Always the Bluestocking

by Murdoch, Emily E K

  He had tugged her toward a large door, many centuries old. They peered into the room, which was dusty and smelled of moldering parchment.

  Mariah hardly had her breath back. “Henry?”

  “The sixth. Or fifth, I forget,” Lord Donal said nonchalantly. “Both studied here, and ’tis said that anyone assigned a tutor in this room is guaranteed to graduate, no matter his grades.”

  It was all she could do to keep her voice calm as she said, “A king studied here—touched this door?”

  Her fingers scraped across the wooden planks. But for the gap of a few centuries, she was touching the hands of a king.

  “I studied here,” Lord Donal said with a wink. “I think I have whichever Henry it was to thank for my degree. And down here, the Hall of Majesty.”

  “The…?”

  Around the corner toward a building attached to the college, the stonework glowed golden in the afternoon sun.

  “The Hall of Majesty contains portraits of all Wessex boys who achieve something the current reigning provost considers to be worthy,” Lord Donal said lightly, his hand resting on the door. “Would you like to see?”

  Mariah nodded and tried to speak calmly. “Are you in there?”

  He laughed as he pushed open the door and entered. “Not on your life, Mariah. I have done nothing impressive nor noteworthy, but these gentlemen…”

  His voice trailed away as Mariah gasped. Gentlemen in ruffs, in cravats, some in clothes so old fashioned she did not even recognize them, lined the walls in golden frames. Underneath each was a label.

  She reached out to brush a little dust off the nearest label, letting go of Lord Donal’s arm. Lord Percy Neville. She stepped along to the next portrait. His Grace, Henry. Lord Wessex. The Earl of Norfolk.

  “’Tis utterly overwhelming,” she whispered.

  “Really?” Lord Donal’s voice echoed in the large room, and she turned to see him lounging on a bench by the other wall. “I think I had lunch in this room most days, and barely noticed the paintings after a while.”

  Mariah shook her head but smiled. “Patrick,” and his name felt familiar and wonderful on her tongue, “this is where some of the greatest minds in the world, in history, have learned their craft. And beyond that, this college is beautiful.”

  “I never thought about it like that. I always thought Ireland was more beautiful,” said Patrick with a shrug. “But if you like this, I know exactly where to take you. Here.”

  He reached out, and Mariah did not hesitate. Holding his hand felt wild and rebellious, far more than speaking defiantly to the provost.

  What did she think she was doing, being so intimate with a gentleman she had only met a few weeks ago? But as he led her out of the Hall of Majesty and around a corner, nothing felt wrong. If anything, she felt better than she had in years.

  “Here,” Patrick whispered, pushing open a door and allowing her to step ahead of him.

  Mariah’s eyes took a moment to acclimatize to the gloom, and then she gasped.

  He had taken her to the Wessex College library. Stairs spiraled in the corners up to pathways in the heavens. Students moved quietly, none of them paying them any attention.

  “I thought you would like it,” whispered Patrick as he stepped in behind her, closing the door.

  “Like it?” Mariah’s voice was a little hoarse from emotion. Her eyes gleamed as she looked around, attempting to drink in as much as she could. “Oh, Patrick, it is everything I could ever want.”

  He chuckled softly and pulled her along a row of books, the light dimming as they moved away from the windows. “They are just books, Mariah.”

  She had already reached out to touch the spines. “Just–just books? I am a bluestocking by name and nature, Patrick, and the idea that such tomes exist…you would keep all this from me?”

  Patrick stopped in his tracks, and Mariah stepped into him, her hands leaving the books to catch herself.

  “I would keep nothing from you,” he whispered, his dark eyes staring into hers. “Nothing, Mariah.”

  Before she could reply, before she could even think, he had pulled her more closely into his arms and kissed her passionately. Mariah lost herself in the wildness of his passion, in the rebelliousness of even being in the library, the heady feeling that they could be discovered at any moment.

