by Rowan Nina
Alexander kissed her. He pressed his lips to hers and felt the pulse in her neck leap against his palm. Fierce satisfaction filled him when Lydia sank against him as if she could do nothing else, her arms sliding around his waist, responding to his kiss with both softness and heat. A little noise escaped her throat. He fought the urge to yank the ribbon from her hair and bury his hands in all that lush silk.
Lydia’s hands flattened against his chest as she tried to put some distance between them. “Stop,” she whispered.
He forced himself to step back, swiping a hand down his face. He had to make this work. He had to.
“Is…” His voice tangled. He swallowed and tried again. “Is Jane all right? Your grandmother?”
“Yes. Jane is… well, we need to figure out how to navigate this new territory between us, but she’s not angry with me anymore. Still I think it will take time before she fully understands.”
A tinge of sorrow appeared in her eyes as she turned to pour them both tea. She was silent as she handed him a cup, then added sugar and cream to hers. Alexander waited for her to settle on the sofa, then sat in a chair a distance away so he would be less tempted to touch her.
“What was it like?” he asked. “Acting like she was your sister when…”
Her shoulders lifted. “I became accustomed to it. I had to. When my grandmother determined that’s what we’d do, I was relieved. She and my father could have given the infant away, or sent us both away, and there would have been nothing I could do. So even though we had to lie, I was grateful I could keep Jane. And not just keep her—I was with her all the time. I never thought of her as Dr. Cole’s child, only as mine.”
She sipped her tea, looking out the window as if she were gazing at her past. “And during moments when I wished… when I longed… for her to know I was her mother, I had only to remember that she could so easily have been taken from me. But I think… I know I’ve always held something back from her. I’ve had to. With that kind of deception, I could never be everything I wanted to be to Jane. I could never truly be myself.”
She blinked hard, her mouth compressing as she set her cup aside. “Even before Jane, I don’t know if that had been possible. I was a strange child, Alexander. I found so much comfort in numbers, their purity, their comprehensibility.
“And though I will be forever grateful to my grandmother for insisting that my talent be nurtured, I also wish I’d learned to understand people as well as I did equations. Things might have turned out very differently if I had, though I still wouldn’t have given Jane up for anything. But it wasn’t until I met you…”
A tremble rippled through her voice. She paused, a mixture of sorrow and regret coloring her expression. “When I gave in to Dr. Cole, I did so because I wanted to feel something. I hadn’t realized that ever since my mother took ill, I’d been buried beneath layers of calculations and theorems. I don’t know what I expected, if I thought we’d fall in love or have a brief affair. I didn’t know if he’d leave his wife. All I knew was that I felt… awake. For the first time ever.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened to the point of pain. He hated, despised, the idea that Lydia—his Lydia—would ever have imagined she could find happiness with another man.
“But then,” Lydia continued, “I realized how horribly wrong it all was. I was awake, but within a nightmare of betrayal and deceit. Both Dr. Cole’s and mine. And even after Jane was born—especially after she was born because I was so afraid of making a mistake—I retreated back into what I thought was the safety of numbers.”
She fell silent for a moment. “And for so many years, that was fine. I had Jane. I had my work. But then I met you.”
She lifted her head, and those blue eyes fixed on him with such directness that he knew he was looking right into her bare soul.
“I didn’t even realize until then that I’d retreated into a prison of my own making,” Lydia said. “I hadn’t considered what would happen to me, to Jane, once she came of age. Once she left home, got married, began her own life. I’d continue my work, of course, but then I realized it wasn’t… it wasn’t enough.”
As Alexander continued to look at her, something cracked inside him, a feeling of simultaneous damage and growth, like a fresh shoot breaking through a hard, dry seed.
“What do you want, Lydia?” he asked, remembering the night so many weeks ago when he’d asked that very question in a desperate attempt to understand her.
For a long moment, they looked at each other, as if she, too, was recalling that night, that kiss, that moment when everything had changed forever.
“I want my family to be happy,” she said. “I want people to still admire my father’s work, to respect all he did. I want my grandmother to feel as if all she’s done has finally led to something good. I want Jane to live the life she wants, to—”
“No. What do you want for you?”
She didn’t respond. He set his cup down and approached her. Nervousness twined through him.
“I know what I want,” he said. “I still want you, Lydia.”
She continued staring out the window. “Please, don’t.”
“I want to marry you. I don’t give a damn what people say, what the Society outcome is, what—”
“You don’t, do you?” She turned to him, frustration sparking in her eyes. “What about your father? Don’t you think marriage to me will make him even more of a recluse? And Lady Talia? She’s had a difficult enough time as it is, hasn’t she? What will happen when people learn her brother married a woman who has an illegitimate child?”
“We don’t have to announce it, for God’s sake.”
“So we marry and keep it a secret? What about Jane? Would she live with us as my sister still? And what happens if we’re unable to prevent the truth from getting out?”
“No one else needs to know the truth.”
“You would take that risk, keep that kind of secret, while knowing the truth could ruin you and destroy your family?” She stepped forward, her blue eyes hardening. “Didn’t your mother keep a secret, Alexander?”
