Outrageously Yours (13 page)

When she didn’t immediately answer, he grasped her chin in his hand and raised her face. Their gazes met and sparked, then simmered with an emotion so unsettling Ivy turned her face away rather than yield to the temptation to press her lips to his.

“Ned?”

“I’m fine, sir. I think.” She gave her head a shake—as much to clear it from the effects of the electricity as from the beguiling energy of Lord Harrow’s touch. She ran both hands through her hair, still standing slightly on end. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

“No, I shouldn’t think so.”

He didn’t—couldn’t—understand that she referred to her feelings toward him, not his generator. The intensity of his regard had pierced clean through Ned Ivers’s outer shell, leaving her shaken, confused, and entirely female.

She tugged at her waistcoat to straighten it and regarded the now silent, motionless device. “How did you stop the power so quickly?”

“The tarpaulins are coated with India rubber, an insulator. Your gloves are lined with thin cork coated with the same substance.”

She glanced down at the gloves still in her hand. “Thank goodness for precautions.” A perplexing realization turned her to face him again. “In truth, sir, I didn’t win your challenge. I never envisioned any of this. Not so much as a speck of what you’ve achieved here.”

“No, but you captured the spirit of exploration well enough. The others, in their fervor to impress me with all they knew, forgot to acknowledge the many things they had yet to learn. They showed arrogance where humility was required.”

Had
Ivy been humble?
Desperate
more aptly described her attempt to meet his challenge. She started to reply, but the tinkling of a bell cut her short.

Lord Harrow swore softly and strode to the door. He didn’t exit, however. All week Ivy had wondered about the tube that traveled up the staircase wall, came up through the floor and ended at a little square box mounted beside the door. Beside it hung the bell that had chimed. Lord Harrow opened the box and leaned his mouth close.

“Yes?”

“Visitors, sir,” came the slightly muffled though quite intelligible voice of Mrs. Walsh.

“Tell whoever it is I’m not at home.”

“It is Messrs. Quincy and Rivers, sir.”

“Hang it,” he murmured into the air. He spoke into the box again. “I’ll be down presently.”

Slamming the little box closed, he swore again and retrieved his coat. As he shrugged into it, Ivy said, “I’d wondered what that was. It’s an ingenious arrangement.”

He laughed. “I’ve just subjected you to perhaps the strongest field of electricity yet created by man, and you find my speaking tubes ingenious?”

“I only meant ...” A notion struck her. “Why aren’t there more such conveniences to be found throughout the house?”

“Like devices that toast your bread or polish your shoes?” He scowled. “My dear boy, I am a man of science, not a tinkerer. The speaking tubes are a necessity. My staff was spending so much time walking up and down the tower steps that they could get little else done.”

He swept his arm in a half circle that encompassed the fallen gadgets and other disturbances caused by the surge. “I don’t like leaving my laboratory in such a state. Ned, would you mind tidying up?”

Ivy experienced a surge of her own, a flurry of nerves. Did Lord Harrow truly mean to leave her alone with his equipment? “Of course not, sir.”

Fishing into his coat pocket, he tossed her his set of keys. “Here, lock up when you’ve finished.”

The keys jangled in her palm. As he disappeared through the doorway, she wondered. Did she dare see if one of them fit the armoire?

 

“Will that new assistant of yours be joining your guests for tea, my lord?”

“He will, Mrs. Walsh.” Simon adjusted his neckcloth as he descended to the main hall. “He should be down in about ten minutes. When he comes, send him out to the terrace.”

Hands folded at her waist, the housekeeper stepped into his path. “I’ve had my eye on that young man. There is something not quite right about him.”

“Really? I find him to be a top-notch assistant.”

The woman neither backed away nor backed down. One eye squinted tighter than the other, a sure sign of her agitation.

Simon blew out a breath. “Speak your mind, Mrs. Walsh.”

“It doesn’t do to take strangers into one’s home, my lord. Do you know the first thing about his background?”

“I know enough to satisfy my curiosity.” An untrue statement if ever he uttered one.

