Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (24 page)

“Never give too much information. All the better to lure you into my lair,” he said with a humorous, mocking leer.

“Oh, stop,” she said, unable to hold back her smile. She loved his sense of humor over the many stories that circulated about him.

The earl canted his head, scrutinizing her anew. “Why would my expedition upset you? Doesn’t it work in your favor to be free of a certain self-serving nobleman for two or three years? You’d have an incredible amount of freedom…within reason, of course.”

Her mouth opened to respond, but her mind stalled. From her perch on the high stool, one leg swung like a pendulum in time with her ticking brain. Why this odd urgency to have him stay? Lydia had added her voice once or twice these past three days, albeit more quietly than Lady Elizabeth. She loathed the idea of him leaving. At the moment, his tanned skin and lionesque hair against the vibrant green background made him a kind of exotic specimen. He watched her, waiting, and the scars near his mouth puckered and twisted as the damaged side of his face curved in a sardonic grin.

“Careful, Miss Montgomery, or you’ll catch flies.”

She touched her lips, shutting her mouth, then grinning at how silly she must look. She enjoyed the ease that moved between them. They’d worked these past days in solidarity, and the way the earl had treated her like an equal, even when she was at a complete loss as to the finer points of botany and academics, was rewarding. Her illustrations and diagrams conveyed what he wrote, what he said. Their partnership of sorts, however new, truly gratified. And then to be left alone while he explored places unknown, possibly never returning from so hazardous a journey?

“Any woman would be upset if she were left to raise a child by herself. Assuming we accomplish that,” she blurted, her cheeks growing hot under his perceptive eyes. “And in a place she’s not entirely comfortable calling home.”

There. That must be it.

He set one hand at his waist, where the shirt was half-untucked. But he glanced toward the Greenwich manse once more and nodded with resignation.

“On that score, I’m trying to gain my mother’s assistance.” His broad chest expanded as he took a deep breath. “Her guidance once I leave is crucial, but this, this is no easy thing for her.”

“Then don’t go.”

His head, full of harsh glower, snapped around to face her. “Out of the question.”

“I can’t claim to understand this need of yours to roam the world, exploring strange places,” she said, rubbing the pinched muscles at her neck and shoulders. Leaning over the high workbench these past days had begun to take a toll. “But I would think men have been persuaded to change their plans once or twice because of a woman.”

“Not their mothers, I’m sure,” he said, crossing his arms once more. “I, for one, have never been moved enough to work my plans around a woman, no matter her relation to me.”

He spoke with finality, and that last pronouncement, meant as fair warning for her, chafed such that she needed to look away. She stifled the argument that he’d changed plans for family demands in the past, when her gaze fell once more on the strange delivery from King George.

“What about the king?”

He pivoted toward the much-traveled chest, with his scarred profile in view. “Would I change my mind for the king? Stay or go, I don’t think he cares.” His disfigured cheek twitched as a warm smiled formed. “If you’re angling to know what he sent me, why not simply ask?”

“I didn’t think I ought to be so bold, considering what happened in your room.” She hunched her shoulders and mentally brushed off his prickly dictate about not working life plans around a woman.

“Meekness doesn’t become you.” He tipped his head at the unassuming trunk, and like a highwayman luring a coconspirator, asked, “Want to see what’s inside?”

Lydia needed no further prodding; she sprung from the stool to join him. He chuckled at her enthusiasm, and Lydia loved the way his eyes twinkled. She imagined him as the boy she’d viewed in the Greenwich art gallery, thoroughly involved in mischief. With both hands, the earl tugged the box closer, scraping it across the table. Whatever inhabited it was solid weight. He cut the knotted twine with a small knife from his tool collection, and the rusted latch sprang free.

“Go ahead,” he said, tossing the knife aside. “Open it.”

She unbuckled the flimsy leather straps and lifted the flat lid an inch or two. Lydia rose on tiptoe for a peek through the rectangular opening. In the dimness, squared edges and leather mixed with a dry, dusty smell.

“They’re books.”

She flipped the lid back and pulled out a well-worn volume. “
Systema
Naturae
”—she grimaced and handed over the volume—“riveting, I’m sure.”

