by Rowan Nina
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I refuse to believe the answer is nothing.”
“You want to know what I want? What I can never have?” She stalked toward him, her body rigid. “Fine. I’ll tell you what I want. Then you’ll realize what an unproductive act of futility it is for a woman like me to want anything beyond what she has.”
Alexander didn’t move. “Tell me.”
Her eyes flashed. “I want my mother’s locket back. I want my mother back. I want her to be whole and well and never to have suffered the horrors of her own mind. I want my father to have had the career he deserved. I want my sister to live the ordinary, happy life I never did. Is that enough? No? There’s more. I want my grandmother to stop trying to set Jane’s future. I want to prove Legendre’s prime number theorem. I want to do something. I—”
Alexander stepped forward and captured her face in his hands. He stared at her—the fire of pain and anger blazing in her eyes, the flush of her skin. An ache of want speared through him again, powerful enough to break his own vow. Before she could draw another breath, he lowered his head and kissed her.
She trembled beneath his hands, a hard, edgy tremble of anger. But she did not pull away. Alexander pressed harder, heat spreading through his chest as he sought to invade her mouth. Soft, soft, soft. Her mouth was so full, so pliable, such a contrast to the rigidity of her body. He flicked his tongue out to lick the corner of her mouth. She shuddered in response, and though her shoulders remained stiff, her lips began to slacken, to open.
The taste of tea and sugar, of Lydia, swept through Alexander’s blood. His hands tightened on her shoulders, pulling her closer so the curves of her breasts brushed against his chest. She gasped, a choked, throaty sound that made him ache to know what kind of noises she’d make if she were splayed naked and willing beneath him.
The image burned in his brain. He pressed himself against her. He lowered his hands to her tight waist, his fingers digging into an impossibly stiff corset. He wanted to strip it from her body, to feel her bare skin against his, to cup her breasts in his hands and hear her moan with pleasure.
Hot. Christ, she was hot. He could almost feel her skin burning through the material of her gown. She kissed him back, her delicious tongue sliding across his teeth, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt. It was neither a gentle kiss nor one of seduction. Her kiss was angry, frustrated, her lips fierce against his.
She pushed herself closer to him, one hand unclenching from his shirtfront to splay over his abdomen. Her palm slid over him in a heated and urgent caress, her fingernails scraping against his chest. She pulled his lower lip between her teeth. A mild twinge of pain went through him, only heightening his arousal.
Yet even as his body began to ache for her, a sense of unease began to dilute Alexander’s uncoiling lust. His brain fogged too thick for comprehension, but he knew instinctively that something was wrong.
With supreme effort, he lifted his head, his fingers digging into Lydia’s shoulders as he set her away from him. Her eyes blazed indigo blue into his, her reddened lips parted as she drew in a sharp breath.
“Not reckless enough for you?” she asked, her voice as tight as spindle-pulled yarn.
“Miss—”
“You think I’m a spinster, don’t you?” she snapped. “Dried up like a piece of leather. Unused, lonely. You think—”
“Do not tell me what I think.” The words came out harsh and frustrated. His hands clenched as he stared into her eyes. He couldn’t shake the unease, the odd apprehension. The sense that he was falling into something far more complex than he had ever anticipated.
“You believe I’m destined for a life of solitude,” Lydia continued. “My only companions textbooks and equations and formulas. A cold, intellectual life of the mind.”
“I don’t—”
Lydia stepped closer, a visible shudder racking her slender body. “My lord, it would be for the best if you simply continued to believe that.”
“Why?” he demanded.
“Because it is far too dangerous for either of us to believe otherwise.”
Before he could move, before he could speak, she was gone, the door shutting with a hard click behind her.
Chapter Five
Miss Jane, you’ve got to stop coming down ’ere!” The maid Sophie turned from the kitchen sink, pushing a lock of hair away from her damp forehead with the back of her hand. The scents of toast and bacon drifted from the dining room.
