This earned him a smirk, though she didn’t wish to encourage him to continue the tease.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry? I’ve found it easy to get lost in these halls.”
“Because you don’t live here, milord.” And thank God for that.
He nodded slightly and cast a glance down the corridor as if deciding what to say next.
In that silence she noted his crisp linen shirt beneath the same welcoming cravat that smelled of shaving soap; and too, how his broad shoulders filled his wool coat without a hairsbreadth of extra fabric, straight down to his tapered waist. He must have a fastidious tailor. But then, in London everyone was preoccupied with fashion and style, and this reason, like so many others, proved why she would never fit in among society there.
“An infallible truth.” He muttered.
She repeated the phrase though her inner conversation had taken a different turn. Now to deter him from prying any deeper into her soul. “If that’s all then—”
“And your grandfather? Is he available for conversation during this endless afternoon? He did initiate my visit, after all.”
“I wouldn’t know.” She hemmed her bottom lip and made a swift decision. “What is it you do in London, milord?” It was always safe to ask someone to speak of their own interests. It often prevented said person from asking too many questions in return.
“I suspect vastly different preoccupations from yours here in Oxfordshire.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, as if he had all the time in the world and therefore prepared for unending conversation. His walking stick dangled from the fingers of one hand in a slow sway that could be hypnotic if one stared overlong. “I think the more interesting question is, what do you do for amusement?”
She shot her eyes to his. “Amusement?”
“Is there an echo in here?” His mouth formed a half smile that tempted hers to produce the same. “Yes, amusement. Do you solve puzzles, collect buttons, work at watercolors or poetry?”
“I read.”
“That can’t be all you do, Bookish.” He leaned closer, his head canted down to accommodate their height difference. “Even I don’t read all the time.”
He stated the last bit in a secretive, low-toned whisper, and her pulse jumped, caution alive in her blood. Her retort came out too sharp. “I suppose being from the city you require an endless chain of entertainment, discontent to spend a quiet afternoon listening to the birdcalls or watching the stars.”
“Not at all. As a matter of argument, stargazing is among my favorite preoccupations. Still, there’s much more to life than the care of plants in the orangery.”
“I keep a few animals.” She straightened her shoulders, more than a little defensive at his censure. “And practice maths.”
His brows shot high at her final word. “All I’m suggesting is a widening of interests.”
Does he feel sorry for me? Pity me? A rush of memories brought back the endless sympathy she’d received for years after her parents died, and any previous enjoyment of their conversational sparring faded, replaced in a heartbeat by anger.
“Considering I made your acquaintance less than a day ago and our relationship is to be incredibly short-lived, you’ve overstepped, Lord Whittingham.”
He studied her, and despite that the urge to brush past him seized her to the core, she kept her feet still, unwilling to flee and appear affected.
“Perhaps I have.” He pushed upright. His walking stick tapped twice against the tiles in the uncomfortable silence. “If you will excuse me, Lady Leighton. I must dress for dinner.”
Chapter Six
“That was refreshing.” Matthew stifled a grin as he accepted a towel from Coggs. “I can’t remember when I’ve been so pleasantly intrigued.”
“By your shave, milord?”
“No.” He scowled in his valet’s direction.
“Pardon, milord?” Coggs replaced the shaving soap and brush before he carefully dried the razor. “To what, then, do you refer?”
“Nothing.” Matthew allowed a chuckle this time. “Well, not nothing, but nothing I wish to share with you.”
“How unkind.” Coggs assumed an offended expression. “We might have traded stories. I’ve collected a titillating earful from the parlor maid downstairs.”
Matthew tossed the towel aside and donned his smalls before he sat on the edge of the mattress to pull on his stockings. “Didn’t I warn you to keep your nose on your face and out of other people’s business?”
“Quit your grips.” Coggs came forward with a pair of buff leather breeches in hand. “It was more a matter of me standing in the right place at the right time. And for what it’s worth, I thanked her thoroughly.”
