“What is this place?” She looked at him, anxious to have her curiosity satisfied and at the same time intrigued not to miss a single detail.
“This is the Great Hall, a rare bit of England’s history. Over two hundred years ago, a royal charter restricted practicing apothecaries to this single street to barter their concoctions without fear of imprisonment or worse.” He gestured to a shop where the signage bore an emblazoned image of a ram’s head, its eyes painted blood red. “It’s a bit like a wizard’s lair, I suppose, and the singular location where botanists were permitted to concoct their unguents and elixirs. You won’t find any uppers along this street. If they ever acquired a need of mouse paste to cure stubborn warts or an herbal clyster to relieve constipation, they would certainly dispatch a servant rather than risk exposure of their malady.”
“I had no idea.”
“Nor did I until Coggs suggested I try a heated snake oil rub for my leg spasms.”
“Did it subdue the pain?”
“Not as well as your ginger salve, Bookish.”
He motioned for them to enter the nearest doorway and she moved into the dimly lit shop, her eyes wide.
“I’m thankful for Grandfather’s foresight in Leighton House’s construction.” An abundance of odors, some pleasant, others not, inundated her nose while she darted her eyes to the shelves and tables, all laden with bottles, jars, and beige canvas pouches of every size. A handwritten tag explaining the contents was attached to each.
“Aah, how true.” He walked to the opposite side of the interior as they perused the items for sale. An elderly man stood in the corner, unbothered by their inquisitive exploration. “You have your own personal hall in which to experiment without anyone the wiser. Though I find the remedy ingredients and their applications more fascinating than the claims of their ability to cure. Sheep’s tongue for stuttering in particular.”
Theodosia lifted a stout glass jar and read the label aloud. “Take forty to fifty swallows before bed to ensure a peaceful sleep. How odd. I’ve always believed a glass of warm milk the more relaxing method.”
“I suppose it depends if one’s hoping for dreams or avoiding nightmares,” Matthew answered, a long black pouch in his palm. “Crush feathers into a pulp and mix with white wine.”
“Drink while standing in the moonlight.” She smiled as she whispered, “That sounds like a witch’s spell more than practical science.”
Matthew matched her amusement. “Perhaps. This one suggests the user ingest the contents and complete the ritual with the reception of a lover’s kiss.”
Theodosia felt her face heat. She replaced the jar she held and turned away in hope Matthew wouldn’t see her reaction. “I’m not sure that’s knowledge.”
“Science is a fair degree of mystery mixed with fact, wouldn’t you say?”
He’d come up beside her and she hesitated before she turned. “Where’s Dora?”
The two servants hadn’t entered the shop and she wondered if Coggs’s presence was prearranged to keep her maid out of sight. It was a devious yet clever plan, if that indeed was the case.
“I doubt a dragon has found her.” He offered his arm. “Come along.” He dropped a few coins in the shopkeeper’s palm and they took their leave.
Her quick survey located Coggs and Dora across the courtyard in conversation. She couldn’t withhold her curiosity. “Did you invite your valet for the sole reason of distracting my maid?”
He chuckled and she suppressed a smile.
“You have a suspicious mind, Theodosia.”
She didn’t correct him as she should. She begrudgingly acknowledged she enjoyed the sound of her name in his voice. Then she shook her head at the inanity. She wasn’t some bird-witted female, charmed by the slightest compliment.
“You don’t agree?” he pressed.
“Oh, you misunderstood. I was thinking about something different entirely.”
“Reflecting on our midnight kiss in your library?”
Her gasp must have confirmed his hypothesis.
“You needn’t be alarmed.” He leaned in so close, his mouth brushed the rim of her ear. “My thoughts wander there frequently as well.”
At a loss to continue the conversation, she was relieved he didn’t say more. Matthew motioned to Coggs and they made their way back to the carriage. He handed her up the steps and spoke to his driver. “George, to our second stop.”
Once inside, their discussion resumed.
“Should I be insulted you mentally left our conversation and meandered down a different path?” He waited. “Though I’ve been accused of the same.”
“Are you accustomed to ladies hanging on your every word?” She couldn’t help the jibe.
“Not in the least, but I would hope our conversation proved pleasant enough.”
“Where are we off to now?” She looked out the window, though she knew little of the city.
“Montagu House.”
“The British Museum.” A slight smile dared emerge. He had planned a spectacular day. One of the drawbacks of her reluctance to return to London was missing the opportunity to explore extraordinary cultures and curiosities.
“We didn’t spend long at Blackfriars because the museum keeps a strict schedule. What day of the week is it anyway, Coggs?”
“It is Tuesday, milord, and near eleven o’clock.” Coggs nodded. “The porter will grant you admittance to the reading room for an hour during the second session of the day.”
“Coggs knows the schedule by memory. Each day of the week and month of the year are allotted different times in a monthly cycle, and I visit too often for him not to be prepared.”
“I’ve read descriptions of the many collections.”
“They’re spectacular and must be seen in actuality to be appreciated. Sir Hans Sloane, naturalist and physician, bequeathed a vast collection of books, manuscripts, and drawings to the museum and therefore made the rules. Perhaps he wished for everyone to have an opportunity in the reading room. The viewing of other artifacts and displays isn’t as structured and has been since arranged by the body of trustees.”
