I Thee Wed (2 page)

O
RION Worthington stood in the foyer of Blayne House while a footman swiftly divested him of his wet hat and overcoat.

Although he was not yet accustomed to such attention to his person, neither was he disturbed by it. Although Iris and Archie never cared for abundant household help, there was no shame in keeping servants. A highly trained, highly paid position in a fine house was much sought after in these troubled times. Sir Geoffrey was exacting in his preferences, but Miss Judith Blayne, Sir Geoffrey's daughter, saw that the master's every desire was catered to.

In a way, he was also now a retainer, although laboratory assistants were more in the way of apprentices, generally there to learn and to someday progress to take their master's place.

The contrast between this serene abode and the anarchic, jumbled Worthington House was so extreme that for an instant Orion doubted his impression of his own home. While the last memory of mud was being rubbed from his gleaming boots by a kneeling footman, Orion squinted against the
shimmer of pristine housekeeping perfection and brought his family home to mind.

In the foyer, one might find random deposits of books, muddy shoes, dropped gloves, books, stray machine parts collected by or for Castor, one of the inventor twins, a scowling sister, books, a vague and dreamy mother, books, a Shakespeare-quoting father—dressed, one might hope, in something more than baggy winter drawers—a dueling sword or two, a musical instrument that was meant to be sent for repair but had gathered a decade of dust to its once-polished bosom, books, a second scowling sister . . .

“Ah!”

It was his new mentor, Sir Geoffrey himself. “Mr. Worthington, at last!”

*   *   *

U
NFORTUNATELY, IN HER
flight from the cook, Francesca ran in the wrong direction. Had she headed to the right, she could have used the servant staircase to make her way to her bedchamber unseen. Instead, out of habit she headed left, and the only staircase for her to use led directly through the main living areas of the house.

She looked a terrible mess, of course. One could hardly cook, and cook well, without digging in deep. But she'd been at it since dawn, first baking the delicious crusty bread that even the cook admitted was excellent, and then beginning her sauce with all the first beautiful pickings from her little garden in honor of the new arrival! And of course, she'd had to stop to weed a little, and she'd spent a few minutes seeing to her specimens housed by the back garden . . .

No, despite her highly productive day, Sir Geoffrey would not approve of her mussed, floured, steamed, and spattered state!

She put on a burst of speed. If she was in luck, the new resident of Blayne House had not yet arrived, and she could dash up the stairs to change before—

“Ah, Mr. Worthington! At last!”

Francesca skidded to a stop just as she entered the foyer, narrowly avoiding running directly into Judith, her cousin.
Blast it!

And of course, the occupants of Blayne House were all present and accounted for. Sir Geoffrey was stepping forward to greet the newcomer. Francesca winced when she saw that her uncle wore the Coat.

She'd lived in Blayne House long enough to recognize Sir Geoffrey's favorite surcoat, a fitted thing of dark blue wool, trimmed in gold thread, with some sort of family emblem stitched elaborately upon the back—which family she could not imagine, for she knew perfectly well that her father's lineage was not especially distinguished in history. Like her, Sir Geoffrey was descended from a long line of scholars and professors with the occasional minor explorer or military officer. Then again, she couldn't really say, for Sir Geoffrey and Papa were only half brothers.

Whatever the source, the Coat meant that Sir Geoffrey considered the arrival of Mr. Orion Worthington to be an Occasion. With horror, Francesca realized that her cousin appeared entirely prepared for an Occasion.

The statuesque, highly ornamental Judith was always perfectly attired for whatever she did, usually without a single golden hair out of place, and always with her serene expression intact upon her lovely face. Judith would look tranquil in a hurricane, her ivory brow unwrinkled even if she were pursued by dragons!

Francesca brushed furtively at her skirts and then realized that she still wore the sackcloth apron she'd donned this morning. She stripped it off quickly, hiding behind the thankfully tall Judith to do so. The stubborn strings would not untie, so she resorted to pulling it over her head.

The knotted strings caught on her hair, which took advantage of the situation to tumble down around her shoulders. Francesca had an adversarial relationship with her hair. For
some time now, she had suspected that perhaps her hair was winning.