“The kitchen staff?”
“No, the parlor maid, for her interesting information.”
He sent Coggs another glare as he stood and fastened the waistband of his breeches in wait of his black top boots. His valet quickly produced the pair. The heels had been modified to compensate for his limp, and when Matthew wore them, his gait appeared only slightly uneven. But the damnable boots were uncomfortable as hell, and like the carriage ride through the cold, tomorrow his body would pay the price for his decision.
“You needn’t waste your breath and repeat the rumors you’ve collected. Gossip is impolite and considered a pastime for the addle-minded.” And didn’t he know it. He played at indifference, but he’d heard the assumptions bandied about concerning his impairment and lack of social presence. Gossip was a waste of words and precious time, albeit he’d done nothing to rectify the gratuitous pity when he refrained from dancing or horsemanship, instead choosing a less compromising lifestyle. He blew out a deep breath and forced his good leg into his right boot.
“You know what they say.” Coggs continued undeterred.
“Mind your own business?”
“No.” A touch of annoyance tinged Coggs’s answer. “The kitchen is the heart of the home and the servants’ gossip keeps it beating.”
“I see. I didn’t realize.” His valet was a certifiable tell-pie. In contrast, Theodosia was a delightful diversion, and without examining his feelings for deeper meaning, he remained intrigued and more than a little taken with her.
“Suit yourself.” Coggs’s retort came from behind the formal wool coat suspended on a hook where the valet worked to remove the most miniscule specks of lint. “We’ll be long returned to London when Kirkman proposes a third time. With such dedication to your studies, I suspect we’ll take wheel as soon as the weather clears and the roadways prove suitable for travel.”
“Who’s Kirkman? The steward in love with your parlor maid?” Matthew shoved his foot down hard into his left boot and stood with a deep grunt. He paced a length, pleased with the feel and comfort, if only temporary.
“Hardly.”
Coggs handed him a white linen shirt, pressed to perfection, and Matthew pulled it over his head.
“Lady Leighton will make a lovely bride.”
Had the fabric not been wrapped around his head, he might have comprehended the news quicker. As one would have it, he yanked his shirt down so hard, the seams strained. “What? Lady Leighton’s to be married?”
“I wouldn’t wish to spread rumors, milord.”
“Your swift change of opinion is admirable.” Matthew snapped his neckcloth from the wardrobe in the guest chambers and walked to the cheval glass, his patience at war with better sense. Coggs would never last. He never did. Matthew concentrated on the strip of linen, intent on arranging his cravat in an understated but elegant barrel knot while he mentally counted to twenty. He barely reached twelve.
“Of course, one can never be sure of these things, but Lord Kirkman has already proposed to Lady Leighton twice and it’s believed by the household staff that three’s the charm.”
“Is that so?” Matthew kept his expression unchanged, though he would confess to a lick of curiosity. Lady Leighton was rare. Quite
striking. Provoking, and downright amusing. This collection of attributes was a far cry from the ton’s preferred compliments of swanlike grace or delicate disposition. And that made all the difference. She was different. Different and interesting in the best way. A pleasing way.
Not that it mattered. Though he recognized that for a lie, intelligent scholar that he was.
* * *
Several doors down in an adjacent hallway, Theodosia prepared for dinner with the help of her young maid, Dora. Had she not been preoccupied with the current situation and what might occur once her grandfather and Lord Whittingham finally met, she would have comprehended her maid’s suggestions more fully and refused to dress in her fanciest gown. As it was, Dora leapt at the chance to prepare the formal wear and underthings, never before worn, and flurried about the room as talkative as a chatterbox. That may have been why Theodosia so readily became absorbed by her worry and preemptive attack to whatever sparked Lord Whittingham’s visit.
Now, faced with the freshly pressed garment and the layers of underclothes needed, she wished she’d listened to Dora more closely. And while she could change her mind as easily as she changed her gown and insist on dining in a simpler, more comfortable design, she didn’t dare return belowstairs later than expected, in case Grandfather and Lord Whittingham began a conversation without her.
