That this bastion of learning should be kept from women—it was outrageous. It was a crime against education, and she would not cease to fight it.
“I tire of this conversation,” Mr. Mitchell said with a yawn. “Pritchard, Henricks, please remove this woman. She has created more than enough disruption for one day.”
The two gentlemen grabbed her again, and Mariah felt the grip of their fingers around her arms, burning her as they pulled her toward the entrance.
“Let me go!” She struggled against them in the sure knowledge she could not break free from their hold.
Mr. Mitchell watched her go, a sickly smile on his face, which only incensed Mariah more as she was dropped onto the steps of the Bodleian Library.
“Now then, miss,” one of them said almost kindly. “Do you not have better things to do this afternoon than get yourself into trouble? A nice-mannered young lady like yourself should be out buying bonnets with your friends.”
Mariah pulled herself to her feet and glared. “Do you think that is all ladies are good for, buying ribbons and fripperies? Do you not think we have any sort of capacity for truly insightful thought?”
He frowned. “I know the rules, miss, and you are not permitted in the Bodleian. Off you go.”
They turned and closed the door behind them, leaving her firmly outside the place she so desperately wanted to be.
Mariah attempted to catch her breath. Shouting and trying to pull away had exhausted her. Perhaps in a perverse way, Pritchard or Henricks, whichever one he had been, was right. She could be doing something else this afternoon.
She turned to the street and saw what felt like the entire population of Oxford watching her. Many averted their eyes as her gaze reached them, but some pointedly shook their heads, and a few mothers hurried their children away.
Frustration poured into her lungs with air. No one to support her, no one to come to her aid. No friendly face in the crowd, except…
One familiar face appeared just down Cornmarket Street, walking toward her. It was Patrick.
Joy clutched her heart, and she called out, “Patrick! Lord Donal!”
He started, evidently astonished to see her, and the joy soured to embarrassment in Mariah’s heart. It had been—what, a week?—since they had last spoken, and it had hardly been on civil terms. Their argument in the quad after the debate had been filled with bitterness. Had she been too harsh? Had she refused to see reason?
“Lord Donal,” she said, walking down the steps to meet him at the bottom. “I would be grateful for your assistance.”
She had expected him to smile and take her hand, to say that whatever she wanted, he would help with.
He did none of those things. He took a step back and coughed awkwardly. “Miss Wynn.”
His tone was so formal, so utterly devoid of any personal connection, that Mariah hesitated. The bow that followed was stiff and brief.
She glanced around and tried to swallow down her irritation. They were in public. They could not be open here, could not show their affection, their intimacy. They had made love, had a lovers’ quarrel, but no one could ever know.
“I will always do what I can to help a damsel in distress,” he said quietly, his gaze on the pavement rather than her.
Mariah swallowed. “Thank you, Lord Donal.”
“And what seems to be the problem?”
His voice was cold, aloof. It cut into her far deeper than a shout of angry words would have done. This distance between them, it was intolerable. After being so close, so intimate, revealing so much of each other, it was disorientating to be so formal.
“You see, Lord Donal,” she said firmly, attempting to steady herself, “I wish to enter the Bodleian Library and read a book. It is by Pierre Jean Robiquet, the Expériences sur les cantharides. Do you know it?”
Why did his gaze shift to the building and then back to the pavement, and not to her? Why would Patrick not look at her?
“I do know the volume, yes,” he muttered.
Mariah waited for him to continue, but he said nothing, and so was forced to pick up the thread of the conversation once more. “It is a simple matter, and yet the librarian in the Bodleian today, a Mr. Mitchell, has refused me entry on the basis that I am not a gentleman. It is ridiculous!”
“No, miss, you are the one who is ridiculous!”
Mariah turned to face the gentleman who had just spoken. For a moment, she had believed Patrick and herself were the only people in the world, but of course, they were standing on Cornmarket Street and could be overheard.
The gentleman who had interrupted her must have been in his forties, with a red nose and a frown across his face. His greatcoat was richly trimmed, a man of means, and based on the fire in his eyes, was also a man who strongly disapproved of her.
“Ridiculous?” Mariah repeated. “That is a very strong word from a gentleman to whom I have never been introduced!”
“No introduction needed to foolishness,” the gentleman snapped. “A woman! In the Bodleian! I have never heard of such a thing, and what’s more, I know this gentleman you have accosted will agree with me. What say you, sir?”
Mariah turned eagerly to Patrick, an expectant smile on her face. This would be one of the first times she would ever receive support in public, the first time anyone who challenged her would find himself outnumbered.
Of course, he would support her. No matter the words they had exchanged before, in bitterness, in frustration, in fury against the world, they had shared too much for him to abandon her now. She had introduced him to the world of bluestockings, and he had introduced her to the world of pleasure.
It was only in this moment, waiting for his words of support, that she realized just how deep her devotion was to him.
Patrick O’Leary, Viscount Donal, she loved him.
There was no other word for this intensity of feeling, this desperate need to be with him. They could change the world together.
