by Erica Monroe
“I do.” For a second, pain flitted across her face—then it was gone, and her expression was back to its usual blandness. “Perhaps I dislike you more than change.”
He didn’t know why that stung him so, when she’d said far worse to him over the years, and vice versa. “I see.”
His face must have shown his hurt, because after taking the bottle off the burner, Felicity gathered another empty cup. She placed the bottle of tea on a tray along with the two empty cups, and carried everything to the front of the lab, toward the tunnel where he’d entered. To the right of the door, there was a small table and two stools, and she set the tray down there.
He followed her, grateful to be farther away from her specimens, and for her inclusion. She poured tea for both of them. He hesitated—the cup had been awfully close to those jars—until she rolled her eyes at him.
“It is clean. I know what is in every single one of these beakers, and I assure you, that’s only ever been used for tea.” As if to prove her point, her hand snaked out to snatch the cup from his hand.
Except instead of stealing the cup from him, their hands brushed. It was the slightest of touches, skin upon skin for only a moment, yet it was enough to send a spark through him.
And apparently through her as well, for she jerked her hand back. The tea almost sloshed onto the table, but he righted the cup in time.
Her brows furrowed. She stared at his hand, then at his face, and then back at his hand. “That is curious.”
He took a long sip of tea, debating if he ought to ask her what she meant. Given how easily she’d brushed off Lady Mallory’s eye color change, he did not think he wanted to know about something so odd that even Felicity would find it strange.
“Perhaps I do not hate you more than change, after all.” She pronounced this in the same way she’d always lectured him, slow and deliberately, each word enunciated perfectly. “Perhaps Mallory was right, then.”
Chapter Eight
The tea had allowed her to maneuver Nicholas away from the most secretive parts of her lab, but he still asked too many questions. Felicity had been wracking her brain trying to think of a way to distract him further, when their hands touched—and there was that bizarre bolt through her.
Like lightning.
That was how Tressa had described her attraction to Matthew Kent. She’d said the passion between them was all-consuming.
Suddenly, Felicity knew exactly how to distract Nicholas. She didn’t feel passion for him—she didn’t feel passion for anything, except bringing back Margaret—so the experiment would have to be modified to accommodate for that lack, but she supposed kissing would still do the trick.
She’d never kissed anyone, but it seemed simple enough. Certainly with fewer steps than building the Philosopher’s Stone, and she’d already half-managed that.
Nicholas set his cup down, motioning to the many shelves and books. “What is all of this, anyhow? What are you working on that’s so urgent? Perhaps I could help.”
Felicity closed the distance between them. “Never mind that. There’s a different experiment I’d like your help with.”
“What’s that?” Nicholas’s eyes widened as she put her hand on his shoulder.
She did not blame him for his surprise—she’d never initiated such contact with him before. Not like this. That’d been a mistake, because his muscles damn near rippled under her touch. She cataloged the firmness of his body and the way her heart sped up as she touched him, reminding herself to add it to her notes later.
But now she had to proceed to the experiment. She drew a breath to steady herself. Considered closing her eyes, and then decided that was illogical, because what if she missed his lips? Eyes wide open, Felicity rose up on the balls of her feet, and let her lips brush against Nicholas’s.
There! She had kissed him.
A second later, she pulled from him, weight going back down on the balls of her feet, studying him for a reaction. Now what? When did the distraction happen? He didn’t seem very affected—he kept staring at her, slack-jawed, eyes wide.
Experiment failed.
Fine then. She’d inform him he had to leave, and if he didn’t agree, she’d…she’d chase him out with the burner. Or something.
Except, as she watched him, contemplating this, a sea change occurred over his features. She was not good at reading expressions, but even she could tell this was different. She could practically feel the tension crackling in the air.
Then he tugged her to him, holding her so near she fell against his hard, muscular chest. She ought to protest, because she had not begun this contact. Yet the words wouldn’t leave her mouth. Her breath came faster, and there was a rising heat within her.
She liked him being this close.
That was unusual, indeed.
She had no time to examine that sensation. Because in the next instant, Nicholas’s fingers slid underneath her chin to tilt her head up, and then his lips smashed down upon hers.
It was nothing like the kiss she’d given him. She had obviously not received proper instructions from Tressa. Because this, this must be a kiss. Even she, who remained resolutely determined to never feel passion, could recognize the danger of this.
Because kissing was something more than simple pressure of lips. Whatever Nicholas was doing—whatever scientific process he was working upon her lips—was too good. Too perfect. Oh heaven’s bells, his mouth slanted so perfectly over hers. She seemed to know intrinsically where to place her hands, to press her palms against his shoulders, steadied by his strength.