There was little she could do about it now. Sir Geoffrey would find fault no matter how she appeared, so she straightened, pasted a pleasant expression upon her face, and hoped that Mr. Orion Worthington would at least be a lively addition to this gracious but incredibly boring house.

Going up on tiptoes, Francesca peeked over Judith's shoulder for a preemptive glimpse.

Che bello!

Mr. Worthington was what Nonna Laura would call “a superior specimen.” Francesca tended more toward expressive language. The words “chiseled” and “striking” and even “splendid” drifted through her mind as she stared slack-jawed in wonder.

He was tall, dark, and
magnifico
. With dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, broad shoulders, and narrow hips, he was dressed like a gentleman in somber black. A dark sapphire silk waistcoat was the only touch of color.

He didn't look like a scientist. He didn't even quite look like a gentleman! To Francesca, underneath his socially suitable clothing and demeanor, the man before her fairly vibrated with potent male power barely held in check. He looked like a wolf in a sheep meadow, holding very still in the hopes that he would go unnoticed.

Francesca had expected someone bookish, mushroom-pale, and possibly stoop-shouldered, like so many of Sir Geoffrey's colleagues, but of course, younger. Mr. Worthington looked as though he might crack a book, but only after a stimulating gallop through the woods, where he would bring down a buck with a single shot and carry it home on his shoulders.

Wipe your chin, Chessa
.

She waited breathlessly for him to smile. If he smiled, or made a clever jest, or even showed the tiniest sense of the absurd, she was sure she would promptly fall in love.

Alas, Mr. Worthington remained entirely somber. His
chiseled features portrayed only the thinnest veneer of interest in the social niceties. He looked very much like a man who thought chatting about the weather was a shameful waste of valuable air.

Of course, Francesca rather agreed with that, but she decided that on Mr. Worthington, it looked ever so slightly . . . well, rude. How disappointing.

She ought not to jump to conclusions. When she'd first arrived at Blayne House, she'd thought Sir Geoffrey pompous and self-important, and Judith impossibly unemotional. And look how that had turned out!

Sir Geoffrey dripped pretensions from every word, and Judith was more like a decorative object than a person. However, that did not mean that all of Francesca's snap judgments would be so accurate. That was a gamble she was bound to lose someday.

Fine, then. Step forward to be introduced to Mr. Orion Worthington and see for yourself
.

I will. Just as soon as my toes uncurl!

*   *   *

O
RION LONGED TO
see the famous Blayne House laboratory. Unfortunately, Sir Geoffrey was expounding.

Again.

“You and I, son! We shall be unstoppable in the race to isolate chlorophyll!”

Orion nodded.

Sir Geoffrey went on. “Let's teach those damned French pharmacist upstarts!”

Orion knew he was referring to Joseph Caventou and Pierre Pelletier, who were more than mere pharmacists, of course. Sir Geoffrey had a keenly developed sense of competition. While Orion saw no point in competing with anyone but himself, he had no objection to serving Sir Geoffrey's goal.

He only wished that he dared employ his usual tactic of
simply walking away from boring conversation. His sister Elektra had sat him down and delivered strict instructions on how to suffer through social niceties.

“Stand or sit for as long as necessary. Nod when someone is talking, so that they know you are listening. You don't have to talk. In fact, I think you'd best not, or you'll say something dreadfully accurate and entirely too truthful. Look at their faces.” She'd poked him in the chest with a slender finger. “And pay attention.”

Sir Geoffrey rocked back on his heels and narrowed his eyes at Orion. “You know, son, I'm taking a chance on you. If it were not for your sister's marriage to that Lord Aaron fellow—” Sir Geoffrey sounded mystified by precisely how such a match might have come about, but Orion wasn't about to enlighten him. Elektra would not appreciate gaining a reputation as an armed kidnapper, no matter how accurately the description might apply.

“And of course, you've made quite a name for yourself, at least in amateur circles—”

Orion did not consider himself an amateur, but he recalled Elektra's warning that accuracy made for poor conversation, and kept quiet. Should he nod again? He gave it a try. Sir Geoffrey seemed to think it appropriate.

