A Hasty Betrothal (12 page)

He stared at her hasty script. She wrote that she had a previous engagement. One to which he was obviously not invited. Disappointment crawled through him. He slapped the note on the desk and stood, stretching, forcing his arms upward and stomping his feet. Enough of this.

What had he expected? That she'd want to spend time with him? Just because she stared up at him with those clear blue eyes of hers? Just because she'd allowed him to kiss her hand? She had called him lovely, he recalled, right before accusing him of being overbearing.

He must stop himself from expecting more from Elizabeth. When had she ever given of herself? The unfair notion infiltrated his thoughts, dredging up memories of his marriage that he'd rather forget.

Foolishness. Was he courting Elizabeth? Falling into the habit of treating her as his betrothed in a romantic sense when the truth of the matter remained that theirs was nothing more than a contractual agreement?

Marry Elizabeth to help her keep her family's good name. That was his only reason for trapping himself. If she wanted to live with her grandmother, so be it. The dowager duchess did seem in need of looking after at times, and Elizabeth claimed to be in charge of the household.

A surprising jot of information, and entirely unexpected. It had revised his opinion of her. The household was run with efficiency.

He stalked out of the office, calling for his horse to be readied. A brisk ride along Rotten Row ought to calm his nerves and release the tension that had accumulated with her refusal to attend the event. It was only to be expected, he told himself.

Elizabeth liked reading. Not socializing nor talking. Not debating Young's theories. That particular professor spoke interestingly of natural philosophy. When he found time, Miles enjoyed attending his lectures at the Royal Institution.
Outlines of Natural Philosophy
had been a dynamic read. He supposed the ideas might be more than what Elizabeth could comprehend. She was intelligent, but he did not think she'd find that particular subject interesting.

Setting his jaw, he decided it was best she had declined his invitation. For all he knew, she had an appointment with the modiste. He could not allow himself to fall into the snare of thinking more of their relationship than he ought. He would not ask her to reschedule for him. That was beyond propriety, and then he'd certainly be the overbearing beast she liked to insinuate he was.

He would not give her the benefit of being right, and he would
not
romance her. Mind made up, he set out for a ride to clear his thoughts and forget that he'd even come close to the dastardly notion of courting Lady Elizabeth Wayland.

Chapter Thirteen

T
he meeting of the Society of Scientific Minds proved to be a larger event than Elizabeth expected. She hugged a corner of the salon where they met, using her favorite bonnet to shadow the part of her face that garnered attention. People milled around the room, holding small saucers of petit cakes and engaging in passionate conversation. Words filtered to her but her brain, busy with worry, could hardly understand them.

“Lady Elizabeth?” A young man with large spectacles and one protruding tooth bowed flawlessly. “We are so happy you could make our humble presentation. Have you brought the telescope?” Eagerness coated his words. He did not seem as though he even saw her birthmark. His gaze did not stray from her eyes. She liked him already.

“Are you Sir Rigby?”

“Yes. I have quite enjoyed your articles through the years, though I never guessed you to be a woman. It is a surprise.”

Elizabeth stiffened, her corset cutting into her back. She had donned one for the occasion, despite her misgivings. Arching a brow, she offered him a disapproving look. “The fact that a woman wrote those articles boggles your mind? Kindly explain yourself.”

“I beg pardon, my lady. I intended no offense. I simply thought you were a male author. Your thoughts are logical. Concise. When you speak of nebulae seen through your telescope, I am reminded of great astronomers such as Herschel. I assume you've read his words?”

“I am a great admirer of his sister, actually. Caroline Herschel is a noted astronomer who I had the privilege of meeting last year. She is intelligent, and I'm rather surprised you have asked me here instead of her. Unfortunately, I was unable to transport the telescope. I own an older model. It is quite large and cumbersome, but I have brought several drawings and details of my latest discoveries, including a whitish smear about the galaxy, which I believe to be a cluster of stars.”

“You referred to this celestial mark in your latest article, did you not?”

Elizabeth flushed, a great beam of pleasure spreading throughout her. “Yes, that was a great discovery, though of course I did not discover the mystery myself. As you must know, that strange, milky formation has been under study for quite some time.” She stopped herself from rambling, which she was wont to do when it came to subjects of great delight.

Sir Rigby's attention prompted a smile.

“I look forward to hearing more, my lady. I shall gather the company and ready them for your presentation.”

A shiver borne of nerves shuddered through Elizabeth, though she believed herself to retain a measure of composure as the interesting baron left her side.

She had been determined to refuse the invitation, but the temptation to speak about her new telescope proved irresistible. Then she had considered speaking only behind a screen. A large part of her wished to preserve her anonymity, but upon mentioning such a tactic to her grandmother, she'd been met with scorn and shock. A Wayland did not behave in such a manner, Grandmother asserted.