“I do like the way I’ve arranged your hair with this lovely embroidered bandeau, milady.” Dora brushed her fingertips across Theodosia’s temple and tucked an errant wisp behind her ear. “I can’t remember the last time you’ve allowed me to fuss.”
“There was no need for it, and it’s only because I was distracted that you managed to succeed to such lengths.” Theodosia glanced in the oval cheval glass where an unfamiliar face looked back. She was most often in a serviceable day gown. Something with several deep pockets for all her necessities, whether feeding her adopted animals, managing the house, or conducting experiments. Diamond jewelry such as the glinting earbobs and matching necklace that adorned her this evening were a rarity at best.
“If only Lord Kirkman could see you tonight.” Dora stifled a girlish giggle. “One glance and he would become tongue-tied.”
“If it prevented another proposal from tumbling out, then I like the idea.” Theodosia smiled at her own jest. She stepped back from the glass to see her entire reflection. Far from the daring fashion worn in London, this gown was still flattering. The rectangular bodice and lacy sleeves were becoming, the periwinkle blue a compliment to her eye color, and the high waist and endless layers of semitransparent silk over silk, created an illusion she was more ephemeral than permanent. This suited Theodosia perfectly. The sooner she could resolve Whittingham’s inquiry and dispatch him back to London, the better. “Is it still snowing, Dora?”
“I believe so.” Her maid set down a pair of silk slippers with matched silver beadwork and scurried to the window. “Oh yes, I’m afraid the weather has worsened. I can hardly see a thing.”
“Well, then.” Resigned to the fact she was at the mercy of the weather, Theodosia slipped on her shoes and glanced one last time in the mirror, more than a little surprised at how elegant she appeared. Perhaps, at a moment like this, she wasn’t so different after all.
“Would you like gloves, milady, or a fan? Do you need your reticule?” Thoroughly carried away with accessories, Dora stepped forward with an armful of frippery.
“I’m only going downstairs, but thank you.” And then at the last minute, Theodosia snatched a hand-painted paper fan from her maid’s grasp and rushed from the room.
She nearly flew down the staircase, aware by the longcase clock in the hall, she was four minutes late for cordials in the sitting room. Would Grandfather be himself tonight? She could only hope. At times his age showed a different side to his personality, but she refused to believe his mental capacity compromised in any manner, despite recent unexpected mood changes. Grandfather was well-known for his work in all branches of science. A sharp, learned mind like his didn’t fail, most especially in odd bouts of confusion and forgetfulness.
She approached the sitting room, half out of breath, her closed fan swinging in a frenzy from the ribbon loop at her wrist.
“Milady, might I have a word?”
The housekeeper approached, her face wrinkled with concern.
“What is it, Mrs. Mavis? I need to get inside.” She looked toward the sitting room door while her heart pounded a chaotic beat.
“I won’t keep you, but I knew you would wish to be informed.”
Theodosia nodded. Impatience held her mute.
“His lordship insisted Cook include marmalade on the menu this evening. There’s no reason for it, no dish for it to accompany, but his lordship wouldn’t hear otherwise and I thought not to upset him, being we have a guest in the house.”
“Think nothing of it.” She tossed these words over her shoulder and breezed toward the sitting room with a deliberate effort at serene poise as her slippers crossed the threshold.
Chapter Seven
“Grandfather.” Lady Leighton entered the room and strode directly for Lord Talbot. She extended her hands encased in elegant white gloves and clasped his tightly as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Theodosia.” He said her name with affection, the aged earl apparently smitten with his granddaughter. “You look beautiful.”
Theodosia? Theodosia. It fit. An honored namesake of her respected grandfather, no doubt. Where were her parents anyway? Did they not live here in Oxfordshire?
“Thank you.” She smiled. “I didn’t intend for anyone to wait on my account.”