  His arms were tight around her, and her hands had woven themselves in his hair. This was something beyond anything she could imagine. The heat of his tongue worshipping her mouth, the desire rising in her, the desperation she could taste in his kiss.

  “We will be found before long,” he whispered heavily. “And I would not wish you to lose your reputation. Sneaking into a library with a gentleman.”

  “Reputation?” Mariah breathed with a teasing smile. “Patrick, I am known as an unattractive bluestocking. I attempt to break into the Bodleian on a regular basis. There will be more shock over the fact that I am with a gentleman than in a library.”

  Chapter Eight

  Every moment he stood here, Patrick felt more ridiculous.

  He could not rid his thoughts of Mariah.

  He swallowed and tasted indecision in his throat. Since the tour of Wessex College two days ago, she had been in his mind from morning until night. She had walked around those ancient buildings as though they were truly wonderful—and through her wonder, he had seen her afresh.

  Her beauty, yes. But he had seen that before. This had been something more, something different. It was her intelligence, elevating her beauty to make her truly the most delightful woman he had ever met.

  How had he missed it? How had he not seen it from the start? His entire body tensed at just the memory of that first moment he had seen her.

  Mariah Wynn. Could he have guessed, then, that his heart would become so entangled in her, that his body would ache for her like this?

  A jewel in the rough, and he had been the first to see the sparkle in the dirt. No, that gave Mariah not nearly enough credit for the incredible person she was.

  The rumors of her discourse with Mr. Lawrence had already become infamous around Wessex, around the whole of Oxford. Patrick’s heart had stirred with pride when he had heard of it, and it had propelled him away from his rooms tonight.

  If he was honest with himself, he had been more of a hindrance than a help. Had he not told her point-blank at their first meeting, that women did not deserve to be educated?

  She had been the one to teach him a lesson.

  A freezing wind rushed through his greatcoat, and Patrick did what he had been telling himself to do for the last ten minutes, he knocked on the door. He was going to waste no more time standing outside in the dark, cold street.

  It was time to do what he should have done within days of meeting her. When he felt this way about a woman, and it happened rarely, there was one easy way to rid her from his heart and mind: he bedded her.

  Once the physical act was over, the affection was always gone. He could then be alone and return to Ceallach.

  The door opened, revealing a startled looking maid. “Sir?”

  Patrick bowed. “Good evening. Is the lady of the house in?”

  The maid blinked. “Mrs. Goddard?”

  Of course, he thought with a wry smile. Miss Wynn was not sufficient in the pocket to have her own rooms; she must be lodging with another.

  “No,” he said hastily, “I meant to inquire after Miss Wynn.”

  The look of surprise only increased on the young lady’s face. “Mariah Wynn?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “Well,” the maid said, a little confused, “I shall inquire. Your name, sir?”

  “Lord–I mean, Mr. Sheamus,” he amended hastily. It would not do for the gossips of Oxford to make him and Mariah the tittle-tattle of the day. His reputation may survive that, but hers certainly would not. “Please tell her I greatly enjoyed showing her the Wessex library. She will know me.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey and then shut the door.
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br />   Yes, tonight should be enough to rid Mariah from his system, and he could leave this place with no concerns and no regrets. He was very dangerously close to developing real affections for Miss Wynn, and he would not allow it.

  Not after what had happened to his mother.

  No, all he needed was to satisfy that physical craving, and any emotions that had developed would disappear.

  The door opened again, and there stood Mariah, still dressed but with a woolen shawl around her shoulders and her hair unpinned.

  A jolt of something hot moved in Patrick’s stomach. Her chestnut hair was long, untamed, and just begging him to…

  “Dear God!” Mariah said in shock and then laughed. “I thought Betsy had lost her wits, with her ‘Mr. Sheamus’ story—but ’tis you!”

  Patrick bowed low with a grin. “I thought giving my real name may create more juicy gossip than either of us would appreciate.”

