When We Touch by Heather Graham Page A

lady.”
    And he was right. She wondered if they had done more than drive around and around her own block of houses, for they came before hers so quickly. He was out the door himself and reaching for her hand before she could move. Stiffly, she accepted his touch and came to the ground. His eyes were now as gray and fathomless as a stormy day; he was still and composed, and she realized that her teeth were chattering strangely.
    â€œAren’t you going to ask me not to say anything to Lord Charles about our conversation?” she demanded, swearing to herself, for her voice had a tremor.
    â€œNo. I act as I deem fit. And in truth,” he added with a touch of humor, “I don’t give a damn about money or inheritance. I pray you and Charles live long and happily together, and that you provide him with a dozen sons.”
    There was a hardness to his voice that chilled her further still. Strange, for she shivered, and yet inside, she was still feeling that strange electricity that seemed to make her movement erratic rather than fluid, cause her heart to thunder, her temper to rise and fall.
    â€œGood day, Sir James,” she said. “I would ask you in for tea, but . . . ah, yes, between us, there must be honesty! I really don’t want you to come into my house. So, let’s see, shall I thank you for the ride? No, I was kidnapped.” She turned, and started up the walk with the late blooming fall flowers still bright on either side. She stopped and whirled around. “And do not follow me anymore, and cease spying on me!”
    She did not look back.
    She continued to the house, forcing the door open with a stunning burst of strength.
    Mireau, who had been waiting on the other side, was apparently listening, his ear far too close to the door. As she entered, he went flying, crashing against the mud door within. He quicky regained his composure and looked at her with a weak smile. “Everything all right?”
    â€œOh, yes. Perfectly fine. Just—fine!” she exploded, and ignoring even Mireau, she hurried on up the stairs, seeking refuge, total and complete privacy.
    â€œMaggie!” Mireau called to her.
    She steeled herself to pause. Turning back, she forced a smile. “Everything is fine.”
    â€œHe doesn’t want you going to the East End.”
    â€œI’m not marrying him.”
    â€œPerhaps we’d best be very careful about your activities. Until the wedding takes place, at the very least.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous. I will not change anything about my life because of the awful man, do you understand? Nothing!”
    â€œBut—!”
    â€œNothing!” she repeated. “Do you understand?”
    He nodded unhappily.
    She spun about again, hurrying on to the second landing.
    And yet, once she had reached the sanctuary of her room, she found no peace. She threw herself down upon the softness of her bed, closed her eyes, and prayed for sleep, a slice of oblivion. But she didn’t sleep. She found herself burning with memory. Not of the words that should have outraged her beyond any forgiveness or silence, but with thoughts of a single, brief moment.
    And then the fact that she was marrying Lord Charles.
    A dear human being.
    A man old enough to be her grandfather.
    To her amazement, she turned her face into her pillow and cried.

Chapter 4
    â€œSir!”
    Jamie was at the club, playing tennis with Sir Roger Sterling, when he saw Darby at the edge of the net trying discreetly to get his attention. He lifted his racket to Roger and walked back to the right of the court, catching the toweling from the end of the net, and wiping his brow.
    â€œAye, Darby, what is it?”
    Darby was a wonderful fellow with the face of a bloodhound and a loyalty to match.
    Now, he looked very grave. “Well, sir, I’ve done my best, you know, keeping an eye on the Lady Maggie, with a discreet distance between us, of course. But now . . .