The Songbird's Seduction (20 page)

“Oh.” He looked around desperately for help, but every man in the vicinity was pointedly looking elsewhere and the only woman in the area glared at him as though he were craven. He turned back to Lucy. She was weeping with a closed mouth now, her face screwed up and her chest moving in spasms with each stifled sob.

With a weird sense of inevitability he put his arm around her shoulders and led her to one of the benches lining the exterior wall of the salon. He sat, pulling her down alongside him. She came without resistance, turning at once and burrowing her face into his shoulder.

“There, there. Everything will be all right.” An easy enough promise since he had no idea what was wrong. Not really. True, he’d been somewhat acerbic in his comments, but she didn’t strike him as the sort to be overly sensitive to a little verbal scrimmage. In fact, he would have guessed she’d enjoy it. “You’ll see.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Now, why would you say that?”

“Because I
am
responsible for you losing your valise—”

“Strictly speaking, I didn’t lose it. It was—”

“Semantics,” she cut in, lifting her head from his shoulder to gaze earnestly up at him. “The point is, Archie, if I hadn’t tried to escape—”

“
Escape?
” he echoed. “Don’t you think that a rather dramatic misrepresentation of the situation?”

“Not at all, but that’s irrelevant. What is relevant, Archie”—her fingers curled around the edges of his lapels in her effort to impress him with her sincerity—“is that if I hadn’t tried to escape, you never would have thrown your valise into the ocean and—please don’t interrupt me again, Archie, I am trying to accept culpability here—and lost all your lovely things, though I am being generous here because you don’t really dress all that spiffily except when you were at the Savoy in your tuxedo. You really were most strikingly turned out that evening.”

“Thank you,” he murmured. He remembered one of the only fantasy novels he’d read as a child,
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. This must have been how Alice had felt when she’d tumbled down the rabbit hole. He regarded Lucy in mild bewilderment; he was getting unaccountably used to being bewildered and it no longer disconcerted him as it had when . . . was it only a few days ago that they’d met?

“You’re welcome. Anyways. Now, Archie, it is quite clear that you regret having agreed to your grandfather’s request to accompany my great-aunts because that has stuck you with me. And now . . . and now . . .”

A fresh lot of tears fell from her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. He reached up and swept them away with his thumb. Her skin was like satin. “And now?”

“You don’t like me!”

“What?” he asked, taken completely off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t like me!”

“Yes, I do,” he said in desperation.

She shook her head violently. “No, you don’t. You’re just saying that because you’re . . you’re . . . you’re being . . .
kind
!” The last word erupted from her lips as if it were the worst possible condemnation she could utter.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not! I’m not! Truly.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “See? I’m smiling at you, aren’t I? I wouldn’t smile at you if I didn’t like you, would I?”

“Yes, you would.”

“No, I wouldn’t!” He’d pulled her closer to him, trying to make her see that he was telling the simple truth. “I wouldn’t know how. I don’t have those skills.”

She regarded him doubtfully. “You don’t?”

“No.” He pulled back just far enough to cross his heart.

“And you do like me?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes. I do. In fact, under normal circumstances, I would find you oddly engaging.”

“You would?” Her face lit up and she leaned closer, peering up at him intently, but smiling now. She had a deuced pretty smile.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Not that there is likely to be any normal circumstances where you are concerned.”

As soon as he said it, he realized this might not have been the best line to take. But she didn’t bat an eye . . . well, actually, she did.

Her eyelashes, unexpectedly long and curly, fluttered. A pink stain washed up into her face, turning her cheeks apricot beneath their light dusting of freckles. This close to her he realized the gold
flecks in her hazel eyes were actually more copper and what he’d thought simple green was actually a deeper, mossier hue.

“Pshaw.” She scoffed softly. “What would you want with normal circumstances, Archie?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured, distracted by the way the light caught on the curve of her sharp cheekbones and molded itself to the soft, warm line of her lower lip.

“That’s what I thought.” She looked very wise and very young and very serious, staring up at him.

With a sense of something akin to despair, he realized that no woman had ever looked at him like Lucy Eastlake was looking at him now and he strongly, very strongly, feared he’d never looked at any woman before the way he was looking back.

“Oh, Archie,” she whispered, tipping her head back just enough that he could feel the soft heat of her breath against his mouth.

He bent his head—just in order to catch her words, only because she was speaking so softly—and his lips brushed within a feather’s width of touching hers . . .

An electric current danced and arced between their mouths. Oh, maybe it wasn’t actual electricity, but it was something just as potent, lightning hovering in the air on the flashpoint of striking, just as imminent, just as dangerous, and every nerve in his lips shivered, agitated by her proximity.

He jerked back.
What the hell was he thinking
? He wasn’t thinking. He was reacting. To her. She was like some sort of experimental drug, a clearly dangerous one.

Startled by his abrupt retreat, her eyes widened.

He cleared his throat, scowling as he pulled away and hastily doffed his jacket.

“Here.” He put it over her shoulders, taking too-elaborate care in settling it there so he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes again. He was very much afraid of what would happen if he did.

She didn’t say a word, for which he was profoundly grateful. By the time he’d finished, he felt more himself again, or as near as he could remember what “himself” felt like. Nothing seemed familiar these past few days and yet, conversely, everything felt natural.

He eased away from her, hoping against hope that she would continue to be quiet. Somehow he had to put things back in order, though in his deepest core he realized things had already moved far beyond a place where he could easily turn back. He needed to think. He needed to keep a cool head, not a hot—he needed to keep a cool head and above all, he needed Lucy not to distract him.

