“You–you will have to excuse me, gentlemen,” she managed to say breathlessly. “I—”
“What do you blaggards think you are doing, hovering over a lady like this?”
The voice was deep and steady, with a power under it that threatened much if the men did not step away.
“No offense meant,” Mr. Spedding said hastily, walking away and pulling his friend with him.
Mariah’s shoulders sagged as she looked up to see her rescuer—Patrick.
Never before had she ever desired a gentleman’s protection, but she was grateful for it now.
“Are you quite well, Mariah?” Patrick said quietly, his hands tantalizingly close to her own.
Mariah nodded. The threat had gone, but it had felt so real, so visceral. It had been like the beginning of a nightmare, and yet Patrick had been there to rescue her.
She muttered, “Yes, thank you, Lord Donal.”
Patrick looked around the room and grinned. “I should probably call you Miss Wynn, should I not?”
Their hands were inches from each other, but she could not take his now, not here, in public. “Yes.”
He smiled, and Mariah wanted to melt in his arms. “When I saw those…I will not call them gentlemen, for they are undeserving of that description—those animals approach you, I saw quickly that they had no wish to be civil.”
Mariah swallowed. “Thank you.”
But a small part of her, and she pushed it away as soon as it arose, wondered how long he had watched her struggle to free herself from Mr. Spedding and his friend before he decided to step in.
“I must return to my party,” he said softly. “Or I would stay. You will take your brother’s carriage home?”
Mariah nodded. Speech appeared to have deserted her, and she had no way of asking him to stay.
Patrick smiled. “I will see you soon, Miss Wynn.”
Chapter Twelve
The drizzle of the morning had not dissuaded everyone from leaving their homes. Patrick stood underneath a tree at the corner of Ship Street and Cornmarket Street, watching the world go by.
One lady passed him, hidden beneath an umbrella, but he could tell almost immediately she was not the lady he was waiting for.
There was something unique about Mariah. Not just the way she thought, the way she spoke, but the way she walked, too. He would put good money on being able to spot her a mile off.
The lady underneath an umbrella stalked through the drizzle, giving him a perfunctory nod as she passed. Patrick returned it.
His smile broadened. Mariah was so often reading a book as she walked, attempting desperately to gain another few hours of reading, even if that meant almost causing small accidents as she meandered along the pavement, paying no heed to those around her.
Something warm stirred in his stomach. There was only one Mariah, and today as he looked along the street, he could see her—not with her nose in a book, but smiling at him.
Patrick sighed happily. Lord knows what it was that he felt for her. There did not seem to be any rhyme or reason to it, and he could not fathom an inch of it. But when he saw her smiling like that, without a care in the world, rain dripping from the umbrella she had raised over her head, nothing else could touch him.
As she arrived, he bowed, and a deluge of water fell from the brim of his top hat. Mariah shrieked and stepped back to avoid getting drenched, and they both laughed.
“Why did you not think of an umbrella?” Mariah said with a glint in her eye, returning his bow with a curtsey of her own.
Patrick shrugged. “I did not think it would rain. My greatcoat is warm, and you forget I am Irish. An umbrella for a little rain like this? Nonsense.”
Mariah smiled and shook her head. “Patrick—Lord Donal, you really must educate yourself. Have you never heard of red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning?”
She continued to giggle as they started to walk together.
“Just what is so amusing?”
Her hazel eyes shone. “Why, just attempting to keep this umbrella over your head is impossible—here, you take it.”
The umbrella was thrust into his hand, and Patrick held it above them both.
“We have an appointment to stroll in the Botanic Gardens,” Patrick said with a smile, “but I do not believe your shoes will survive even a few minutes of walking on that grass. If you do not have any objection, we can continue to wander the streets of Oxford?”
“Even in the rain, Oxford is truly beautiful.” Mariah nodded. “As long as you keep that umbrella over me!”
Everything was more beautiful when with Mariah. There was something darkly elegant in the world, something he had never noticed before he had begun his acquaintance with her, and now he would see it, always.
“Have you never heard of the shepherd’s warning?”
Mariah’s voice broke his thoughts, and Patrick shook his head. “I do not believe the Irish have the same superstitions.”
“No, I suppose not,” Mariah said thoughtfully, her arm moving to his. “I just assumed that all of us grew up with the same ones.”
“You do not really believe in all those old wives’ tales, do you?” He could not keep the incredulity from his voice. “’Tis more what I expect from a grandmother than a young lady.”
Mariah laughed, making his heart swell. “I mean, when they are so evidently true as this…”
She reached out and squealed as the drizzle started to coat her hand.
“Yes, but I would have thought you would be more scientific than that.”
She shrugged, pulling her pelisse more closely around herself. They were alone now; the streets had emptied as the rain became heavier.
Patrick gloried in their solitude. To avoid the world, with no need for careful phrasing or measured manners, to just be free and open with the woman who was fast becoming more precious to him than he could have predicted…
“Old wives’ tales may not always be correct,” Mariah said thoughtfully, “but they do seem to hold a great deal of merit. I mean, they are quite frequently accurate. I suppose I do not think it right to dismiss them because they are not purely scientific.”