Jane shifted from one foot to the other, anxious to return to her room before Grandmama and Lydia came down for breakfast. “Has he arrived yet?”
“I’m expecting ’im any minute now, but—”
A knock on the door interrupted her. Sophie cast Jane an exasperated look and went to answer it. The delivery boy, a freckle-faced lad with coppery hair, stood there with a box of goods.
“Mornin’, Sophie, yer looking quite the beauty, ain’t you?”
“Hush now, Tom.” Sophie glanced at Jane with embarrassment and held the door open to let Tom in.
He pushed the box onto a table. “Miss Jane, isn’t it?”
Jane nodded, stepping toward him. “Have you got a letter for me, Tom?”
“Indeed.” He pulled a wrinkled letter from his pocket and handed it to her.
Jane took it, eyeing the scrawled name on the front. “Who gives these to you, Tom?”
“You don’t know, miss?”
“Should I?”
“I… well, I thought you knew who was writing ’em, miss. I get them from Mr. Krebbs. He owns a lodging house over in Bethnal Green near’s where I stay. Gives me a letter sometimes to bring to you and a tuppence as well. Dunno more than that, miss.”
“Mr. Krebbs surely doesn’t write the letters.”
“Don’t think so, miss.”
“That’ll be all, Tom, thank you.” Sophie gave the boy his coin and shooed him out the door before turning back to Jane. A worried frown creased her brow. “You sure it’s all right, then, miss? The letters and all?”
“It’s fine, Sophie. Just a game.”
She hurried from the kitchen, tearing the letter open.
Dear Jane,
So I might have guessed that riddle would prove too simple.
Teacher, yes, of course that is the answer. Here is another.
I shall assume that since it is shorter, it will also be more difficult:
A word there is, five syllables contains
Take one away, no syllable remains.
Till soon,
C
A word with five syllables…
“Jane, do watch where you are going.”
Jane looked up at her grandmother, who was striding down the corridor. A frown etched her face.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Boyd continued. “Where is Mrs. Driscoll?”
“Oh.” Jane fumbled to fold the letter and tuck it against her side. “I don’t… I don’t know. I went to speak to Sophie.”
“What for?”
“I wanted to see if… if we had any jam for our toast.” Jane almost winced at the feebleness of the excuse.
Her grandmother’s frown deepened. “We always have jam for our toast. What is that in your hand?”
“This?” Jane looked at the letter as if she’d only just noticed it. “Just a… some mathematical problem Lydia gave me to solve.”
“Well, I suggest you do so in your room rather than wandering about the house.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jane scurried past her grandmother and up the stairs.
As she returned to the schoolroom, she wondered where this was going—who C was and what he wanted from her besides correspondence.
Perhaps she ought to start making more inquiries of the delivery boy and Sophie—learning the letter writer’s identity would be like solving a puzzle in and of itself. Perhaps that was the point of this whole game. Perhaps she was meant to solve the most mysterious puzzle of all.
The plea
sure of being loved. R = Return.
The reaction to the partner’s appeal. I = Instinct.
The process of forgetting. O = Oblivion.
If she made certain assumptions on the behavior of the individuals and assigned variables to a positive linear system, and the linear model of x1 (t) = –α1 x1 (t) + β1 x2 (t)…
The pleasure of being loved.
Lydia dropped her pencil. She lifted her head to stare out the window, her heart vibrating like the strings of a violin. No equation could quantify that kind of pleasure. No theorem could explain Lord Northwood’s intent to touch her, which had been so palpable she’d felt it from clear across the room.
She pushed her papers aside and went downstairs. Her own fault, this restless trembling in her veins, the heat of memory. She pushed the longing down deep, alongside the other mistakes that lay buried beneath the crust of time.
The door to her father’s study sat half-open, and Lydia knocked before entering. Her throat constricted at the sight of Sir Henry’s cedarwood desk, the bookshelves crammed with works of Chinese history and literature. She imagined she could still detect the fragrant scent of his pipe smoke. The walls held calligraphic scrolls and Tang dynasty paintings with images of lively horses and riders, mist-covered mountaintops, graceful kingfishers.