“Archie?”

He supposed he might as well have wished for the tides to stay put.

Reluctantly, he turned to her. “Please, Lucy. I need to think and I can’t do that when you’re talking. Or looking at me. So,
please
be quiet.”

“Oh,” she said, a mournful little sound.

My God, what a bungle he’d made of things—he shot a sideways glance at Lucy’s profile—not that it wasn’t a fair ways mucked up already.

He couldn’t be late returning to London, where he’d promised to attend a small dinner Cornelia’s father was hosting. What Cornelia called “influential people,” including Lord Blidderphenk, were also on the guest list. It was a chance to impress the man. Desperately, he reminded himself how important such a position as the Blidderphenk professorship could be to his career. He’d be able to pretty much write his own check for infrequent future expeditions.

Infrequent.

He was never happier than when he was working in the field, interviewing people, learning their stories, their traditions, their histories, connecting the dots through time and distance. It had been too long since he’d been on a research expedition. The hours
he and Lucy had spent with Michel Bolay had reminded him of how much he loved it.

But Cornelia was right. One couldn’t go gallivanting about the world if one was the Blidderphenk professor. It was too bad he’d never been comfortable with all the glad-handing that went along with an academic career. It was an objection Cornelia dismissed as dangerously naïve and sentimental. He supposed she was right.

He closed his eyes.

Cornelia
. What did she look like? Taller than Lucy. Eyes . . . Eyes? He only knew they were not hazel.

“You were correct, you know.”

“Was I?” He opened his eyes. “About what?” He had to get off this boat, get to a telegraph office, and wire Cornelia.

“About the distraction.”

“Oh? That’s good.” There was bound to be an office near the docks.

“Was.” She rose to her feet, swallowing hard.

“What’s that?”

“
Was
good. You’re not distracting me anymore,” she said and promptly lunged for the rail.

At least she was able to walk off the ferry under her own steam. She ought to get credit for that, Lucy thought, stealing a glance at Archie’s profile as they headed down the gangway. The late afternoon sun glinted off the inky curls falling down over his brow, making him look particularly roguish. He didn’t glance back, let alone admire her brave stoicism. In fact, he wasn’t paying her any attention at all. Nor had he been for the past half hour.

She gnawed at her lip, worried that her sea-unworthiness had proved too unpalatable for Archie. He’d stopped noticing her, which was most confusing. Especially since Lucy could have sworn that on the ferry he’d been about to kiss her.

She’d been kissed a few times and she’d avoided being kissed
plenty
of times. She was well versed in reading the signs that a fellow was about to kiss a girl and Archie had definitely been displaying them all. His breath had laced with hers, warm and sweet, his irises had gone all jetty and focused, like she was all that he was seeing or wanted to see, and his body seemed to hum with purpose . . .

She’d wanted him to kiss her, she realized with a thrill of longing. She’d leaned forward, closing her eyes and offering her lips only to be suddenly pushed away, as he flung his coat jacket over her shoulders and then told her not to talk. Normally she would have ignored such a stricture but she was confused and a little offended so she‘d done as bid and shortly thereafter, well, she’d spent another hour leaning over the rail.

Hardly the sort of position that casts one in the best light. Or a kissable one.

When they reached the bottom of the gangway, Archie took her elbow and steered her through the crowd gathered to meet the weary travelers. Hawkers offered pastries, hot lemonade, roasted nuts, and newspapers as street urchins—
French
street urchins, Lucy noted with a thrill—darted amongst the throng, pantomiming offers to carry bags or clear a path. Scrawny, fleet-footed, and avid, their cheery demeanor masked sharp-eyed opportunism. Lucy knew them well; their English counterparts loitered about theatre back entrances, flitting amongst the swells waiting for the actresses to appear and relieving them of their watches, fobs, and handkerchiefs.

“Best keep a hand on your wallet in this crowd,” she advised Archie as she intercepted a lad of no more than six about to “accidentally” back into him. She’d seen this ploy before: as soon as the boy bumped into a mark, he’d fling himself to the ground as though he’d been hurt and while his intended victim was busy picking him up and dusting him off, one of his cohorts would be emptying their target’s back pocket. It was one of the first dodges she’d witnessed when she’d started working in London.

“What?” Archie hadn’t even noted the boy. She wasn’t surprised. Archie lived in an ivory tower. She spun the kid around and gave him a shove, launching him back into the crowd. He turned his head to stick his tongue out at her before darting away.

“The kids around here,” she explained. “You have to watch out. They’re so light-fingered you’ll never know their hands are in your pockets until you reach for something and find it missing.”

“I assure you, I would have known had that little boy tried to pick my pocket.”

“It’s not him I’m advising you against. It’s his older brother. The one you won’t see standing behind you.”

He regarded her sadly. “Couldn’t the kid simply be trying to earn a few honest pennies?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you discover your knickers have gone missing.”

He suddenly smiled, making her forget her earlier grievance. “I won’t. Now, come along before all the cabs are taken and we find ourselves afoot.” He took hold of her hand and pulled her through the crowd to the end of the wharf where cabs had queued up, waiting for fares. He waved to the first cabbie in the line.

“Here.” He yanked open the door and helped her inside as he held a brief conversation in French with the driver.

“Apparently there is only one really decent hotel in town,” explained Archie, “a place called Hotel Ligure, but it’s very expensive.”

“Then that’s where they’ll be,” said Lucy, thinking of Margery’s propensity for staying at the finest establishments when someone else was footing the bill.