Anger coursed through him, sudden and swift. “My mother has nothing to do with this.”
“But her secret is what caused your family’s disgrace. Do you truly want to live like that?”
Old, hard feelings battered Alexander, culminating in a helplessness that caught him in a tight vise. His chest ached with it.
“I will fix this, Lydia.” His eyes stung as he willed her to believe him.
She continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
“And do you honestly think I would put your family, put you, in that kind of position? Subject you to such risk?” She stepped closer and put her cool hand against his cheek. Her blue eyes, filled with emotions he could not identify, searched his face. “This is why I refused your marriage proposal, Alexander. And I’m beyond grateful that we can finally be honest with each other, but that doesn’t change my decision. I cannot marry you.”
Her hand slipped away from him. Tears filled her eyes, making them look like the fathomless depths of the ocean.
“What do I want for me?” she asked. “I want a quiet life, like the one I…” She looked away.
“What?” Alexander demanded.
“Like the one I had before I met you.” Her voice was so low he had to strain to hear her.
Alexander’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles hurt. She was trying to hurt him, to drive him away. He knew that, and yet her words still hit him like rocks. “That life is gone, Lydia.”
She swiped at her tears. “N-not for me.”
“Really? Jane knows you’re her mother now. Hasn’t that changed everything for you?”
She flinched. Glad to see evidence of her disconcertion, Alexander backed to the door. He pointed a finger at her.
“The only life you can have now, Lydia—the only life we can both have—is the one we make for ourselves.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The great room of the Soc
iety of Arts building in the Adelphi bustled with people and voices. The Society council members and all union representatives had attended—whether out of curiosity or a sense of duty, Alexander couldn’t say. Three police inspectors sat on the other side of the aisle.
Alexander sat beside Sebastian and Rushton in the front row. The council members presided over the meeting from a dais at the front of the room. Frowns creased their faces as they spoke to each other, consulted papers, glanced at Alexander.
“You ought to have shaved, at least,” Sebastian remarked, his voice low in the din. He rubbed his hand across his own jaw. “I did.”
“Bastian’s right.” Rushton looked at them both from the corner of his eye. “You look like a vagrant, North.”
Although he didn’t care, Alexander dragged a hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it down. He’d hardly slept for the past five nights as he struggled to find a way to convince Lydia to give him a chance. But no matter how many ways he tried to find a solution, he knew she would not concede. Even if she wanted to.
He cursed beneath his breath and tried to focus on the council members as Lord Hadley stood from behind the long table.
“Order, everyone! I call the meeting to order.”
Hadley waved his arms to indicate everyone should be seated. As the commotion waned, he cleared his throat. “As you all know, we have convened this meeting in order to address the issue of the educational exhibition as presided over by Lord Northwood. We have been aware for some time that his close ties with the Russian Empire, as well as his trading company, were perhaps at odds with the stated goals of the exhibition, namely to promote the supremacy of the British educational system and British industry and to continue to foster free trade with France.”
Murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd. Alexander remembered that first time he’d told Lydia about the exhibition, when she’d sat in his drawing room and offered to assist with the mathematics display. If he’d known then how desperately he would come to ache for her…
I have a talent for mathematics.
She didn’t know she also had a talent for stealing his heart.
“We have heretofore been willing to overlook Lord Northwood’s Russian connections owing to his strong support of the Society of Arts,” Hadley continued. “However, the recent onset of war has prompted us to weigh more carefully the value of his contributions versus the detriment of his… er… personal situation.
“The week before last, Lord Northwood was involved in an altercation with a gentleman who purportedly was attempting to kidnap a young girl, the sister of Lord Northwood’s fiancée. The police have concluded, and we can all certainly agree, that Northwood acted to protect both his fiancée and the girl.”
The girl. Alexander’s chest squeezed at the thought of what might have happened to Jane. Such a bright, pretty girl, so full of hope and promise. He imagined Lydia might have been like Jane as a child if she’d been given the chance at a normal life.
“Several people claim to have seen him push the man to his death over the gallery railing of St. Martin’s Hall,” Hadley droned on.
Alexander shifted impatiently. Didn’t everyone know this already?
“Others claim the man fell as a result of his own actions,” Hadley said. “I do not know that either claim can be credibly substantiated, but suffice it to say that the police have not seen fit to charge Northwood with any crime in connection with this incident.
“Unfortunately, it sparked what we can only describe as a riot. A crowd had already gathered on the street outside St. Martin’s Hall to witness an accident between two wagons, and the ensuing fistfight between the drivers caused further commotion.
“A number of people went into St. Martin’s Hall to take shelter from the increasingly raucous fray, but upon witnessing the struggle between the two men, they, too, began to create an uproar. And when Dr. Cole plunged to his death… well, I’m certain you have all read the reports about the pandemonium that erupted following this tragic event.”
“In addition to people sustaining injuries in the riot,” Lord Wiltshire added, “the exhibition displays have been very badly damaged, several irreparably so.”