“Linnaeus’s taxonomy of the plant and animal kingdom.” He slanted her smile. “Excellent reading material.”

She scrunched her nose as a strong whiff of dust accompanied the next book. “I’ll have to trust you on that.”

“I exchange books with King George on a regular basis. He’s not an intellectual, per se, but plans an extensive library and seeks my opinion. And quite frankly, he needs it,” he said without a trace of humility as he retrieved the remaining books, at least a dozen, stacking them in a messy array. “A few years ago, the king purchased six thousand volumes from Joseph Banks, but it’s my insight and advice he seeks to refine the collection.”

A smile crept across her mouth. His patrician nose and scarred profile, trimmed with a dose of strong male pride, made for an interesting juxtaposition. To suggest modesty about his intellect would be a waste of breath, yet he wasn’t overly impressed with his connection to royalty. To his lordship’s mind, King George was simply another fellow seeking his opinion, as evidenced by the mound of correspondence people sent him.

Some letters requested the sale of exotic plant cuttings, while others presented complex scientific questions on various floras. Lord Greenwich, she had learned, was a well-connected recluse who responded to the scientific minds of the outside world on his timetable.

Lydia kept up her careful review of one tome after another as they passed books to each other. Their fingers touched often, quick grazings of skin to skin.

“Let me guess: when it comes to Sir Joseph, you may be smarter, but he’s nicer.” She opened the only volume she recognized, flipping through the pages. “You’ve got quite a rivalry with him, don’t you?”

He dusted off another volume with a Latin title and raised it for quick inspection. “I have my reasons.”

Out of her side vision, he made a show of examining each book, but Lord Greenwich also watched her from his peripheral view, the awareness was mutual. His hip and thigh touched her, lingering, as he reached to check the chest, now empty. Her stays pinched her chest. A constricting grip made her breathing become heavier. Lydia fidgeted, adjusting the stays wrapped around her torso.

“And those reasons would be?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the table.

He replaced a pair of books inside the chest, his forearm brushing hers. Gold and brown masculine arm hairs tickled her wrist. Lydia missed how she came to stand so close to Lord Greenwich, but his body heat mixed with whiffs of his clean, earthy smell coiled around her. His shirtsleeve rubbed her shoulder, and her shawl slipped lower. Their closeness, so companionable, must’ve struck him as well. When she turned to him, his lordship’s face creased in a genuine smile, and both the scarred and unscarred planes took her breath away. The tiny white scar on his temple disappeared into the crinkled corner of his eye.

“You want nothing hidden, do you?” His voice dropped to an intimate low. “And yet, I seem ready to open up my secrets to the most singular woman of my acquaintance.”

Lydia swallowed, trying to rid herself of the lump in her throat. He gave her another of his unusual, elevating compliments. Praise, she long ago surmised, did not fall easily from Lord Greenwich’s lips.

“I, I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, stumbling over her words. “But I’m willing to listen and keep secrets.”

His gaze swept across her eyes, down to her lips. “I’m sure those lips of yours do many things, including keep secrets.”

Her heart pounded at his blatant innuendo. Gone was the brave woman making bold insinuations of her own in his study. That magnetic smile of his, if he chose to use it more often, would win the meanest shrew, turning her to melted wax.

“What? No saucy return from Miss Montgomery?” he jested softly. “I’ve rendered you speechless. I’ll have to remember that: flagrant flirtation silences Wickersham’s hoyden artist.”

“You’re a bit free with your word choices, my lord, and short on delivery.” She held the open book against her chest. “What’s this secret you’re talking about?”

His smile froze. Dark-eyed flirtation shifted as the glow in his topaz eyes hardened.

“I have strong reason to believe Joseph copied my findings at university and gave them to Lord Blevins, current president of the Royal Society. Some years ago, Blevins published my work under his name, taking full credit”—more gold-brown hair worked loose from his queue, falling about his face—“because the old man wouldn’t know an original thought if it knocked him on his arse.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, touching his sleeve, yet the sentiment seemed woefully inadequate.