All this flashed through her mind, but as the moment of silence elongated, it became quite discomforting. Her gaze did not shake from Patrick’s face, but only now did she notice the look of panic in his eyes.
He swallowed, his eyes darting between her and the gentleman who had so rudely interrupted him.
“Patrick?” Mariah spoke gently with an encouraging smile. “What do you think?”
Her smile did not waver, but a gaggle of people started to crowd around them. One of them pointed, and there was a laugh.
Patrick looked around, his cheeks reddening at all the attention. “I…I do not believe that…”
Mariah stared. She had never known him to be without words, to have truly nothing to say. He was always quick with words, witty even. Why did his tongue fail him now?
“Patrick?”
He did not meet her eyes.
“You see!” The gentleman laughed. “You will get no support from this fine man, young lady, and I hope it teaches you a lesson not to be so shrewish in the future!”
Mariah did not care what he said. It was Patrick she cared about, and she took a step closer to him so she could speak quietly, without anyone else hearing her words.
“Patrick, why won’t you support me?”
He swallowed. “Come on, Mariah—Miss Wynn. You must see that they cannot let any old woman in, they do not know you!”
His words had been louder than hers, and the crowd roared with laughter. Hot pain slid down her throat as she tried to ignore them. “I did not think I was just any old woman to you,” she murmured.
Patrick blustered, “Well, no, but you are a woman, Miss Wynn. You must understand that this is a sacred place of learning, and it is intended for gentlemen. That is how it was established.”
His voice had risen, and there were those, Mariah could see, nodding in agreement.
This could not possibly be happening. This must be a dream, a nightmare from which she would wake. After all they had discussed, all they had shared, was this still Patrick’s hones
t opinion?
“You see, miss,” the gentleman said in a rich, syrupy voice. “Your friend agrees with us.”
Mariah looked at Patrick coldly, and he finally met her eyes. “He is not my friend.”
To think, she had trusted him. She should have trusted her own instincts and refused to have anything to do with him; what could a man know of the struggle she had been through, and would continue to fight?
He had told her, right from the beginning, that he did not believe women should be educated. Why had she ignored him?
“We are friends.”
If she had not seen the words come from his mouth, she would not have believed it. The crowd was now looking between them, as though unsure whether to censure him for his support of her or mock her directly.
“We are not,” she said firmly, not taking her gaze from him. “This is not what friends do. This is not what happens when friends are accosted on the street. There is no friendship between us.”
The crowd around them started to dissipate. The gentleman who had inserted himself into their conversation had gone, and the entertainment was over.
Mariah turned away, ready to stride home and bury her frustrations in a good book, but a hand was on her arm for the third time today. This time, it was soft.
“Come here.” It was Patrick who had spoken, low and insistent as he pulled her into a side street.
“Get your hands off me,” she retorted, pulling her arm free and glaring in the quiet of the lane. “I have nothing to say to you.”
She took three steps toward Blue Boar Street, but Patrick stepped before her. “What did you expect me to do?”
“Anything!” exploded Mariah. “Anything rather than let me stand there like a fool with a mob around me!”
“It is not as simple as that!”
“Isn’t it? Why is it that when we are in private, you are able to support me, encourage me, agree with me, but whenever we are in public, you are suddenly unable to remember all the things you have said to me?” She watched him, desperate for an answer. If only he could give her a reason, any reason. She wanted to be convinced. “Why are you unable to remember you have met far more women than me who deserve a university education?”
But he was not swayed by her words. “You are being too simplistic.”
Fiery rage poured through her bones. “I am too simple?”
For the first time in their conversation, Patrick showed emotion, and it was frustration matching her own. “No, you are willfully misunderstanding me!”
The lane echoed with their words, with their anger. A gentle wind brushed past them, tugging at Mariah’s hair and cooling her face, though it did nothing to lessen her anger.
“And you are willfully getting in my way, disagreeing with me, and making me look like a fool!” She wanted to see his change of heart. Her voice softened as she continued, “Why did you take me to the telescope then, was it just to bed me?”
She had intended her words to bring them back to a place of intimacy, a reminder of what they had given each other.
But Patrick hesitated.
Mariah took a step back in horror. “I would never have believed it—would never have asked, except to remind you of better times. But…but I am right, aren’t I? You had no honorable intentions toward me, not even any warm ones. You just saw me as a piece of meat.”
“No,” he said firmly. “That is not what happened, Mariah, you must listen to me!”
She tried to steady her breathing. She had woken up that morning, hoping to read a book in a library. Instead, she had learned she was nothing but flesh to a man to whom she had given everything.
“Words do not matter,” she said, her heart almost numb, unable to comprehend the level of betrayal. “It is actions that really matter, Patrick. Deeds, not words, and all you have done is said some lovely things. But you have done nothing to support me. Deeds, not words.”
Pushing past him was easy, walking away from him was hard. The noise and bustle of Cornmarket Street hit her like a wall, and she stumbled.
“You have misunderstood me!”
