Lady Avery was in motion, walking about. Elissande could not decide where her voice was coming from. She stood in place, uncertain what she should do next.
“Oh, come, sir. You know what you ought to do,” urged Lady Avery.
He apparently did, for he lifted her bodily, as if she weighed no more than a kitten, and set her down not on his lap, but on the chair itself, between his legs.
She swallowed with the alarming sensation of being so close to a man, her thighs pressed against his. There was a physicality to him, a quality that went beyond the mere amount of space he occupied, as if his body would effortlessly engulf hers if she did not take care to preserve herself.
She spread out her hands, looking for the armrests of the chair. But she touched only his hands, bare and warm and already occupying the armrests. She yanked hers away. That motion jerked her body backward against his chest.
She was wrong; it was not that his body would engulf her, but that it already did. She was surrounded by him, by his silent, still presence, while she fidgeted and fumbled, unable to treat their contact with the flirty lightheartedness expected of her.
He touched her again, his hands on her upper arms, steadying her. Steering her torso away from him, in fact.
Perhaps she had stumbled upon Lord Frederick after all. He could, she felt, be depended upon to maintain his sense of dignity and propriety amidst such pointless ribaldry. To help him in that effort, she scooted her bottom forward.
Only to almost fall off the chair. She hurriedly scooted back—directly into him.
She could not even gasp this time. Behind her bum he was, dear God, he was…
Hard.
Her cheeks scalded. Further understanding failed her. She froze in place: She could not think, could not speak, could not move a single muscle to extract herself.
Again, it was he who took charge of the situation, lifting her up, and this time, when she came down, she came down on his lap, somewhat away from the part of him that gave her fits.
But not nearly far enough, not with the sensation of his strong thighs so vivid upon her posterior. Really, whose idea had it been to get rid of bustles?
“What…what am I supposed to do now?” she beseeched.
“Say, ‘Squeak, piggy, squeak,’” said someone.
She could say nothing of the sort to the man behind her. It was ridiculous enough under normal circumstances. In this instance it would be just dreadfully wrong. She would have to guess his identity without any other clues.
He seemed rather on the taller side, which would eliminate Mr. Kingsley. And most likely he was not Mr. Wessex, who used a highly aromatic cologne that preceded him. The man behind her smelled only of a whiff of cigar smoke and, beneath that, shaving powder.
“I think Miss Edgerton likes being on this piggy’s lap,” said Miss Beauchamp, chuckling.
Miss Beauchamp’s voice was very close, to Elissande’s immediate left, in fact. And to Miss Beauchamp’s right had been—
“Lord Vere,” she mumbled.
And rose immediately. He started to clap before she even reached for her blindfold.
“How did you know it was me?” he said, still clapping, with a smile so densely guileless that it might very well have been one of hers. “I haven’t even squeaked yet.”
“A good guess,” she answered.
Miss Beauchamp had been correct: She had liked the startling, alien, mortifying, but not entirely un-pleasurable sensation of being practically in his embrace. But now she was repulsed—by him, by herself, by the blind sensuality of her body.
Revulsion, however, did not stop her renewed awareness of him. Of the softness of his hair when she tied the blindfold for him, the width of his shoulders as she spun him about, the tightness and muscularity of his arms as she stopped him from falling back onto her, so hard did he wobble from her spins.
The game went on, reaching its loud and boisterous conclusion at eleven o’clock, with Miss Beauchamp seated firmly on Lord Vere’s lap and both of them laughing as if they’d never had such a good time.
At half an hour past midnight Elissande finally left Lady Kingsley’s room. Lady Kingsley had stumbled a step as they’d ascended the grand staircase together and Elissande had caught her. She had not complained of anything, but Miss Kingsley had whispered anxiously to Elissande that Lady Kingsley suffered terrible migraines from time to time and perhaps the jollity of the evening had been too much for her.
So Elissande and Miss Kingsley had sat with Lady Kingsley until the latter at last fell asleep. Then Elissande escorted a continuously yawning Miss Kingsley to her room. She herself yawned too, as she walked toward Aunt Rachel’s room at the opposite end of the house.
She stopped mid-yawn. Someone was singing, heartily slurring the rousing chorus of a ludicrous song.
“‘Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow! bow wow! Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow! bow wow! I’ve got a little cat. And I’m very fond of that. But I’d rather have a bow-wow. Wow, wow, wow, wow.’”
She turned the corner. Lord Vere. Of course. He bobbed and weaved and caught himself against the wall just outside Aunt Rachel’s door.
“‘We used to have two tiny dogs,’” he sang, “‘such pretty little dears. But Daddy sold ’em ’cause they used to bite each other’s ears.’”
She fought to unclench her teeth. “Lord Vere, please. You’ll wake everyone.”
“Ah, Miss Edgerton. How lovely to see you, as always.”
“It’s late, sir. You should retire.”
“Retire? No, Miss Edgerton. It’s a night for song. Don’t I sing wonderfully?”
“You sing splendidly. But you can’t sing here.” And where was Lord Frederick to bail her out this time?
“Where may I sing then?”
“You should go outside if you must sing.”
“Fair enough.”
He stumbled forward some distance and reached for her uncle’s door. She sprinted after him and yanked his hand off the door handle. “What are you doing, Lord Vere?”
“But that’s the door for going outside.”
“That most certainly is not, sir. That is my uncle’s room.”
“Is it? Beg pardon. I don’t usually make such mistakes, I assure you, Miss Edgerton; I normally have the most impeccable sense of direction.”
Oh, he did, did he?
“Perhaps you could show me the way out?” he asked.
She inhaled deeply. “Of course. Follow me. And please be quiet until we clear the house.”
He did not break out into song, but he did not really remain quiet. He talked as he zigzagged beside her. “Was it not the most wondrous fun playing Squeak Piggy Squeak tonight?”
“I’ve never had a better time.”
“And I shall always treasure the sensational memory of your bottom on my lap.”
She did not treasure the memory of his hardness against her bottom; in fact, she disgusted herself with the flash of heat the remembrance brought to her face. How could she have felt even the remotest quiver for him? Such stupidity as his should have been obvious via touch, unmistakable like a fever. Or leprosy.
She walked faster. Somehow he kept up. “Why do you suppose the memory of your bottom on my lap is more sensational than that of Miss Melbourne’s, for instance?”
If she had the least indication that he spoke with deliberate vulgarity, she’d have turned and punched him. Perhaps even kicked him. But he was steeped in that grating obliviousness so particular to him, and it would be like hitting a baby or thrashing a dog.
“No doubt because my bottom is twice the size of Miss Melbourne’s,” she said tightly.
“Is it? Marvelous. Now why did I never think of that?”
They reached the front door of the house. She unlocked it and led him outside some distance. The moment they stopped, he began to sing. She turned to leave.
“No, no, Miss Edgerton. You can’t go. Let me perform for you, I insist.”