He repositioned his left leg and his boot brushed against her shoe. Aside from her hand upon his elbow as he’d escorted her through Blackfriars and the fleeting brush of his mouth near her ear, they hadn’t touched, and she now found it difficult not to want to do so. That realization both thrilled and disturbed her.
“Is something wrong?” His brows lowered with concern. “You look unhappy.”
“No, I’m fine.” She regained a cheery expression. “We’re lucky to view the collections before the museum closes for the holiday.”
“Yes.” His expression grew pensive. “Christmastime.”
He didn’t say more, though she sensed he might have wanted to. She wondered how he spent the holidays. Grandfather and she had established a few traditions of their own, and Christmas Eve was a quiet, cozy evening. She couldn’t help but wonder if this year would be as calm. Usually, most every evening proved the same, but she was quick to amend that thought. With Grandfather’s abilities not as they once were, she had no idea what the future held, never mind the Christmas season.
Would Grandfather be well? Would he remember the past customs they’d shared together and happily resurrected each holiday? Or would she be home alone? Alone with the reality that her only living relative faced a bleak future. One where someday soon he might no longer recognize her. This fear, the worst fear, was too frightful to voice and she smothered it promptly.
She didn’t possess many memories of her parents. The fire that claimed their lives had occurred in January, right after the New Year, so she always looked to Christmas to soothe away impending gloom, almost as a precursor to the gray, solemn weeks ahead. In that manner, holiday joy was essential to her surviving the despairing winter months, but now, who knew what it would be like?
* * *
They arrived in good time and Matthew couldn’t be more pleased. An earlier conver
sation provided Coggs with his purpose, and after a meaningful glance in the valet’s direction, they all set upon the stairs toward the museum’s entrance.
“Where would you like to go first?” He gestured toward the elongated marble staircase before them. “Printed books and manuscripts are here on the main floor and also below. The upper-level rooms have works of art, fossils, corals, assorted stuffed and mounted animals, insects, fishes, and lizards, as well as shells, rocks, and herbals.”
“Have you memorized the whole of it?”
“Almost.” He brought her hand to his arm and moved toward the stairs. “I’ve never gone to the gallery, too interested in the scientific rather than the artistic. Would you like to explore unknown territory with me?”
She blinked. Twice.
She couldn’t possibly understand the double entendre. And for a fleeting moment he wondered when everything had shifted. When suddenly Theodosia had become the pursuit of his heart instead of a good deed done or fleeting distraction.
“I’d like to see it all.”
He chuckled, and the sound mingled with their boot heels on the stairs. There were few visitors this time of day and he was thankful for that. Coggs and Dora had already disappeared around a corner. Damn, his valet was efficient, if nothing else.
“You’ll have to stay much longer in London if you plan to examine every exhibit. There are over 70,000 artifacts. Not that I would object. I gladly volunteer my services as tour guide if it prolongs your visit to the city.”
She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. London troubled her to the core. She’d confessed her dislike of high society and the harsh reception she’d endured at finishing school, and he appreciated the freedom she relished in Oxfordshire. Still, a part of him, a part that seemed to expand with each passing minute, selfishly wished she would remain here in London where he could see her as often as he desired.
“Then please show me the best the museum has to offer before we breach the unknown together.”
There was hope in that statement, hope and truth on a deeper level.
“An excellent plan.” He led her to a nearby corner where the trunk of a tree rested on a square platform. “This donation, made in 1760, is an oak stump gnawed by a beaver, a nocturnal semiaquatic rodent.”
She flitted her eyes to the artifact and back again, and he admired the glint of wonder and amusement in their lovely gray depths.
“Intriguing.”
“I’ve read they are quite industrious animals, although all that woodwork must grow tedious and a-gnawing.”
She coughed at his poorly made pun and he stifled his own groan before pushing on. “Do you like to swim?”
“Nice recovery, milord.”
She offered a sideways glance, as if the gnarled stump was so captivating she couldn’t tear her attention away, but he saw only coy flirtation.
“I ask because the installation of several sea-bathing machines at Brighton is the most popular attraction for the upcoming season.” If she wouldn’t stay in London, would she pleasure him with her company elsewhere?
“Come summer I will be nothing more than a faint memory,” she murmured in answer.
“Let’s continue.” Unwilling to allow a solemn mood, he strode to the left. His walking stick tapped against the marble tiles as if keeping time. “Here’s the empty shell of the North American tortoise. In the case beside it, you’ll find the petrified fossil of a large crocodile head excavated here in England.” He paused before he continued. “Had we more time I would explain why I don’t believe this fossil belongs to the crocodile family at all. I’ve studied it on numerous occasions.”
“How curious.”
He watched her genuine interest alight, the tilt of her pert nose, and lips pursed tight in contemplation. Never far from his thoughts, the urge to kiss her arose with sharp insistence.
“We should . . .” He faltered. “Would you like to go to the gallery? The Elgin Marbles are a rare gift to behold.”
