A Study In Seduction Page 11

  “The Society of Arts exhibition, my lord?” Dr. Grant asked, stepping forward. “Haven’t you got a number of mathematical instruments on display?” He glanced at the others. “Lord Perry is on the consulting committee, you know, and he said it’s quite an impressive array of items they’ve got. Yes, indeed, let’s all go and see how things are progressing.”

  The other mathematicians murmured their agreement. Alexander frowned.

  “Will it be all right, my lord?” Lydia asked, a glimmer of amusement shining in her blue eyes.

  “Er… certainly.” He nodded toward the group. “Gentlemen, I welcome your thoughts and opinions.”

  A bustle of activity ensued as Drs. Grant and Brown announced they would ride with Lydia in Alexander’s carriage while the others procured a second cab.

  Alexander tucked a hand beneath Lydia’s elbow to help her into the carriage. A rigid shock coursed through her, stiffening her body.

  “Miss Kellaway?”

  The color drained from her skin, and unmistakable fear flashed across her face. Alexander followed her gaze to where she was looking across the street, but aside from the usual array of passersby, there appeared to be no cause for such alarm.

  “Lydia!” He shook her a little. “Are you all right?”

  She jerked back. “Y-yes. I’m sorry. I thought I saw…”

  “What? Who?”

  “Nothing.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “We… The meeting room was a bit stuffy, and I’m afraid I needed some air. I’m fine now, thank you.”

  She pulled her arm from his grip and climbed into the carriage. After the other two men entered, Alexander followed. Lydia stared out the window, her hand at her throat, her breathing quick.

  “You’ve got cause for concern with the start of war, my lord?” Dr. Grant peered at Alexander through the filtered light of the carriage interior. “Your mother was Russian; isn’t that right?”

  “You are correct, Dr. Grant, yes. And no, I’ve no cause for concern.”

  He kept his gaze on Lydia as the carriage rattled to a start. Color returned to her cheeks, but her unease appeared to linger even when they arrived at the hall.

  Alexander fell into step beside her as they walked inside. Noise filled the air—the shouting of orders, hammers banging as workers constructed displays, crates screeching open.

  Alexander bent closer to Lydia. “What is it? What happened?”

  She shook her head and pressed her lips together. “Nothing, really, my lord. I’m dreadfully sorry. Just a bit of fatigue. Now please do explain to us how your exhibition is organized.”

  For her sake, he allowed her the temporary escape but didn’t intend to let the matter drop. He gave the mathematicians a brief tour of the main part of the exhibition, which contained general objects of education—full classifications of paper and notebooks, inkwells, engraved alphabet slates, blackboards, portable chemical laboratories, lesson stands, mathematical instruments, and countless other implements for classroom use. A section just beneath the long gallery held dozens of floor, table, and pocket globes.

  The subdivisions of the exhibit comprised items from foreign countries—models of Swedish and Norwegian schoolhouses, zoological specimens for teaching natural history, maps, sample drawings, writing frames for the blind, and musical instruments.

  As much as Alexander had hoped to have Lydia to himself this afternoon, he admitted the mathematicians’ responses were gratifying—they expressed their interest and admiration over the array of objects and made several useful suggestions of how to improve the displays.

  “How did you manage to obtain permission for all of this?” Lydia asked after the others had drifted off to various sections of the exhibit.

  She was watching the activity with a hint of awe. Pride coursed through Alexander. He wanted the exhibition to impress society, the government, the world, but right now this one woman’s admiration surpassed the need for anything more.

  “All the articles for display were brought in duty-free,” he said. “When I first applied for the exhibition, I assumed it would be small. I knew it was a good idea, but I wasn’t certain how people would respond. Displays of writing books and maps aren’t quite the same as displays of ancient sculptures.”

  “Yet people did respond,” Lydia said. “Emphatically. You ought to be very proud, my lord.”