Jane sat curled on a sofa by the window, a book on butterflies spread open on her lap. Lydia slipped into the seat beside her and drew the girl close, bending to press a kiss against Jane’s soft brown hair. The bands around her heart loosened as she breathed in the scent of Pears soap.
“You’re all right?” she asked.
“I just miss him.”
“So do I.”
The comfort of shared memories wrapped around them—Sir Henry patiently teaching them how to write Chinese characters, telling them stories of his youthful travels, playing puzzles and games together.
Throughout Lydia’s childhood, her father had spent much of his time either traveling or working, but his dedication to her, his support of her education, had never wavered. And after Jane was born, he ceased traveling in favor of teaching and studying. His placid, serious presence had been so very, very welcome after the loneliness of Lydia’s childhood and the death of Theodora Kellaway.
And Jane—to Lydia’s utter, complete gratitude—had known only Sir Henry’s unwavering love and devotion.
Jane closed the book and rested her head against Lydia’s shoulder. “Do you think Grandmama really will send me away?”
Lydia looked at her sister. “How did you find out?”
“I couldn’t sleep and came downstairs for a glass of milk. I heard you talking in the drawing room.”
“You oughtn’t have listened.”
“Wouldn’t you have listened if you overheard someone talking about you?”
Lydia chuckled and conceded the point. “I suppose.”
“Do you think she’ll do it?” Jane asked. “Do you think she’ll send me to that school in Paris?”
Lydia searched for a proper response. She could not undermine her grandmother’s authority, but neither could she lie. She opted to evade the question.
“How would you feel if she did?”
When Jane didn’t respond, Lydia’s heart sank. She wished Jane would immediately say she didn’t want to go, but of course her sister didn’t respond to anything without thinking it through.
“I don’t know,” Jane finally said. “I’d miss you, of course, and the house. But it’s not as if… I mean, it isn’t as if we ever go anywhere, d’you know?”
“That’s not entirely true. We—”
“It is true, Lydia.” Frustration edged Jane’s voice. “The only place I’ve been outside of London was that trip we took to Brighton. At least Paris would be interesting.”
“Yes, it would,” Lydia admitted, though her heart began to feel like a rock.
“And honestly, I’d like to learn piano and French.” Jane turned her head to look at Lydia’s face. “Oh, Lyddie, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t.” Lydia hugged her sister. “I understand what you mean. When I was a few years older than you, I went away to school as well. To Germany.”
“Did you like it?”
Lydia’s stomach knotted. That single year was like a diamond inside her—bright, cold, and hard. In some ways it had opened her to things she could never have anticipated, and in other ways… it had destroyed both her and those closest to her.
“I liked learning new things,” she said. “Everything was different and interesting. But it wasn’t easy. I spoke little German. I didn’t make many friends. I missed home. I often felt alone.”
I was alone.
Even before Sir Henry had agreed to send her to Germany, Lydia had been alone. With her grandmother caring for her mother and her father either away or working… solitude had been Lydia’s sole companion.
Until him. The man with the cold green eyes and twisted heart. She shivered.
“What happened when you were there?” Jane asked.
“What—”
“I heard you say something to Grandmama about punishing you for something that happened. Was that in Germany? What was it?”
Panic quivered in Lydia’s chest. She tightened her arm around Jane and kissed the top of her head again. “Nothing you need worry about. It was a very long time ago.”
She released her sister to stand. “Would you like to see the diorama in Regent’s Park this afternoon? It just opened last week.”
“Yes, let’s.” Jane brightened.
“Good. Go upstairs and finish your geography report. We’ll go after lunch.”
Jane hurried from the room.
Lydia picked up the book her sister had left on the sofa. Bright, multicolored butterflies sprang from the pages, each illustration created with meticulous detail. A folded piece of paper stuck out from the back of the book. Lydia slipped it back into place.