She nodded in answer and they proceeded in unison toward the corridor, almost as if she knew, as he did, something more was at stake than an enjoyable visit to the museum.
* * *
Theodosia’s heart pounded a thunderous beat, whether in anticipation or warning, she didn’t know. Her life held too many constraints for her to sort this morning. She enjoyed Matthew’s company. A romantic notion that had no right taking residence in her heart yearned for her to know him better. Just the thought of falling into his embrace did all kinds of odd things—unexplainable, emotional things—to her composure.
With Grandfather’s mind failing and her dedication to his care and preserving his reputation in good standing, she could never fit in here in London. Not to mention she had no desire to leave Oxfordshire and relocate to a city that had shown her little kindness in the past. But Matthew spoke to her as an equal and valued her intelligence and intrigued her, entranced her, with nothing more than a glance from his golden-brown eyes. And he was unerringly kind and thoughtful, planning this day of distraction when she might have sat in a doctor’s office with only worry and distress for company.
“Lady Leighton.”
Matthew’s gentle bid for her attention broke through her muddied considerations. They matched eyes and her heart seized at the look of honest concern there.
“Milord.”
Winter’s distant sunlight poured through the high windows positioned near the crown molding. The noises surrounding them—discreet conversations and nearby footfalls—faded away. The moment became timeless, as if divinity entered the room, fragile and precious for its rarity. Their gaze held through several heartbeats, and it was as if words were unnecessary. Perhaps their souls spoke. She couldn’t be sure.
He appeared equally affected, until at last he managed words. “The Marbles. Upstairs. The gallery.”
She took his elbow and looked at him with a slight smile.
For all the silence between them, her senses brought to bear every subtlety of his nearness. The flexing muscles of his arm beneath warm wool, the glint of light on his long lashes, and his perfectly formed mouth, suited for speaking and other mundane tasks, but truly accomplished at the art of kissing.
A rush of heat tingled under her skin, up her neck to her cheeks, and she prayed he didn’t notice.
Chapter Twenty
The gallery was an airy, elongated corridor situated on the east side of the museum with ambitious multipaned windows that stretched toward the sky and allowed for maximum sunlight. Marble figures and plaques lined the walls, while at the center several platforms displayed ancient Greek sculptures. At the far left corner was a small office for the curator’s use and on the opposite side an area for artists to sketch and scribble notes.
Matthew heard Theodosia’s breath catch, and smiled. He’d accomplished his goal and created a worthwhile memory. He had no substantial reason to explain why it mattered so much, but it did.
At first, they perused the collection in humbled silence. Other visitors, few in number, wandered through with low-toned admiration and discreet conversation. It was as though the Marbles commanded reverence, their existence a rare link to another age.
Theodosia stopped in front of a round platform with a tall figure of a woman dressed in flowing Grecian robes. Theodosia rose to her tiptoes to gain a better view of the sculpture’s detail and Matthew couldn’t help but notice the way her skirts outlined her perfectly rounded derriere and the graceful arch of her back as she worked to note each masterful stroke by the artist.
They were surrounded by explicit depictions of the male and female form, yet nothing was as alluring as Theodosia in that moment. Sunlight colored her hair with blue-black highlights, her skin rosy from exertion. Every shadow within her posture was perfectly placed to enhance her body, the curve of her breasts as they strained against her bodice, the gentle slope of her neck and delicate shoulders.
He drew a long breath and moved closer, all the more determined to achieve ano
ther kiss.
“Breathtaking, isn’t she?” He came up beside her and spoke in a low tone.
“I had no idea.” She seemed reluctant to displace her attention. “One can read of history and masterful artwork, but until seen . . .” Her voice trailed off as if no words were adequate.
“Many things need to be experienced to understand their impact and pleasure.”
She turned to face him more fully. “There are a hundred meanings in that bit of advice.”
“Perhaps.” He studied her face. Her lovely eyes twinkled in the streaming sunlight.
At odds with his attention, she moved to the adjacent wall, though she found no respite. This particular section of Marbles depicted warriors and centaurs in all their polished nudity. Above and below, bare muscles were sculpted to the most exacting detail.
Unwilling to retreat, she studied the artwork as if her life depended on their memorization, and he did the same at her side, though an undeniable tension built between them, powerful and sensual.
“Have you ever been in love, Theodosia?”
The question must have surprised her. She turned to face him and blinked thoughtfully, her slender brows forming a vee of concern. “Why do you ask?”
He should have expected a question in answer to his question. After all, she was a deep thinker and self-declared scientist, if not a little defensive on the subject.
“Come here.” He caught her hand and towed her forward, relieved she didn’t resist. Her boot tips nearly nicked his heels as he hurried her through the entrance of the curator’s office, closed the door, and slid his walking stick through the latch before he pulled Theodosia into his arms.
“Now, I’ll ask you again. Have you ever been in love?”
“I haven’t.” She shook her head so slightly, she might not have done so at all. The wall sconces played havoc with the candlelight. “And you?”
“Only once and then many, many times.” Did he imagine despair in her eyes? She didn’t understand his reply, but he would happily explain, now that he held her tight against his chest.
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