Patrick had followed her, then. She could feel his presence, and he appeared at her side, almost running to keep up with her frantic pace.
“No,” she said, stopping to face him. “You are the one who has misunderstood. I am not a fool to be led any longer, and I will happily agree that our acquaintance is at an end.”
Patrick shook his head. “No, you mustn’t—”
“Must not? Cannot? I was stupid to think that anything could have changed your mind, but you did grow up without a mother, so I should not blame you.”
The words had come from somewhere deep inside her without thought.
Patrick’s face went dark, a shadow passing over him. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
Mariah sighed. She should never have allowed her temper to get the better of her. She was better than that. “You…you never had the chance to see what a woman could be. You never saw how brilliant, how wild, how thoughtful, and how clever a woman could be, and now you simply cannot comprehend it. And now you’ll never get that chance.”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and ran. Running always made her feel more alive, skirts whipping up in the air, the shock of those she ran past, the freedom of movement.
She ran and left Patrick behind, his shouts to wait for him growing quieter on the wind. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, her lungs crying out for more air, but she would give her body no relief.
Her mind was consumed with Patrick. Patrick and his betrayal. Though she had never believed it possible when she had read of such things in novels, she could feel her heart breaking.
She had given him everything, not just her heart or her body, but her intellectual soul. It was over now.
Chapter Sixteen
The glass was heavy, even without its deliciously alcoholic liquid, and Patrick allowed it to hit the table with a clunk as he sighed heavily. How had that wine disappeared so quickly? Was it the second or third glass of the evening?
Josiah Stanhope, Earl of Chester, shook his head. “I have never seen you like this, Donal. What is going on in that big Irish head of yours?”
Patrick did not answer. It did not seem possible to open his mouth without vomiting, and so he kept it shut.
Dear God, he should stop drinking. He had never been one for liquor, but desperate times called for desperate measures. How long had he been here, seated with some of his closest friends, drinking and saying nothing?
The memory of Mariah leaving him, actually taking to her heels and running because she could not bear to be close to him for another second—it was an awful reminder of her disappointment in him.
He could not shake it. Again and again, she looked at him with disillusioned eyes, and no matter how often he lost himself in the memory, it did not change. Each time, she ran from him.
He looked hazily down at the empty glass on the table. No amount of wine was making a difference. He could still remember with frightening clarity her last words.
“You never saw how brilliant, how wild, how thoughtful, and how clever a woman could be, and now you simply cannot comprehend it. And now you’ll never get that chance.”
All he wanted to do was drown out the reminder of what had happened, and the best way he knew how to do that was drink.
The glass was filled before him, and he looked groggily at Colin Vaughn, Duke of Larnwick, who was holding the bottle of wine.
“Whoever she was,” he said bracingly, “she was not worth it.”
Pain like a knife stuck between his ribs and settled in his stomach.
“She was,” Patrick said hoarsely, picking up the glass and pouring a large gulp down his already burning throat.
Charles Audley, Duke of Orrinshire, sighed. “Go on, then, let us hear it. You may as well tell us. You are the one who invited us over to your digs.”
Patrick shook his head, his Irish lilt seeping into his words. “Ach,
no, pal. No one should ever hear such a tale of woe.”
Chester grinned, seated in an armchair across from him. “You know, I rarely hear the Irish accent, Donal. I like it. Why does it disappear most of the time?”
Patrick was unable to answer, his vision a little blurred. It was a challenge to remember exactly how he had managed to return to his rooms, and it was even more confusing that his friends had arrived. He must have sent letters inviting them, but it was all a haze.
If only it was so easy to forget the pain of the day.
The drinking had started early, and it was late now. At least, the last time he remembered the clock chiming, it had been too many to count.
Chester, Larnwick, and Orrinshire were all watching him carefully. Patrick looked away to the fire in the grate.
Should he have followed Mariah? Had she wanted him to? He had always been able to read the women he was bedding, but Mariah was completely different. Every time he believed he understood her, she did something unexpected, different. She confused him, enticed him like an exotic spice. He had tasted her and had been unable to stop craving her. She was unlike anyone he had ever met.
“I am sure she is,” Larnwick said smoothly.
Patrick frowned, unaware he had been speaking aloud. God’s teeth, how much of those thoughts had been uttered for his friends to hear?
He reached for his glass to drink again, the dark red liquid invitingly swirling, but Orrinshire took the glass from his hand before he could bring it to his lips.
“I think,” he said kindly, “you have had enough.”
Patrick’s gaze followed the glass. “Says who?”
“Says me.”
The glass was placed out of his reach, and Patrick leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “I am sure you are right. I have never wanted to drink myself into oblivion before. Maybe I have never been so miserable before.”
Larnwick rolled his eyes and finished his own glass before saying, “Go on, then, you old fool. I could do with the distraction. Tell us the miserable tale that has brought you so low. But I warn you, Donal, if it is another story of you being turned down by a lady again, I shall be disappointed.”
Always the Bluestocking Page 16