Elizabeth wanted to respond
this one does
, but then she recalled Miles and all of his dreadful insinuations and she longed to prove him wrong with a desperation that surprised her. It was time to be a stronger Elizabeth, worthy of her station in life.

Or so she bravely told herself.

Now that the time had come to face a large group of intellectual, scientifically minded people, the majority of them men, her courage faltered. Though it did help that Sir Rigby seemed not the least bit interested in the quality of her skin tone.

But what would she say? She patted her satchel, a leather monstrosity she carried books in when traveling. Though it did not match her dress, which Grandmother had insisted on picking out, not one person eyed her askance. In fact, not many had looked at her at all. They busied themselves debating theories and ideas.

Such an odd atmosphere, and yet she found she rather fancied the sound of conversations that did not revolve around Prinny or the state of his wife's wardrobe.

Sir Rigby appeared again, clapping his hands loudly. As if on cue, the attendees began taking seats. Once those were filled, some lounged against the wall, but all eyes were on her. Disconcerting, to be certain.

She fiddled with her satchel. Patted the sides. Assured herself that the drawings and informational pages resided within. That they had not deserted her the way her courage had.

“My fellow scientific minds, it is my pleasure to introduce to you a person of great insight and curious exploration. It has long been my belief that intelligence is not limited by gender, and today that belief is once again proved correct. Analysis has shown that the female mind is only limited by society's strictures, and even then, a woman can overcome these boundaries thrust upon her person with perseverance and intelligence.” He swept her a bow, his eyes alight. Then he turned back to what seemed to her a massive crowd. Her throat closed. She dared not faint and prove to them the weakness of femininity.

She must remember Ms. Herschel and how that indomitable woman spoke and wrote without fear of remonstrance. Granted, her brother fully supported her. Elizabeth mentally shook the thought away. She had prayed before coming here tonight, and her grandmother supported her. What else had she need of?

“Today, we are joined by none other than a regular contributor to our gazette, Elizabeth Wayland.”

Gasps rippled through the room. At that moment, the doors swung open, and Miles hurried in. He did not look up, so intent was he on finding a place.

Elizabeth thought then she would faint away. Surely grandmother's malady had been passed to her, for the boning in her corset felt far too tight and her breaths far too shallow.

Alas, the feeling passed just as Miles lifted his eyes. At once, she saw awareness fill him. Shock. His brows rose and though he was across the room, she felt certain his jaw tightened.

Or perhaps she imagined the reaction.

She forced her gaze to move from his to meet the stares of others in the room who looked at her expectantly. Gathering her breath, she addressed the crowded room.

As she spoke, she relaxed. It was difficult to forget that Miles watched her so intently when she passed out the drawings she'd made and shared her hypotheses on different stars, but somehow she managed to ignore his piercing attention.

Why was he here? Had he followed her? Was he angry she had refused his request for her company this evening? She could not begin to fathom the reason for his presence. His words from the other day still echoed in her mind, though... He thought her wonderful just the way she was.

A gentleman in the back of the room cleared his throat. “Miss Wayland, have you any plans to further your research in astronomy?”

She did not correct his address, as she was here not in the capacity of a lady, but as a fellow sojourner in the pursuit of knowledge. “The telescope is intriguing, to be sure, but my true love is reading. Studying the stars is a natural part of learning, of taking joy in the process of discovery. Much like a well-written novel.”

A few scoffs erupted at her words, quickly tamped by manners. Feeling incredibly self-conscious, Elizabeth refused to look at Miles. He no doubt smirked, perhaps laughing at her the way several others were. Too many believed novel reading to be unscientific and unhealthy for the brain.

She squared her shoulders. Let them believe what they chose. She knew otherwise. Though everything within screamed to run away, to back out of the room and leave, she mustered strength and asked if there were any questions.

Of course, there were. People questioned her drawings, asked for examples of how the telescope worked, where best to place it, how lighting conditions affected it. The list of questions was endless.

“In less than a month, I am hosting a house party,” she blurted out. Her legs shook from standing so long. Her bonnet's flowers lay heavy on her head. Wilted, she thought. This meeting was not for types such as herself.

“A house party?”

“Yes, to celebrate my betrothal. If you care to attend, leave your card with me, and I shall see you receive an invitation. It shall be ever so much easier to explain the workings of my telescope if you are able to see it in person.”

Her words inspired several curious looks. She gave her grandmother's name, noting the distaste crossing several features. The fact that the party was to be held at the home of a dowager duchess would discourage many. These were not the sort to care about hobnobbing with the ton. Indeed, she had the distinct impression that her rank in the peerage discredited her in a way her gender could not.