The more time he spent around his assistant, the more he hungered to know everything about her. Her pale, dazed look just now had filled him with an aching urge to hold her and kiss the color back into her lovely cheeks. He’d wanted to open his mouth and suck in her lips, her tongue, the deliciously soft curve of her chin. Now that she’d stopped smearing her skin with what he suspected was coal dust, she was a creamy, tempting little blossom, and it took all of his willpower to resist her.

Ah, but she was no wilting flower. The speed with which she’d rallied her courage proved that. Where had she acquired such a bold spirit? Did she hail from that rare family who encouraged education and ambition in their daughters?

Or were they even now pulling out their hair and agonizing over where their headstrong girl had gone? Funny how he worried about such things only when he and “Ned” were apart. When they were together, Simon thought only about . . . Well, about how good it felt to be near her.

A decidedly dangerous way to feel.

“Another thing, my lord ...” Mrs. Walsh hadn’t finished haranguing him, but Simon had quite finished listening.

He stepped around her. “My guests are waiting for me where?”

She sighed. “The library.”

“Thank you. Send the refreshments out to the terrace.”

As Simon stepped into the library, Errol Quincy, don and head of the university’s chemistry department, placed the quartz geode he’d been studying back on an end table. With one finger he shoved a pair of oversized spectacles, so dense as to seem nearly opaque, higher on his nose. A man of diminutive stature whose bald head barely reached Simon’s shoulder, Errol possessed one of the sharpest minds and most generous hearts Simon had ever encountered.

His daughter, Aurelia, had inherited all three traits, as well as his kindly eyes if not his nearsightedness.

The elderly gentleman retrieved his walking stick from where it leaned against the side of the settee, and shuffled cautiously toward Simon, renewing Simon’s recent concerns about his father-in-law’s health. “I say, my boy, we heard the most peculiar rumbling as we came up the drive. Earth tremors, or was it your doing, son?”

Simon’s own father had never addressed him as
son
. That Errol continued to do so more than a year after his daughter’s death remained a source of both pride and solace. Simon had always valued this unpretentious but brilliant man’s esteem; he always would.

“Of course it was him.” Ben Rivers slid the book he’d been holding back onto its shelf. He joined the other two men and clapped Simon’s shoulder. “Tell us, have you managed to frighten off that new assistant of yours yet?”

Simon flashed a rueful grin as he shook hands with both men. “Yes and no. Unless there is a storm approaching, that was most assuredly my rumbling you heard. As for my assistant, she’s made of tougher stuff than that.”

“Pardon?” Errol and Ben exchanged a look, and with a start Simon realized his mistake.

“A jest, gentlemen. The upperclassmen of St. John’s always address the younger students as ladies.”

“Ah, yes.” For a fleeting instant Ben stood straighter. Then the old injury curved his spine and dragged at his shoulders. “The lad is working out for you?”

“He’s exceeding all expectations.”

“Splendid.” Errol leaned on his walking stick, his fingers trembling slightly as they tightened around its brass handle. “Are you ready to discuss results?”

Frustration tapped at Simon’s pulse points. Though an achievement in itself, his generator represented a means to an end. Perhaps he’d never succeed in re-creating the “accident” that had spun his research in new, unheard of directions.
Was
he tilting at windmills, as less adventurous colleagues liked to imply?

“My generator is thus far fulfilling expectations. But beyond that ...” He held up open palms.

He led his guests out to the terrace, offering Errol an arm to help the frail gentleman down the steps. Errol had always possessed far more intellectual strength than physical, but he seemed to have become slower, weaker, and shakier since his daughter’s death—or was it Simon’s imagination?

Probably not, but Simon knew his perceptions of this man were colored by guilt as much as anything else. Guilt for not having protected Aurelia as he should have done, for being away the day she died instead of at home, where he might have prevented the horrible accident. . . .

Not once had Errol pointed a finger in blame, and that made Simon’s burden heavier, for he felt he didn’t deserve the kindness Errol unfailingly showed him.

They took seats around a wrought iron table, overlooking the deepening autumn hues of Aurelia’s gardens. Simon held Errol’s chair as the man gripped the edge of the table with a heavily veined hand and stiffly lowered himself onto the seat.