“To see you in such finery is worth any wait. Besides, Lord Whittingham entered not a minute before you.” Talbot turned in his direction and Matthew adjusted his grasp on his walking stick in order to complete a proper bow.
“Lady Leighton.” He straightened and accepted her hand. “Theodosia.” He murmured just loud enough for her ears, “What a fine name, Bookish.” She didn’t say a word, though she snatched her fingers away before he could press a kiss in greeting.
“We haven’t yet begun our conversation, in anticipation of your arrival.” Talbot walked to the sideboard and poured a liberal portion of brandy into two crystal glasses. He brought one to Whittingham and then motioned Theodosia toward the settee. “Come and sit with us. Perhaps then the earl will share the reason for his insistent visit.”
Matthew fought the desire to remind them he’d been invited, as everyone in this house wished to label him a refined marauder. Best he dispel that impression. “It was your article in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society last month that snared my attention. I found your discussion of the law of definite proportions to be accurate and informative, though I have a few questions concerning the whole-number ratios used to formulate compounds. Several of the calculations are curious.”
“Grandfather.” Theodosia chimed in from her opposite position on the settee. “I’d enjoy a glass of port, if you’d be so kind.” She placed her fan on the table as she spoke.
“Of course.” Talbot rose and moved to the sideboard.
As soon as Talbot’s back was turned, Theodosia eyed Matthew and leaned forward as if to impart a secret she didn’t wish her grandfather to hear.
“It’s too late to begin a conversation of complicated scientific method. My grandfather is likely tired. Wouldn’t you rather talk of more current news?” Her eyes widened with the question, a hopeful plea in their depths.
“Discussion of your grandfather’s contribution is the sole reason I made this long trip through harsh weather conditions. The invitation to visit and share theoretical viewpoints is a rare opportunity and I wouldn’t squander a moment.”
Theodosia did not appear mollified.
“Here you are.” Talbot set a glass of port on the inlaid satinwood table beside his granddaughter’s fan and reclaimed his seat. “Now what shall we talk about this evening?”
Matthew couldn’t be sure,
but he thought Theodosia stifled a gasp. Or mayhap he imagined it. There was no way to know. One thing was certain, she didn’t want port. Her glass waited on the table, ignored.
“Lord Talbot—”
“Call me Theodore.” Talbot smiled and took a sip of his brandy. “If we’re to share conversation and a satisfying meal, we should dispense with formality. Out here in the countryside we’re more relaxed than our city relations. Besides, all that decorum grows tedious.”
Matthew turned toward Theodosia with the intention of waggling his brows in mocking reference to their earlier squabble over Christian names, but he noticed her eyes never left her grandfather, a slight grimace holding her expression firm as Talbot raised the glass for another swallow.
“It must become confusing with a Theodore and Theodosia in the house.”
“Not at all.” Theodosia dragged her eyes to his, though with a blink she changed the subject. “What occupies your time in London, Lord Whittingham, aside from taking impromptu trips across the countryside?”
“You must call me Matthew.” He donned a congratulatory grin. “At the request of your grandfather, of course. Besides, by your own admission we’ll likely never see each other again, so what difference does it make?”
The conversation proceeded no further as a footman appeared to call them into dinner. Claiming his walking stick, he was quick to his feet, yet Theodosia made a point of slipping her arm through her grandfather’s elbow to allow him the escort into the dining room. Matthew told himself he shouldn’t feel disappointed. And honestly, he couldn’t imagine why he would.
They took their places at the long rectangular table, illuminated by chandeliers above, though at least a dozen candles burned in an elaborate silver epergne at the far end of the damask tablecloth. Talbot seated himself at the head, leaving Matthew with a delightful view of Theodosia directly across the china.
For a few minutes no one spoke as linen napkins were unfolded and placed delicately to the lap. A footman provided wine efficiently, while a wisp of a maid bobbed in and out with all sorts of delectable tidbits to begin the meal.
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