  “You probably thought correctly, but that does not explain what you are doing here in the first place,” Mariah said with a small smile. She glanced behind her before continuing, “Patrick, it is past ten o’clock, and I was about to go to bed. Why are you here?”

  Her eyes were indeed sleepy, but there was such a delightful sparkle to her eyes at the sight of him that Patrick’s stomach lurched again.

  This was no time to lose his head, nor his reason. He was no whippersnapper of sixteen, for he had seen plenty of Seasons, tupped many a maiden, and now was the moment to bring back all that confidence.

  Something about Mariah reduced him to a schoolboy. Even the mention of bed in her mouth was enough to light fires in his body. To make him want to do something stupid.

  Reason fought desire, and for the first time in his life, desire won.

  “I was going to ask you to invite me in,” he said, leaning against the doorpost. “’Tis what I had intended when I left my own fire, to be welcomed to yours. But I do not think I will now.”

  Was that a flicker of disappointment?

  “Oh,” Mariah said, her face falling. “So…you have come here to tell me you do not wish to come in?”

  “On the contrary. I would like you to come with me outside.”

  Her eyes widened. “At this hour? Where on earth are we going?”

  Patrick smiled as he patted his waistcoat pocket to ensure the key was there. True, he had asked to borrow it from Sir William with the intention of an afternoon excursion, but this opportunity was far too good to miss. He would never forgive himself if he did not try it.

  “We are going to the Herschel telescope,” he said, his smile widening, “for a private viewing. Would you like to take a look at the stars?”

  Excitement crept across Mariah’s face. “Truly—we can use it this evening? Will both Sir William and Miss Herschel be there?”

  “No. No, it will just be you and I.”

  The excitement in her body deflated. “You…you and me? No chaperone?”

  If Patrick did not say the right thing, his chance at ridding Mariah from his system would disappear.

  “No chaperone,” he repeated, “save the stars. Come on, Mariah. Do you not trust me?”

  His gaze held hers for a moment, and something sparked between them, perhaps a desire for more. He had never felt that physical connection with someone he was not touching. It was as though she had been in his arms.

  Mariah’s gaze dropped. “I believe Sir William keeps the telescope locked, Patrick, although it is a lovely idea.”

  Pulling the key from his waistcoat pocket, Patrick placed it carefully in her hands. “Will this help?”

  She laughed. “Where did you get this?”

  “Sir William allowed me to borrow it,” he said confidently, knowing full well Sir William would not have necessarily handed it over if he had known it was to play a part in the seduction of Miss Mariah Wynn. “This opportunity is far too good to miss—note the cloudless sky, the heavens just waiting to be examined?”

  Her eyes glittered with anticipation. “You think we will be able to use the telescope?”

  He had never touched a telescope in his life. “Why not?”

  Her indecision was plain, part of her desperate to go with him, to explore the telescope room, perhaps even use it to peer into the night sky—but the other part of her knowing full well the indecency of his suggestion.

  “Mariah,” Patrick said, reaching out and taking her hands in his. They were warm, but nothing to the heat rushing through his body. “Please. Come with me. I-I would like to spend this time with you, away from the looks and stares of Oxford. Come with me to the telescope.”

  Something in his voice seemed to convince her. A strain of honesty, perhaps? Patrick swallowed. He was getting in too deep. He had promised himself no woman would creep into his heart. How did Mariah have this effect on him?

  She took a deep breath. “Give me five minutes.”

  Her fingers slipped through his, leaving him the key, and the door was once again shut in his face.

  Patrick blew out into the cold air. This was far more than he had expected. Her whole body seemed alive to him, alive to the possibility of…what?

  He barely knew himself. There was so much he could not tell about Mariah. At times easy to comprehend, at others, utterly foreign to him.

  There was so much he wanted to know about her. So much about her that he liked—and Patrick shook his head as though ridding water from his ears. This was no time to lose control. He was here to rid Mariah from his heart, where she had started to rule.

  The door opened.

  “Why are you smiling?” She was standing in the doorway, a pelisse around her shoulders and a bonnet on her head.