She tried to imagine what her life would be like without Jane—and couldn’t. She had her work, yes, but almost everything she’d done for the past eleven years had centered around her sister.
She couldn’t lose Jane. Not yet. Not even if Jane wanted to go.
Talia’s hand tightened on Alexander’s arm, her fingers digging in hard as they descended from the carriage into the cold night air. He ignored the pang of regret as he turned to his sister. In a pale blue silk gown, her chestnut-brown hair perfectly coiffed, she looked lovely and brittle. She’d applied a slight excess of rice powder, which gave her a cold, masklike expression.
He put his hand over hers. “Talia, it won’t do any good to look as if you’re heading to the gallows.”
“Five hundred pounds, Alex. I told Mr. Sewell of the Ragged School Union to expect your bank draft on Monday.”
“If you act as if you’re enjoying yourself, I’ll add a hundred pounds to that.”
She flexed her fingers on his arm as if making an effort to relax. “If Lord Fulton is here, I’m leaving straightaway.”
“What about Fulton?” Sebastian asked, clambering out of the carriage after them.
“Last week, Alex suggested to his lordship that I would be amenable to a marriage offer,” Talia replied.
Sebastian let out a noise that was a half snort, half laugh. “Fulton? Good God, Alex, what are you trying to do? Send our Talia running to a nunnery?”
“A far more attractive prospect than Fulton, I daresay,” Talia agreed, turning to Sebastian. “Your brother took it upon himself to make the suggestion to Lord Fulton before discussing it with me.” She threw Alexander a withering glance. “Likely because he knew what my response would be. So I found myself the object of some great joke since everyone at the theater knew about it except me. It was humiliating.”
“You could do worse,” Alexander muttered.
“Oh, could I? Did you know Lord Fulton believes no one else will offer for me because of my Russian blood? That he’s the only one willing to overlook such a travesty?”
Alexander frowned. “He said that?”
Talia gave Sebastian an exasperated look. He winked at her.
“You’re the one who’s got to say yes, old girl. Not him.” He nodded in Alexander’s direction. “Though I do hear Fulton’s sister is getting a bit desperate. Long in the tooth, you know, and wide in the hips. Muddled in the head, too, no doubt.”
“Sounds an ideal prospect for you, Alex.” Some of Talia’s tension eased a little as she and Sebastian exchanged wry grins. “Considering you’re thirty-two, perhaps you’d do well to focus on your own marital prospects rather than attempting to control mine.”
Alexander turned away as they entered the foyer, not knowing whether his irritation was a result of his siblings’ behavior or Fulton’s alleged comments. He sighed. Bribing his sister to attend a ball with him was not the way he wished to move about in society, but the stubborn chit gave him no other option.
After the butler greeted them, they entered the ballroom, which was crowded with well-dressed men and women circling the room like ships in a harbor. Music, laughter, and conversation mingled in the air.
“Why, Lord Northwood. Lady Talia and Mr. Hall as well.” The Marquess of Hadley, who was the president of the Royal Society of Arts Council, and his wife approached. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“The Society did intend some of the ticket proceeds to fund the educational exhibition, my lord.”
Hadley coughed, and his wife’s smile wavered a bit.
“Yes, of course,” Hadley replied. “It’s just, you know, this dreadful business with Russia. Seems to be coming to a head now.”
Lady Hadley waved her hand and stretched her smile wider. “But never mind all that. It’s so nice to see you all here. Do enjoy yourselves.”
Not likely, Alexander thought. “Go along with Lady Hadley, Talia,” he suggested.
His sister gave him a mild glare but, along with Sebastian, accompanied the woman toward a group by the hearth.
“What about the dreadful business?” Alexander asked Hadley.
“The council wishes to convene a meeting to address the, er, specter of war with Russia,” Lord Hadley said. “They’re concerned about its effect on the exhibition. Announcement of the meeting is expected at the end of the week.”
