The Indiscretion (25 page)

She didn't. Instead, her face took on a kind of sick expression,
as if she was ill. She looked away, turning her back.

Fine. He started over anyway, weaving his way through people. Some
lady with a lot of feathers and glass beads tried to stop him; he ignored her.
He just wanted to hear Liddy's voice, get close enough to see the smoothness of
her skin, maybe catch a whiff … the way her skin always smelled so good. Then,
too, he wouldn't mind finding out more about that fellow or getting rid of him.

All so mature. Sam, you better get a good hold of yourself. This
is no moor. You are not alone. And you have promised to do a job that would be
badly served by any sort of scene tonight.

Right, he told himself, as he twisted and turned his way past one
person then the next. But just a word … a little moment … a passing scent.

"Excuse me?" said a voice behind him. Someone caught his
arm.

"What?" He turned irritably.

The woman with the feathers wouldn't leave him alone. She had hold
of him. "Would you be the man whom His Excellency Mr. Patterson
sent?"

He frowned. "I guess. Why?"

"I'm Lady Wendt—"

He winced. "Oh, I'm sorry. I arrived late, and it's so
crowded. My name is Samuel Cody. I'm taking Ian's place, that is, Mr.
Patterson's."

"Indeed." She didn't care; she had something specific on
her mind. "Have you seen the queen?" she asked.

He blinked. "The queen? Yes."

She frowned as if he'd misunderstood. "In London?" she
asked.

"At Windsor. Her foreign minister arranged a meeting. Since
there were extenuating circumstances."

"So you are the official ambassador?"

"Officially, I am the interim ambassador. Another man'll most
likely be sent along by late autumn." He smiled. "But for the moment
you are stuck with me."

She nodded, trying to grasp his meaning.

With a little bow, he clarified, "Samuel J. Cody, the new ambassador
extraordinary and plenipotentiary from the United States, at your service,
ma'am."

Her mouth opened. She was taken aback, possibly by his accent.
Madam. It was madam, not ma'am, a nicety that never got high enough in his
priorities to remember at the right moment.

"I'm sorry to be introducin' myself to you in this way,"
he said.

She only shook her head.

"But, you see," he continued, "Mr. Patterson had to
return home to be with his family." He halted a moment, then went ahead
and told her, "He's quite ill."

"Yes," she said. "I see." She frowned.
"I'm sorry," she thought to say, though she seemed elsewhere. She was
immediately looking round the room. "That puts everyone off one
person."

He didn't know what she meant.

She looked upset. "I have to rematch every woman one man
back. What a mess. I shall have to begin again."

He understood something was wrong, and it was his fault. "I'm
sorry," he said with no idea what he apologized for.

She waved him off. "Nothing to do for it. It's fine. I'll fix
it." She glanced at him. "You go in with the duchess. That woman over
there." She indicated the talkative lady with the husband in Scotland,
then threw him a smile so brief and insincere he almost didn't believe he'd
seen it.

At which point, she walked away, allowing him to resume the
pursuit of—

Criminy, her daughter. Lady Wendt. That was Liddy's mother. Jesus,
no wonder Liddy was tough.

*

Lydia
glanced over her shoulder because she was certain her eyes deceived her. It had
to be another tall man, someone who looked like her cowboy from the moor.

But, no: It was he, trying to get around her mother – he towered
over her, taller, in fact, than anyone in the room. He looked like an idealized
version of himself, not like the Sam she remembered, clean-shaven, his hair
slicked back. He was dressed in a high white collar, white bow tie, knife
pleats down his chest, a black coat, stephanotis at the black satin buttonhole.
Full evening dress. His face was lean, sun-browned, taut and symmetrical: not
so much as a bruise. His posture, so familiar, was erect, purposeful. He looked
determined, though her mother had him cornered – she would throw him out. Lydia
couldn't watch.

She jerked her head around, staring at Boddington's chin – which
was going up and down, on and on, about how encouraging the queen's greetings
were to her troops in South Africa. Even with her back to Sam, though, Lydia
could feel him behind her. In an over-warm, crowded room, with nothing in her
since breakfast, his presence made for a kind of nausea – a hot, acidic
squabble in her stomach between anticipation and dread.

Why had he come? Why was he here?

Me
. No, no, she
dare not think it. Still, the look on his face…
Me. He's come after me. Oh, no, he mustn't.
He'd never make it past
her mother, for one thing, guardian of society's rules, of circumspect,
circumscribed life
comme il faut
.

She glanced back again, only to see her mother smile at him. As if
her daughter's wild good time two weeks ago were so large and sly it could even
overcome the viscountess: as if Lydia's memories and dreams of Sam were allowed
to walk into her real life unannounced and turn it – and her – upside down.

He moved toward her again, navigating his way through people. Her
heart raced. Her throat constricted. Once more, she turned away. Boddington was
watching him too, now.

A moment later, at her back, she heard, "Lid – ah – Miss
Bedford-Browne?"

Slowly, she faced around and looked up.

Sam.
Impeccable
leaped
to mind, though not in a million years would she have dreamed she'd associate
the word with the beat-up, unshaven man she had known on the moor. Yet there he
was: impeccable.

With entirely too much sincerity, he said, "I am so happy to
see you."

His voice was the same; it seemed a miracle to hear it: deep, low,
all but grating out his throat. It made her knees weak. She could feel her
pulse leap at her wrists, her neck.

She couldn't think what to say. She and Sam stared at each other.

After a long, awkward minute, beside her Boddington asked,
"Do you two know each other?"

"No," Lydia said at exactly the same moment that Sam
said, "Yes."

He laughed. "Must you
always
say the opposite thing as I do, Miss Bedford-Browne? Must we always
argue?"