  He was. Not only of himself, but also of the Society, the members who had supported him despite everything, the people who had worked for almost two years to bring the idea to fruition.

  “Would it be all right if I brought Jane here to see the preparations?” Lydia asked. “I think she’d especially enjoy seeing the insect cases.”

  “Of course. Your grandmother is welcome to visit as well.”

  “She’ll be delighted. She’s heard quite a bit about it already. Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” A flush colored her cheeks as she appeared to realize what she’d said.

  “Not always in a positive manner,” Alexander said. He leaned his shoulder against a display case and studied Lydia. “What have you heard about me? Other than the usual rumors.”

  “That you run a company trading in… cotton and flax, I think?” She examined a display of pocket globes, her eyelashes dark against her high cheekbones. “That you were once engaged to Lord Chilton’s daughter, but he insisted on breaking off the engagement after what happened with your mother.”

  Alexander waited for the inevitable questions. Threads of old hurt and embarrassment wove through him, but they were now ancient and frayed, too tattered to be binding.

  “Did you love her?” Lydia’s question was quiet, her voice steady.

  His hands dug into his upper arms, his spine stiffening. Lydia didn’t look at him, though her jaw appeared to tense as silence filled the space that should have contained his abrupt denial.

  She rested her hand on a globe, lifting her gaze to him, her blue eyes concealed behind a shield of wariness.

  “I had known Miss Caroline Turner for several years before proposing,” Alexander said. “She was everything I thought I wanted.”

  “And what was that?”

  “She was elegant, lovely, perfect for a peer. Polished as a diamond. And she was a good person, kind and without artifice. No one ever had an unkind word to say about her. I knew she would make an excellent wife.” He paused, then pushed the words through his constricted chest. “Before the scandal, yes, I loved her.”

  Until this moment, he didn’t think he’d even made the admission to himself. And yet his sole concern was how Lydia would react.

  She was quiet for what seemed a very long time, the tips of her fingers resting against the glass-covered surface of the miniature world.

  “You must have been so hurt,” she finally said. An undercurrent of emotion tugged at her voice.

  He wondered at its source, wondered how Lydia Kellaway had the capacity to experience pain over his loss. It was true—Lord Chilton’s severance of the engagement had sliced Alexander to the bone. But the humiliation had only deepened cuts already bleeding from his mother’s scandal, his father’s shame, his family’s disgrace.

  “I can’t say I was surprised,” he told Lydia. “I knew what I’d have to contend with when I returned to London. I knew what I’d face. I’d other plans I didn’t want to give up, but I had to.”

  “What were your plans?”

  “I was preparing for a lengthy trip throughout Russia. I’d been planning it for years. Siberia, the Urals, Vladivostok. I’d proposed to Miss Turner before I left, and we agreed to marry upon my return.”

  The frustration of a thwarted ambition rose in him. “The trip was intended to expand my company.”

  “And you never went?”

  “I couldn’t. The scandal, the divorce… I had to come back and attempt to repair the damage.”

  “And Miss Turner?” Lydia asked.

  Alexander rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his muscles tight and pinched.

&
nbsp; “What of her?” he asked.

  “What will happen when you’ve restored your family’s reputation? Will she wish to reopen the question of marriage to you?”

  Alexander might have laughed if Lydia hadn’t sounded so grave. He shook his head.

  “Miss Turner married the son of a viscount over a year ago. She has thus far borne him one daughter, and by all accounts they are quite content.”

  Lydia’s blue gaze sharpened, the clouds of wariness dissipating. “Did that disappoint you?”

  “God, no.” He might have loved the woman at one time, but now his affection for Miss Turner seemed inconsequential and misguided. “If all had remained status quo with my family, I’d have had a good marriage to Miss Turner. But as things transpired… she hadn’t the constitution to withstand the ugliness of it.”