“I suppose that is true,” conceded Patrick as they turned a corner.
“In fact,” she continued, warming to her topic, “why should we discount them just because it was wives who, nominally at least, created them?”
He frowned. “I do not follow.”
“Well, the wisdom attracts negative connotations, are considered false or foolish even, because it was wives who created them,” Mariah said simply. “As though if they were old husbands’ tales, they would be more likely to be accurate.”
Patrick laughed. “You know, I have never thought about it like that!”
“Women know a great deal, and women of antiquity perhaps more so,” she said with passion. “They lived closer to nature than we do, with far more reliance on the changing of the seasons. They would have learned from what they saw around them, applied logic to their findings, and created rules and regulations for the world.”
It was all he could do not to smile. “Do you mean to tell me that they…experimented?”
Her arm squeezed his. “Yes, in a way.”
She had been expecting his kiss, he could tell by the way she flung her arms around him to embrace him, her mouth possessing him passionately and forcefully.
By God, she wanted him, and he wanted her. Why should they not take whatever pleasure they could, whenever they could? Why did society demand that they be bound together in matrimony to enjoy such delights?
After several heady moments of passion, Mariah pulled away, her joy infectious. “Is this all you have invited me out here for, Patrick O’Leary, or do you actually wish to speak with me?”
He laughed, and somewhat reluctantly released her. “To be honest, a bit of both.”
They continued walking along the street. Patrick had no clue where they were. It did not matter. Oxford was a giant circle anyway,
and the dark skies and rain only added a level of glory and mystery to the spires reaching for the heavens.
“You know, I was reading the Observer newspaper this morning,” Mariah said suddenly, “and I saw mention that Brianchon’s theorem has been formally proved. Did you see the news?”
Patrick nodded. “I did indeed. Many in that academic field are excited about it. They believe this will change the way that we understand geometry, and not just now, but for all generations of students to come.”
“It looks remarkably exciting,” enthused Mariah, “but I was not entirely able to follow why. My geometry knowledge is a little behind the times—Mr. Portland was far more interested in music and decorum than the natural sciences. I believe I will need to read up before I can tackle the new treatise properly.”
“Really, I would not expect any woman to understand the Brianchon treatise from a first reading,” Patrick said without thought.
The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were a mistake. Mariah removed her arm from his, and there was a coldness in her look, which he had not seen before.
“I mean…” he said stupidly, with no idea how he was going to end this sentence.
She frowned. “What did you mean?”
“I hardly know myself, in truth. I misspoke, and you should accept my apologies for it,” Patrick said hastily. “Now, let us speak of something else. Have…have you been to the opera lately?”
It was a pathetic attempt at changing the subject, and Mariah’s frown deepened.
“Or music,” he said desperately. “Who is your favorite composer at the moment? I greatly enjoy…um…Mozart. Do you?”
There was no warmth in Mariah’s face. “Were you trying to suggest that I would not understand the chemistry treatise not because I was not sufficiently well-read in that area, but simply because I am a woman?”
Patrick opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The rain was pouring heavily now, and his arm was starting to ache from holding up the umbrella. All of a sudden, coming out for a walk seemed like a foolish idea.
Not as foolish as he was, however. How had he managed to get himself in this position?
He coughed. “That–now, that is not exactly what I meant.”
“And what exactly did you mean?”
Patrick swallowed. His throat was dry, his mind empty, and he had no idea how to escape from this situation—one he had created himself.
“I meant,” he said, thinking fast, “that no one could be expected to understand all of the detail in that treatise, even when described in the Observer newspaper, without…without years of study, and no woman has ever done that.”
For an instant, he thought he had managed to dig himself out of the hole. How could anyone argue with that? It apportioned no blame, made no one feel foolish, and had the benefit of being irrefutable.
Or so he thought.
Mariah’s frown had not disappeared. “Yes, I can see how one might think that, but is it not a reductivist argument?”
Patrick blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Really, Patrick, you are the one who attended university, you are supposed to be well-versed in these pedagogical terms!” Mariah said with exasperation. She started walking, and he quickly followed, trying to keep her underneath the umbrella. “By definition, women are prevented from that kind of study, as you have pointed out. In essence, your argument devolves to the basic premise that women cannot do something because they are not permitted to.”
Patrick swallowed. It was galling to be proven wrong about something so simple, and by a woman, too.
Unwilling to admit his error, he said hastily, “Yes, but I suppose there is more to it than that. Chemistry is an incredibly complex and difficult subject, and so we must assume that many young ladies who took the time to study it would still not be able to understand it.”
It took a few moments after the words had been uttered for him to realize his mistake, but really, how was he supposed to end a conversation like this? No matter which way he chose, he would be wrong!
“Like mathematics,” Mariah said stiffly.