“Northwood ought pay for that, then,” called a man from the back of the room.
The council members exchanged glances.
Alexander stood, half turning toward the man. “I’ve offered to do so,” he said. “The council has declined.”
Hadley coughed. “We’ve been obliged to decline, sir, owing to the—”
“Not acceptable, Lord Northwood.” A wiry man with spectacles rose from the other side of the aisle. “I am Henri Bonnart, the French commissioner to the Society. We cannot abide accepting monies from a man who owns a trading company based in the Russian Empire.”
“Merci, Monsieur Bonnart,” Hadley said. “However, the point of this meeting is to consider Lord Northwood’s position as director of the exhibition and vice president of the Society of Arts. I’m afraid the police strongly believe his actions incited the ensuing riot, and in the absence of other conclusive evidence—”
“Lord Hadley!” A woman’s voice rang out from the back of the hall.
Everyone turned. Alexander’s heart pounded. Lydia strode through the door, her back ramrod straight and her expression resolute. Satchel in hand, she walked down the aisle toward the council.
Alexander stared at her for a second before realizing she was followed by a half dozen men carrying cases, books, large bristol boards, and rolls of paper. He recognized them as her mathematician friends—the men of the journal editorial board as well as Dr. Sigley and Lord Perry, all marching behind her like a military regiment following their commander.
Lydia didn’t spare him a glance as she stopped before the council. Color rode high on her cheekbones, but her voice was steady and firm as she spoke.
“Gentlemen, forgive the interruption, but I’ve something of great importance to impart. My name is Lydia Kellaway, and these gentlemen accompanying me are professors and mathematicians of the highest order. Upon learning of the pending charge against Lord Northwood, and knowing of its utter falsity, I asked my colleagues for assistance.”
“Assistance with what, Miss Kellaway?” Wiltshire asked.
Lydia turned to her colleagues and gave a swift nod. The men assembled to the side, directly in front of Alexander, so they could be viewed by both the council and the audience. Two of them set up a stand and placed several display boards atop it, while another removed a stack of papers from a case and distributed them to the council members.
Mystified, Alexander looked from the men to Lydia. Not fifteen feet away, she stood watching him, color still flushing her pale cheeks but her blue eyes soft. She started a little as their gazes met. Alexander swallowed hard, clasping his hands together to prevent himself from going to her, grabbing her around the waist, and hauling her against him.
An unmistakable heat flared in her expression, as if the same thought had occurred to her.
Lydia. Lydia.
She gave a quick shake of her head and reached for a pointer. She turned to the board, which was covered with a map of some sort, and delicately cleared her throat.
“This, gentlemen,” she said, “is a diagram of the first floor and gallery of St. Martin’s Hall on the night of the riot. My colleague Dr. Sigley has conducted extensive research on the dynamics of crowds, and he will explain how it is impossible that Lord Northwood could have incited a crowd to riot.”
She smacked the pointer against the map. The audience shifted, rumbling a little with both bafflement and curiosity. Alexander leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
Lydia nodded at Dr. Sigley. “If you would, please, sir.”
“Delighted, Miss Kellaway.” Sigley stepped forward to address the crowd. “Dr. Edward Sigley, gentlemen, FRS, DCL, FRSE, Lucasian professor of mathematics at the University of Cambridge, and editor of the Cambridge and Dublin Mathematical Journal.”
He pau
sed as if to allow everyone to absorb the illustriousness of his accomplishments. Silence filled the room, then was followed by murmurs of approval. Sigley nodded with satisfaction.
“I have conducted numerous experiments regarding the dynamics of crowds in relation to a flow-density relationship,” he continued. “This can be written as…” He paused and scribbled an equation on the board.
“I beg your pardon, Dr. Sigley.” Hadley held up a hand, a frown creasing his forehead. “If I may speak for my own colleagues, I would venture to suggest that we are about as interested in flow density as we are in women’s fashion.”
Several men barked out a laugh. Irritation flashed across Lydia’s face. A large man with a bushy beard stood in the center of the room.
“Here now, my lord,” he called. “Plenty of Society members are interested in mathematics, or at least know something about it. Part of the Society’s division of subjects for the examination, isn’t it? The professor here is talking about applied mathematics, isn’t that right, Professor? We ought to listen to what he has to say.”
A rumble of agreement rose from the audience. Alexander twisted around to see the man who had suddenly challenged the president of the Society on behalf of the mathematicians. Then he turned back to look at Lydia. She winked.
“Quite,” Sigley replied with a nod of appreciation to his supporter. “Applied mathematics is pure mathematics, such as geometry or the properties of space, applied to establish the principles of statics and dynamics, which is what I speak of here.”
“Good God, man, get on with it!” shouted a voice in the crowd. “What’s this got to do with Northwood?”
The audience shifted again, more restlessly this time. Alexander and Sebastian exchanged glances. Sebastian looked rather worried.
Alexander returned his gaze to Lydia, who stood stiffly with her hands clasped, her white teeth biting her lower lip.