She looked down, frowning, then felt positively giddy as, in the
shadows on the floor, she recognized the toes of black cherry red cowboy boots.
She swayed on her feet – it wasn't giddiness and shadows after all, but
inkiness before her eyes. Don't be a ninny, she thought. Don't faint. But the
room was so crowded and hot.

"Actually," Sam explained, "I tried to get to know
her when she was in—"

"Plymouth," she said for fear he'd name the wrong town.
"When I – I was, um – touring Devon's township archery trials." She
took a breath, trying to steady herself.

"It was Bleycott," he said. "And she wouldn't have
anything to do with me."

"Plymouth." She would insist with her dying breath,
since the lie she and Rose had come up with didn't include her having gotten to
Bleycott.

Alas,
dying breath
was
looking to be entirely too accurate. The room wobbled before her eyes as if
seen through waves of rising heat. She felt a mist of perspiration at her lip,
her forehead – which she noticed only by contrast as her face ran cold.

He said, "I was in Plymouth, but there were circumstances
there that would've kept me from flirting with you. I wouldn't've done it.
Maybe it was that town near Bleycott," he suggested.

"Two Points."

"Right."

Right
. She laughed,
the noise of it, as it came from her throat, sounding foolish and
rattle-brained. She found herself grabbing rapid, short breaths.

Someone – oh, dear, her mother's voice – said, "Lydia? Lydia?
Where is your tonic?"

She had no idea. She didn't want any. It wouldn't help.
Nonetheless, before she could complain, an open bottle of the bloody stuff
appeared under her nose. The smell made her gag. That was all it took.

The last thing she heard was, "Their Royal Majesties, the
Prince and Princess of Wales."

The last thing she felt was her damp, cold cheek collide hard with
Sam's smooth-pressed chest.

*

Lydia
was out less than a minute. Just long enough for her to collapse partway into
Sam's arms and for her to realize that he and Boddington were wrestling over
who should have possession of her inert body.

"I'm fine," she said, lifting herself awkwardly, gloved
elbows up, trying to climb up out of both their arms.

"You're not fine," her mother said. "You haven't
been taking your tonic. You've been walking all over the place. You're doing
exactly as the doctors tell you not to. And now look…" Her mother
continued, but Lydia ignored her.

Her father, bless him, appeared. "I'd like to take my
daughter into dinner, Your Majesty, if you don't mind…" He was talking to
the Prince of Wales, who stood with them now, all belly from her slightly
folded position. "I know, highly irregular, but…"

Her father took over lovingly, the prince and princess more than
willing, though briefly Lydia's mother argued.

The prince went in with Lady Wendt, the princess on the arm of –
Lydia did
not
understand this at all
– Sam Cody, she on her father's arm, though she should have been much farther
down the table.

Before the soup course was finished, Lydia had overheard why an
American cowboy was sitting at the end of the table with a blooded prince.

The United States ambassador? As it sank in, first she knew
bewilderment, quickly followed by anger. She eyed him narrowly. A job? He was
worried about a job? When he was the damned ambassador to her country? That
wasn't a job! She wanted to kill him, poison his red mullet in Cardinal sauce,
hang him by his white bow tie.

Her mind reeled as the same unanswerable question came up: What on
God's earth was he doing here?

Other people didn't know quite what to make of him either, though,
like she, they seemed to find his accent and cozy expressions interesting,
amusing. Sam himself was guarded; he didn't speak much. At one point, in his
earnest voice, he called the president a "straight shooter," which
someone took literally.

"No," he said with slow, Texas charm. "I mean a
fella who doesn't go in for a lot of tricks or fancy stuff. Just picks 'em off,
one straight shot at a time. Direct. Effective."

As to the food she had so looked forward to at one point in the
day, it was abominable. Lydia lost track of what was set before her. The wild
game stank in her nostrils. After that, it all smelled the same – like old
horse blankets, boiled. She stayed as long as she could, dizzily staring at
Sam, nauseatingly pushing food about her plate, then realized she was just
queasy enough that she might truly be sick.

"I'm so sorry," she said, standing. "You must
excuse me."

Several gentlemen stood, including Sam.

Others were only halfway to their feet, before she said, "No,
no. Everyone continue. I'll be fine. I just need to lie down."

At which point, with as much dignity as possible, Lydia abandoned
her family, friends, Sam, and the future King and Queen of England.

She intended to fly upstairs to her rooms, but at the last moment
her feet took her down the staircase, through the long entry hall. She ran for
the front double doors. Air.

It was a good decision. As soon as the cool night hit her face,
she felt better.

She stood outside, breathing easier, fuming a little – how dare
he? she kept thinking. How dare he show up at her house? She didn't care what
his reasons. Seeing him was just so … complicated.

Then the door behind her softly opened and closed. She turned, and
knew the silhouette.

"You," she said.

"Me." Sam laughed, and she felt so glad to hear his
raspy laughter she wanted, oh, just to take a bath in it, run her hands over
him, tickle him, make him laugh till tears ran down his face. His silhouette –
not so unlike his shadow on a moonlit moor – said quietly, "I didn't mean
to upset you."

She looked at him in the faint lights of her portico, servants at
the doors, the drive filled with a line of carriages and waiting drivers.

And, impossibly, Sam standing there without a scratch on him. Not
a smudge. His white shirtfront standing out in the dimness, so crisp she could
have bounced a shilling off it. "You're certainly" – she paused, then
said, "clean."

His low laughter again. "Yeah, you're clean, too." He
added, blast him, "And you look real nice that way, Lid. Downright
spectacular. I can't tell you how happy it makes me to see you again."