Patrick jumped on it gratefully. “Yes, precisely like mathematics! There are some topics that ladies simply will struggle with, and it is no comment on the lady themselves, but on the subject.”
So relieved they had reached the end of the conversation, he laughed.
A mistake.
“Then how do you explain Caroline Herschel?” Mariah’s voice was triumphant as her eyes flashed. “Miss Herschel uses mathematical equations every day and has done for decades. Before you and I were even born, she was discovering comets using outstanding mathematical work.”
Patrick snorted and said without thinking, “Yes, but really Mariah, do you not think it just as likely that many of the discoveries that she is lauded for could actually be her brother’s?”
There was silence, no sound but the rain falling on the cobbles. Their footsteps had stopped, and Mariah was staring as though she did not understand any of his words.
She reached out and took her umbrella from his hand. “Is that what you really think?”
Patrick coughed. “Now, Mariah, you are tying me in knots here. You know that—”
“Do you really believe the few women ever given a chance in the scientific or academic community are just taking credit for things their brothers or husbands are doing?”
He swallowed and shifted his boots in the puddle collecting by his feet. In truth, though he would never admit it, in this moment, that was what he had always thought. The idea that ladies were making these chemistry, astronomy, or even medical discoveries—it had felt ludicrous! All the ladies in Patrick’s acquaintance had been far more interested in how elegant they looked in moonlight rather than examining its phases.
That was before Mariah.
He took a deep breath. “I used to—Mariah, hear me out. It is hard for someone like me to break these old habits of thinking. Meeting you, meeting all those ladies at the dinner I hosted for you…”
His voice trailed away as he tried to think of the best words to describe his feelings. There did not seem to be any, which was most inconvenient. He knew just how critical this moment was.
“I began to see,” he continued in a low voice, feeling rain start to drip down the back of his collar, unsheltered by the umbrella, “that not everything I thought before was correct. And I cannot tell you how strange it feels to say those words aloud, because I am not very practiced at ever admitting I am wrong. But I say it to you, Mariah, because…you are important to me. I want you to know how I see you, and how you are opening my mind to new things. New opinions.”
Seeing her anger, hearing her words, awoke his heart and mind to something truly startling.
She had changed his mind. Knowing Mariah, really knowing her, seeing her hunger for knowledge, her quickness and cleverness, considering what she could have done, what she could have become if she had been born a man…
“Do not get me wrong,” he said with a smile, his Irish lilt coming through more strongly as he spoke from the heart, “I have not changed in every regard. I do not believe that every young lady should be permitted a university education, nor do I believe that every gentleman should. Most of the ladies I know are still just as full of nonsense as they were before.”
Mariah smiled slowly.
“But you,” said Patrick, finding courage in her smile and taking a step toward her, moving back underneath the umbrella once again, “are different. You are different, Mariah, from them all. You are brilliant.”
“Do not think you can sweet-talk your way out of this, O’Leary. I am still displeased with you.” But she did not pull her umbrella away as he held it over them.
“You are probably right to be displeased with me,” he said in a teasing, low voice. “And I hope that you will be displeased with me again in the future. I quite like the idea of teasing you over and over.”
The desire in his body seeped into his words
, and he reached out and lifted her chin, so she was looking directly into his eyes.
“You want to kiss me,” she breathed.
“Always.”
“I thought we were having an interesting discussion!” Mariah laughed, taking a step away, her back touching the wall of a building.
Something dark stirred in Patrick’s stomach, and he almost growled as he stepped forward and said, “We are, but I am more interested in my scientific endeavors.”
“Scientific endeavors? You?”
He laughed. “No need to sound so surprised, Mariah, you know all about them. My experiments. Our experiments.”
Color tinged her cheeks as she looked up and down the street. There was no one there.
She licked her lips. “You would like to continue them? Now? Here?”
Patrick nodded. “More testing makes a better sample size.”
Before she could say another word, he crushed her up against the wall, almost groaning aloud at the sensations of her heaving breasts and curved hips against his body.
She squirmed slightly, which only made things worse, and before he knew it, Patrick had lost all sense of decency and proprietary and kissed her deeply. Mariah’s hands crept up to his cravat, pulling him closer, and he lost all sense of reason and dropped the umbrella.
Rain poured down their hair and cheeks as Patrick’s tongue possessed her, teasing sighs of desire from her, her hands scrabbling at his cravat as though desperate to untie it, moaning as his lips released hers and started trailing kisses down her wet neck.
“Oh, Patrick,” she murmured, and the passion in her voice made him lose control.
His hands scrabbled around her skirts. If he could just touch her, bring her to climax here—
“Thank you for helping me find my umbrella, sir!” Mariah pushed him away without warning and grabbed her umbrella from the ground. “It was completely pulled from my hands by the wind!”
Patrick stared. Had she lost her wits?
Then he heard footsteps.
“It is no trouble,” he said loudly, trying to keep his chest from heaving as his whole body tried to let the adrenaline seep away. By God, but he had been close that time. A few more seconds and he would have had her crying out his name.
Always the Bluestocking Page 13