  He pushed himself away from the display case and moved closer to Lydia, drawn into the clean, crisp paper smell that belonged to her alone. “And the past month has made me realize I owe Lord Chilton my deepest gratitude for not allowing me to become shackled to his daughter.”

  He stopped in front of her and lifted a hand to that single loose tendril of hair against her neck. He wrapped the soft strands around his forefinger.

  “Because if I had been,” he continued, “I couldn’t do this.”

  Her lips parted as if she expected him to kiss her. Instead he rubbed his thumb across her mouth, the ridges of her lips both soft and slightly rough. Her breath tickled his hand, her cheeks darkening with a crimson flush.

  Aware that anyone might see them, Alexander fought the almost overpowering urge to kiss her. He stepped back. If she were his wife, there would be no barrier, either self-imposed or external, to prevent him from touching her, kissing her, lov—

  Well. He needn’t go that far.

  “We’d best go,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat. Must have caught a chill. “The hall will be closing soon.”

  Dear Jane,

  Monosyllable, yes. Clever girl. Here is another riddle:

  A word of one syllable, easy and short.

  Which reads backward and forward the same;

  It expresses the sentiments warm from the heart

  And to beauty lays principal claim.

  Frankly I’m reaching the end of my riddle repertoire, so I will have to procure more complex challenges. Perhaps I’ll send along some mathematical problems to further test your skills.

  Best of luck with your comprehension of long division; it sounds as if you’ve a most excellent tutor in your older sister.

  Sincerely,

  C

  The riddle ran through Jane’s mind as she walked with Mrs. Driscoll toward the house for her piano lesson. A word of one syllable…

  She glanced to the side as a movement caught her eye. Lord Rushton was striding along one of the side paths toward a large glass house.

  “Sir… my lord!” Jane let go of Mrs. Driscoll’s hand and almost ran to catch up with the earl, her heart beating with a combination of fear and excitement over her own audacity.

  He turned with a frown. Did the man ever smile?

  Not that she expected him to smile at her.

  “I’ve brought you something.” She thrust a book at him. “It’s a treatise on insects that are most harmful to a garden. It’s got pictures and everything. If you can identify them, you can figure out how to rid your garden of them. There’s all sorts of things you can try, like tobacco water or lime water for aphids, fumigation… you can trap snails and slugs with raw potato… and there’s a whole section on insects that injure greenhouse plants…” She paused to catch her breath.

  The earl’s frown returned as he paged through the book. “Why did you bring this to me?”

  “I thought you might find it useful. I did tell you I like to study insects, if you recall.”

  He glowered at the pointed note in her tone.

  “I also like puzzles and riddles,” Jane added. “I even know one about insects. Part of a tree, if right transposed, an insect then will be disclosed.”

  “What on earth are you going on about, girl?”

  “It’s a riddle. Part of a tree—”

  “I heard you,” the earl grumbled. “Foolishness, riddles.”

  Jane flushed. “Er, did you figure out what’s the matter with my fern, my lord?”

  “Yes. Not enough moisture and perhaps too much direct sunlight.”

  “I water it every day.”

  “Mist it every day. Don’t water the roots every day. They ought to dry in between watering. I’ve got your fern in the greenhouse. Come and collect it after your lesson.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Jane turned and hurried back along the path to where Mrs. Driscoll stood waiting.

  “Leaf,” the earl called.

  Jane stopped.

  “Leaf?” she repeated.

  “Leaf. Transposed it’s flea. The answer to your riddle.” He almost smiled. Almost. “Bastian tells me your sister’s fond of puzzles as well.”

  “Oh, yes, my lord. But Lydia’s are more difficult than mine. All about numbers and sums and such.” A rush of pride in Lydia filled her, and she added, “My sister is brilliant, Lord Ruston. There isn’t a puzzle in the world Lydia can’t solve.”

  “Is that a fact, Miss Jane?” A faint air of challenge crossed his expression. “We’ll just see about that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  He was here. He was coming up the front step right this moment. Lydia gripped the heavy curtain in her fist, trying to remember if her grandmother had left the house. Yes, she had; she’d taken Jane to attend one of her charities with Mrs. Keene.