  “Cannot a gentleman be pleased to be walking out with such a beautiful young lady, even at such a late hour?” Patrick offered her his arm, and she took it reluctantly as she closed the door and stepped down into the street.

  “Perhaps,” she conceded as they started to walk, “but I am starting to get the measure of you, Patrick. ’Tis never as simple as that.”

  He laughed. “True. I have barely begun to get the measure of you, have I, Mariah? There is much I still do not understand, and much I still wish to learn.”

  By God, he wanted her, and she was putting her entire faith in him, a gentleman she barely knew.

  “So, you are starting to understand the desire for more knowledge?” She arched an eyebrow. “Now, you do start to understand me.”

  “I will admit, I have never met a lady—nor a gentleman, if it comes to that—who wishes for education quite like you,” he said quietly as they turned a corner onto another empty street.

  Mariah laughed, and something hot twisted in his chest. “Most ladies I know prefer the home and its steady way of life, and I do not claim to have found a superior way of living. I simply know I want something different. Different, not better.”

  They walked together in silence for a few paces until Patrick broke it. “I have never heard it described that way.”

  “Perhaps you have not been speaking to the right people. Here we are.”

  Startled at the rapidity of their journey, Patrick fumbled as he removed the key from his waistcoat. The metal of the keyhole was freezing cold, and it took him two attempts to unlock it. When he had managed it, he pushed open the door, which creaked in the quiet of the night.

  The moonlight shone through a window as he stepped inside and revealed an oil lamp. Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tinderbox, he had the lamp lit in a moment, shining light onto Mariah as she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

  “My word…” she breathed.

  Patrick put the lamp down and looked around them, a little impressed despite himself. They were standing in a circular room with scientific instruments lining the walls, glimmering in the flickering lamplight. Highly polished wood, brass, and iron, but he watched as Mariah’s attention was immediately drawn to a telescope with more complexity than he had ever seen, which stood by a wind
ow.

  “Oh, my,” Mariah murmured as she stepped over to it.

  “Do not touch it,” he said hastily. “We should probably not touch a thing in this room—Sir William could be halfway through a project. He may have established the telescope at a very precise moment.”

  She turned, a wicked smile on her face. “Or Miss Herschel could be. This could be her experiment, her own exploration.”

  Patrick’s whole body seemed to burst into flames. There was something about Mariah, something genuinely rebellious, but for the pursuit of knowledge rather than anything truly scandalous. Just being with her made him rethink all he had ever assumed about women and the world.

  She made him want to do terribly good things to her, make her cry out with happiness. Just the thought of teasing her, kissing her, removing that pelisse, and that shawl with slow kisses made his manhood twitch.

  But at this moment, Mariah did not seem to be even aware he was in the same room. She had moved from the telescope to a small bookcase in one corner and was exclaiming with happiness.

  “Prodromus Entomology! I have only ever heard of it, ’tis very rare—and An Analytical Inquiry into the Principles of Taste, too! Do you think Sir William will permit me to borrow it, or perhaps come here in the afternoons and read it, with his permission? I do not suppose he will allow me to remove it, being so rare a book, I doubt he would like it beyond his own sight…”

  Patrick stepped forward and removed the covering on the telescope’s eyepiece. A stool had been placed beside it for just such a purpose, and he dropped onto it, placing his eye over the viewer.

  Out there, thousands, if not millions of miles away, was a smudge. Patrick had read enough of the recent scientific journals to know precisely what that smudge was, and his heartbeat quickened. It could not have been better positioned.

  “Mariah,” he said quietly, breaking through her chatter about the books. “Come here.”

  He leaned back to watch her step toward him and rose from the stool. She sat on it wordlessly, trusting him.

  Patrick swallowed. This whole evening was escaping him. He had not planned any of this, but each of his steps seemed laid out before him, leading to this. Mariah seated before him on the stool, his arms wrapped around her, her cotton gown brushing against his cheek as he kissed the back of her neck.