A small russet hawk swooped over their heads and settled in an elm tree at the base of the gardens. A cool breeze carried the mingling scents of freshly raked grass and warm bread from the ovens. Simon sat facing the two men. “Alistair has assured me that all is set for the consortium in two weeks’ time.”

He spoke of Alistair Granville, a longtime friend and second cousin of the de Burghs. Though no longer a fellow at Cambridge or actively engaged in scientific development himself, Alistair continued to be a major supporter of innovative research. When Simon’s father had ridiculed his son’s ambitions as too plebeian for the heir of a noble family, it had been Alistair who had encouraged Simon and supplanted Simon de Burgh Sr. in the role of mentor.

This year, Alistair had offered up his home, Windgate Priory, as one of several around the country where this year’s contenders for the Copley Medal would gather to compete for the coveted award.

“Yes, Alistair paid me a surprise visit at my office last week,” Ben said. “It appears the Royal Society has confirmed that two of its representatives will be at Windgate Priory to judge the demonstrations and report back to the society with their recommendations for the medal.” Hunching over the table, Ben ran a hand over his hair. “To be frank, I’m uneasy about the entire affair.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I heard that the society came away less than impressed from a consortium in Yorkshire a week ago. That should help narrow the field.”

“It isn’t the competition that worries me.” Ben worked his fingers into the knot of his neckcloth. “That I might inadvertently blow up Alistair’s elegant ballroom is my fear.”

Wry humor twinkled in Errol’s faded gray eyes. “Explosions are Simon’s area of expertise.”

Mrs. Walsh stepped out onto the terrace and placed a tray of refreshments on the table. “Shall I remain to serve, sir?”

“No, I’ll see to it.” As the housekeeper reached the threshold, Simon called out, “Mrs. Walsh, has Mr. Ivers come down from the laboratory yet?”

Her nose wrinkled. “I have seen no trace of him, my lord.”

She stepped back inside, and Simon lifted the teapot. “Ben, if it’s a dependable power source you need for your demonstration at Windgate, I’ll do my best to provide one. I’ve come a long way with my generator, especially since the arrival of my assistant. He has proved surprisingly helpful with my calculations.” He chuckled. “The whelp even had the audacity to catch me in an error.”

He passed round the teacups, taking care to help Errol lower his safely to the tabletop. But when Errol sat brooding into the rising steam, worry for the man nudged Simon once again. After exchanging a sympathetic look with Ben, Simon leaned over and placed his hand on Errol’s delicate, too-thin wrist.

“What is it, old friend?”

“Colin,” the elderly man succinctly replied. “Or the lack of him.” He glanced up, meeting Simon’s gaze with a stark if silent plea.
I am old,
that look said,
old and infirm, and I have suffered too many losses in my lifetime.
Aloud he said, “I asked Colin to join us today, but he declined. He didn’t say that he wouldn’t be welcome here, but I could see that he thought it. Simon, how much longer?”

Simon shot a desperate glance at Ben, hoping for . . . What? Perhaps confirmation that he still had every right to be angry with his sister’s clandestine lover, that he wasn’t being overly stubborn or unreasonable. Ben’s reply came in his utter lack of one as he pretended keen interest in spooning sugar into his tea.

In truth, at times even Simon yearned to forget that awful day, to put behind him Gwendolyn’s tears, the sight of her valise on the rumpled bedclothes, and Colin’s deafening, guilty silence. . . .

He longed to have his friend back . . . have him
here
, sharing afternoon refreshments and making plans. Many times he considered simply forgiving, but then he’d remember that as a brother he could not always do what he wished or what seemed easy. Being Gwendolyn’s guardian meant being honor-bound to do what was right.

With a sigh, Errol reached inside his coat and brought out a silver flask that fit neatly in his palm. “Brandy?”

The mood immediately lightened. Ben eagerly set down his spoon. The three exchanged grins and took turns mixing a splash of spirits into their tea.

Errol capped the bottle and returned it to his breast pocket. Mischief danced across his aging features. “I say, Benjamin, what could be keeping this elusive assistant of Simon’s? You don’t suppose Simon has frightened the poor fellow from the premises or—”