Life had dealt the Earl of Greenwich agonizing disappointments and unfair trials. If this latest bit proved to be true, then someone who was supposed to be a close, trusted friend betrayed him, all amidst very public gossip and speculation about other areas of his life. That he bore the burdens like a true nobleman made her heart swell with admiration, for she wasn’t ready to credit any other emotion at this time. Something flashed behind Lord Greenwich’s dark eyes, and conciliatory softness replaced stony sharpness.

“I hope you aren’t offended by my boldness. I find I like our blunt speech. It’s direct, refreshing.”

His frank nature appealed to her, drawing her out in new, curious ways. Direct speech could be so honest and desirable even in its bluntest forms.

“I don’t mind,” she said, her voice a husky alto.

The air between them roiled with warmth and more awareness in a way she couldn’t slow down or moderate. Even the simplest exchange with the earl seemed to twist her about. If she didn’t look him in the eye, she’d be safe, safe from being drawn into this maddening attraction. Lydia turned to the table and set down the volume she held, closing it.

“Aristotle’s
Poetics
. The only book in this pile I’m familiar with.”

“You’ve read it?” he asked with mild surprise.

“Parts.” Her fingertips skimmed gold foil on the spine, and she willed her heart and breathing into calmness. “He said people are higher and lower types, divided by moral decisions and social class.” She returned the book to the chest, sensing that she, not he, was the one revealing a hidden place. Lydia swiped her palms free of fine dust. “A change of fortune can knock you out of the higher social class, but moral decisions keep you there no matter your fortunes.”

She looked up into sparkling topaz eyes, opened wider as he regarded her.

Lydia pulled her shawl up around her shoulders and shrugged. “I’m no intellectual, but he caught my interest. A few things he said about people and art.”

Lord Greenwich reached up and touched the edge of her shawl, skimming her neck. He brushed back loose strands of hair, tickling her cheek, her ear. The move, really a simple touch, was both intimate and caring, and she drank it up like a parched woman long deprived. They were supposed to be discussing books, but her eyelids fluttered low as her body quivered from his slight touch. Lydia stepped closer to his warmth.

“An interesting facet worth exploring.” His fingers curved around her nape, but his thumb slowly stroked her earlobe.

Did
he
mean
people
or
art?

Her languid gaze met his.
She
was the facet he wished to explore. The blackness of his wide pupils told her as much as did the full masculine mouth looking ready to plant hot kisses somewhere, anywhere on her skin. Yet her teasing nature played along with the sensual.

“What would you like to explore?”

“You’re offering personal tutoring lessons?”

Their faces were a hand’s breadth apart. His long, gold-tipped eyelashes dropped lower over his darkened eyes. His warm breath caressed her skin.

From somewhere within the mass of greenery, Huxtable’s cheery whistle careened off the glass walls. His black wool cap bobbed up and down on a far pathway as he approached. Lydia lowered her head and took a careful step back, but not before Lord Greenwich’s warm hand covered her shoulder and slid down to her elbow. His smoldering brown eyes promised something.

Later.

“There she is,” Huxtable called over a row of potted, juvenile sprouts. He chewed his ivory pipe into the corner of his mouth, talking around the stem. “Lady E.’s a callin’ for ye, miss. Wants to see ye in the Blue Drawin’ Room right quick like, she does.”

Fifteen

A beautiful thing never gives so much pain as does

failing to hear it and see it.

—Michelangelo

Irritation nagged him with all the persistence of a buzzing fly about his head; a sure sign that all was not right in the world. He dealt in constant logic and fact, methodically moving from one premise to another, proving or disproving suppositions. People, however, never quite stayed within those neat parameters. And when messy emotions dared intervene—and he solidly categorized irritation as emotion—Edward turned testy. Wasn’t he made of firmer stuff than to be bothered by, of all things,
feelings
?

That word made him cringe. He wobbled, nearly losing his footing, but balance and nimble feet prevailed.

“Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three…” Edward puffed his steady count, jumping rope in the ballroom’s massive, cave-like confines.

This was his sixth, no seventh, attempt to reach one hundred without faltering, and normally he’d not miss a beat the first time through, moving onto the next exercise. But even this sanctum had been invaded. Again. By Miss Montgomery.