Brig while she’d been undressing. The very idea made his insides curl in a hundred tiny knots. To have come so far only to lose everything because of Brig’s untimely visit could have easily moved Nathan to murder. He’d killed before. He could do it again.

  With that thought in mind, Nathan fell into a sleep many times more troubled than Lydia’s.

  His hand was on her breast. The full, smooth curve of it filled his palm and his thumb passed back and forth across the nipple. Once. Twice. Again. Beneath his calloused thumb a bud appeared. He touched it, teased it. Her breast was fuller now, harder and warmer. His fingers trailed along the underside curve to her heartbeat, rested there a moment, then moved to her other breast and stroked her skin, brushing her nipple with his knuckles.

  Her hand was at the waistband of his trousers. Her fingers traced the edge, dipping just beneath the material at her whim. His skin was smooth here, his flat belly hard. His flesh would retract suddenly in anticipation of her touch.