  Relief mixed with a combination of fear and anticipation as Lydia hurried down the stairs to the front door. Before the bell rang, she pulled the door open. “Lord Northwood.”

  He scowled. He looked terrible. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his jaw sported coarse whiskers, and his clothing was abominably wrinkled, as if he had been in the same coat and trousers for the past two days. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was Sebastian Hall rather than the impeccable Lord Northwood.

  But of course she knew it was him. She knew it by the way her skin warmed, her heart thumping like a metronome. She knew it by the way his gaze slid over her as if he were a man starved and she a warm, soft muffin. And she knew it by the way her entire being flooded with something suspiciously close to joy.

  She smiled. Ridiculous, really. The man had caused her nothing but trouble, and yet here she stood, unable to deny this sheer happiness at the sight of him. It made no sense, but at this stage in her life, she knew that emotions had little sense to them.

  She couldn’t stop smiling, which only intensified Northwood’s scowl. “What is so blasted funny?” he growled.

  “I’m not laughing.” Lydia stepped aside to allow him entry. “Come inside. You look as if you could use a good strong cup of tea. Or perhaps whiskey or brandy would suffice. We have—”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  Lydia closed the drawing room door behind them, watching with curiosity as he reached into his coat and removed several sheets of creased, smudged paper. He thrust them toward her.

  “Your bloody problem, Miss Kellaway.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You’ve solved it?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “I don’t understand.” Lydia took the papers and smoothed them out. Her original question was grubby almost beyond recognition, the other pages filled with a scrawl of numbers, letters, and numerous erasures. Heavy black lines crossed out several of the equations.

  Northwood folded his arms across his chest, his jaw tightening. “I think I have the solution, but I can’t be certain.”

  Lydia stared at him, knowing to her bones that it cost him dearly to admit his doubt about his own abilities. She ran her hand over the pages, imagining that they still contained the heat of his touch, the intensity of his thoughts.

  “
I… It will take me some time to figure out your—”

  He pointed to a small secretaire near the window. “Do it now.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sit down, Miss Kellaway, and tell me if I’ve got it right or not.”

  “Right this very moment?” The slight teasing note to her voice did nothing to ease his scowl.

  “Yes. The parameters of your time frame end this evening. I intend to know who has won this particular wager before then.”

  “Very well.” Lydia crossed to the table and sat, spreading the pages on the desktop. The back of her neck prickled with awareness when he moved to stand behind her.

  She picked up a pencil and began reviewing the process of his solution.

  “This page is next.” Northwood leaned over her shoulder and shuffled the pages into order. “This is the problem, isn’t it? I’ve got the cubic equation wrong.”

  His arm brushed her shoulder as he pulled back. Lydia suppressed a tremble of response.

  “No, this part is correct,” she said, attempting to concentrate on the task at hand. “But you didn’t need to actually calculate a, b, and c to determine the sum of their fourth powers. They are roots of x3 minus 6x2 plus 14x minus C equals 0.”

  She removed a clean sheet of paper from a drawer and wrote several equations equaling zero. “And it would have been easier if you’d found the constant term P first. Like this.” She wrote out several more equations determining the roots of the numbers. “Then you can identify a, b, c as roots of this.” She wrote x3 − rx2 + ½(r2 − s)x + [½r(3s − r2) − t]/3 = 0 and tapped the paper with her pencil.

  She turned the page to show him how she’d worked it out. His eyes flashed with self-directed anger. “That’s not what I did.”

  “I see that. Fortunately, there is often more than one way to solve a problem.”

  Lydia ran her finger over the scribbles and cross-outs that constituted his work. When she came to the last page, a black circle ringed the solution he’d reached. Lydia looked at the number 0 with a curious combination of dismay and elation.