She no longer cared.

Depleted by the energy spent speaking, she cast a desperate look to Sir Rigby, who thankfully, sweet man, rushed over and delivered a short conclusion.

Relieved to be through with the ordeal, Elizabeth sank into the nearest chair. She closed her eyes. She must leave at once. Block out the noise. Crawl into the library and soak up silence.

Perhaps speaking had not been a colossal mistake, but it had certainly stolen the wind from her sails. She felt utterly deflated and devoid of energy. Her brain could not take another conversation.

“My lady, are you in need of a ride home?” Miles's voice intruded, as it so often did, on her silence. The gravelly quality of his tone inspired little pinpricks of awareness to rush over her in soft waves. A quite pleasant feeling, actually.

She forced her eyes open. He stood beside her, concern drawing his brows together and the usual quirk of his lips softened by worry. His hands rested in his pockets, and he looked utterly handsome and dignified.

He belonged with a beauty like Anastasia.

Pushing the unwelcome thought to the side, she stood on wobbly legs. “If you would be so kind.”

The benefit of betrothal. She need not worry about anyone raising eyebrows about her riding home with Miles.

“Give me but a moment to arrange for my carriage. Did you bring a maid?”

She nodded, numbness pressing against her ears. So many people in this small room. Everything closed in on her...or perhaps it was this infernal corset. She vowed never to wear one again.

A few members walked over and spoke with her. She could scarce concentrate, but answered them as best she could. Soon Miles returned and escorted her to his carriage, a comfortably padded rig with a roof and curtains. She climbed in, quivering with the need for escape. Jenna sat on the outside, enjoying the sunshine, Elizabeth hoped. As for herself, she only wanted silence.

Her satchel rested on the seat beside her, but even the novel within could not entice her from her lethargy.

Miles settled across from her, rapped the outside and the carriage moved over the cobblestones.

A relative quiet settled in the interior, though she was too aware of his scrutiny. Through lowered lids, she studied his hands. Graceful, with long fingers, he held them clasped on his lap as though perfectly at rest.

“I am in awe of you, my lady,” he said after an interminable length of time.

Curiosity stirred. Refreshed by the quiet, Elizabeth bent her head. “You flatter me, Miles. But how is it you arrived at our meeting? How did you know I would be there?”

“I could ask you the same, for you refused my invitation.”

“But...” Grasping for understanding, she sat a little straighter. His invitation had been for this event? “You are a member?”

“I receive their quarterly gazette.”

“So you have read my articles?”

His brow scrunched, looking ridiculously adorable. “Articles?”

For a second she was flummoxed by his surprise, and then she recalled that he had entered the room after the introduction. Oh, dear, she could have avoided this conversation altogether.

Wetting her lips, she clasped her hands and tried her best for a lofty look. “Yes, I write under the name E.W.”

“You're E.W.?”

Astonishment crossed his features, and her heart sank, heavy as a novel by Milton, to the bottom of her stomach. Miles did not look happy.

* * *

Miles was not happy.

He worked like one of those mechanical automatons he'd seen in London, signing papers, reviewing contracts and plans, but his mind could not concentrate. The date of their house party crept closer and closer like the onset of a bad megrim. When he shuffled through the papers on his desk, he found an old article by E.W.

Elizabeth Wayland.

How was it that he could be so shocked? So singularly impressed and yet completely dismayed? And then she'd invited the society members to her home... If they went, he'd be doubly surprised, though a telescope would be hard for anyone with a modicum of intelligent curiosity to resist.

He squinted at the stack in front of him. He'd managed to slog through quite a bit of work in the last few days without calling on Elizabeth. After all, there was no need for a formal courtship nor any appearance of a romance. He had decided it with finality. Their ride home from the society's meeting the other day had been quiet and without fanfare. She hardly spoke, appearing wan and drained.

Her demeanor further convinced him that their marriage must remain a rescue mission. If a few hours of social contact tired her so, she would certainly have trouble hosting events. On the upside, she would not require the social interactions in which other women of her rank indulged.

He buried his head in his hands, groaning. What had been meant to be a simple decision to keep Elizabeth from ruin had turned into a matter that twisted his gut at night and made him double guess every action.

“Mr. Hawthorne?” Powell dropped something on the desk, prompting Miles to drag his head upward. “An invitation for you, sir, and a young lady is in the hall to see you.”

“A young lady?” He squinted. His head pounded.

“Your young lady, I believe.” And then Powell smiled.

Miles was so taken aback that his jaw dropped.

When had his valet last smiled? He could not recall. “Has she amused you in some way?”