“So I feel it is highly probable—if your reputation proves true and you are as much of an asset to my work as I hope you are—that I will indeed be sponsoring you to the Royal Fraternity of Life Sciences!”

I am more intelligent than any of the current membership, so I have no doubt of it.

Accurate, but Elektra had warned him against being accurate.

He nodded again. However, this time Sir Geoffrey seemed to expect something more. Orion held his impatience in check. This was no different from attempting an extremely particular chemical process. If one kept trying, one would determine the best sequence.

He tried again. “Thank you, Sir Geoffrey. I will work very hard.”

There. Accurate, yet vague.

And incredibly boring.

Sir Geoffrey didn't seem to think Orion's gratitude boundless enough. “We shall see. You have a rather difficult reputation, you Worthingtons. Even with your sister's advantageous match, I do hope your family keeps the high jinks to a minimum from now on. Especially if you want the sort of future that association with Blayne House can give you.”

Sir Geoffrey shot a significant glance toward his daughter. Orion turned his attention there as well.

Sir Geoffrey had hinted that he might approve of a match between Orion and Judith, once Orion gained acceptance with the Royal Fraternity. Indeed, Miss Judith Blayne would certainly make the perfect wife for an up-and-coming young scientist. She had served as her father's laboratory assistant, housekeeper, and hostess for several years. Although he felt in no particular hurry to wed, he felt no aversion to it, either. In this instance, it was a perfectly logical notion.

With a wife like Judith, Orion could imagine himself living just this sort of peaceful, organized life. A fine home, run to exacting standards, leaving him free to involve himself solely in his work while his bride managed the boring day-to-day details.

Blond, blue-eyed Judith was very pleasant to look upon as well, although not in a way that would at all disrupt Orion's concentration—

The woman behind Miss Judith Blayne stepped forward.

Orion felt his considerable power of concentration snap to and aim itself at the female before him, quite without his intention. She stood out in that pale, elegant hall like a flame on ice. It was more than her vivid coloring, although her shining near-black curls and dark brown eyes, contrasting with honey-tinged skin and berry-bright lips, were riveting
enough. In addition, he could see that her figure was impressively curvaceous, even in the loosely fitted, dull brown gown she wore.

However, further analysis, done with lightning speed, calculated as easily as an equation, informed him that mere buxom plentitude was not the factor at play.

No, it was something more. It was the way she moved on the balls of her feet, nearly as if waltzing. It was the dance of her eyes and hands and the smile that hovered at the corners of her mouth, even as she began to speak.

“Mr. Worthington, it is a pleasure—”

His head roared. Orion stopped listening. The ever-so-slightly Italian lilt in her rich, low voice struck him with a distressing amount of force.

Without a sound or movement, Orion Worthington, stringent believer in only what he could see before him, began to fall.

Vertigo. Spinning into infinity. Some axis that he'd never realized existed had suddenly shifted. Such an odd sensation. Almost as if one of his brothers had aimed a vigorous elbow into his stomach. Breathless. Heart-stopping.

All in all, meeting Miss Francesca Penrose would linger for a long time in Orion Worthington's memory as a moment of mingled exhilaration and, well, nausea.

However, Orion abruptly became aware that the irregular thudding noise he heard was not his stuttering heart, but was instead coming from the trunk at his feet.

To be more accurate, it was coming from something inside his trunk. Or someone.

He gave a sudden awkward cough to cover the thud, aimed an answering kick to the thick oak side of the box that ought to have contained nothing but his clothing and a few precious specimens, and turned abruptly to his host. “I must put my possessions in my chamber at once.”

Everyone in the hall gazed at him for a moment, obviously
taken aback by his abruptness. Orion was entirely used to this reaction, so it disturbed him not at all. He had never been one to waste time or mental energy on empty pleasantry.

It was Miss Judith Blayne who stepped forward to smooth the social strain. “Of course, Mr. Worthington. Even the shortest of journeys can be fatiguing.” She clapped her hands. Two hearty footmen appeared as if by magic. “Please take Mr. Worthington's baggage to the blue room,” she ordered them serenely.