Just when she thought she’d got the hang of this—when she too was kissing, like he’d showed her—his tongue darted out. She opened her mouth because that seemed like the only response he could possibly be wanting, and he rewarded her indeed by using that tongue to do devilishly wonderful things. All previous assumptions that tongues were only good for humble things like drinking tea or eating crumpets went out the window, proved to be incomplete by his new assertion. The dance of his tongue against hers was a far better use.
She’d have to make note of that, too.
His lips left hers, and she let out a murmur of protest. But this was the one area where he seemed to know more than she did—because now his tongue had moved to that little spot underneath her ear, which she certainly hadn’t realized could feel so deliciously wonderful. And there was a very intriguing hard bulge between his breeches, that when she shifted to rub against, she felt the loveliest sensation between her thighs. So much so that she let out a little whimper of appreciation, which only seemed to spur him on.
Now, his hands moved downward, to cup her breast. Tressa had spoken about this—but she had not mentioned it would make all logic fly so soundly from her head. She knew her desire to lean into him was a common reaction to his increased proximity, but she couldn’t think of a plausible explanation for why she longed to confide in him about her struggles to reanimate Margaret.
Felicity ought to be thinking of how she could move him out of the laboratory.
She ought to be ending this.
Instead, she moved against his hand, urging him closer, wishing that there was not the voluminous black bombazine between them. His thumb against her nipple sent a shock through her—she could only imagine what it would feel like without these clothes.
And she wanted to feel that.
She wanted to be close to him. To experience passion.
That thought startled her so much she jumped back from him. Passion meant emotions, and decisions based not on logic, and an upset to her routine. So much had already changed in the last six months. Death had already taken the best parts of her life; passion would not get the rest.
Nicholas didn’t follow her—he stood there, his breathing ragged. That hard part of his anatomy—erection, she supplied, reminding herself that correct terminology must be used for factual representation—made the fall of his trousers look quite tight.
“Felicity,” he said, startin
g to come toward her.
But if he did that, she’d kiss him again. What had started as a method of distraction had left her more frazzled, and questioning everything she’d just experienced.
She backed up, almost running into the table where she’d tried again and again over these last six months to create an Elixir of Life for Margaret. Palingenesis through the Philosopher’s Stone was noted in several alchemical texts, but no one seemed to know how it had been achieved.
That was what she should have been focusing on.
Not these new—scary yet so undeniably good—sensations.
“Well, then,” she managed to get out, reaching up to straighten her hair. It was, as always, a wild mess she couldn’t possibly hope to contain on her own. Her maid would have a fit.
“I did not expect that,” Nicholas said, that slow smirk that was so customary on lips—lips reddened from her kisses. “I mean, I wanted it, but I thought you—”
He had wanted her to kiss him? She blinked, trying to process this all, but coming up short. This was new too, and she didn’t want the new. She wanted the old, the familiar, the same as her life had been for years.
She had too much to think about now. “That was enough experimentation, I think. You may go now.”
Something flashed across his face. Pain, she thought. Hurt, too. Tressa had not mentioned men would be dejected when you asked them to leave. Felicity had never thought she had the capacity to wound Nicholas. He’d always thought so highly of himself, and brushed off all her comments.
“I—” Nicholas shut his mouth, apparently as confused as she felt too. “I’ll never understand you, Felicity Fields.”
Then he was gone. Out the tunnel to the garden, she noted abstractly, when he could have just exited through the study.
So she was alone. Instead of thinking she’d completed this little exercise quite well, she felt sadness. Loneliness, like she hadn’t felt since Margaret passed.
She did not like this, not at all. The world was changing around her, and she did not know how to bring things back to rights.
Chapter Nine
Nicholas passed another sleepless night in the room he couldn’t think of as anything other than his Uncle Randall’s chambers; even though his uncle was long deceased, and his father had actually been the last one to sleep in these rooms. The old duke had never seemed to mind staying in his dead brother-in-law’s quarters—he’d simply charged in, demanded the servants deliver his baggage to the master suite, and went to tea with his sister Margaret like nothing had changed.
But that had been Father. Nicholas couldn’t think of a single circumstance where his father hadn’t acted with self-righteous aggrandizement—as the Duke of Wycliffe, he assumed that the world would move out of his way, and it usually did.
No matter what he did, Nicholas could not summon that same confidence. The only time he’d felt as though he was truly doing what he was meant to do—truly making a difference—had been with his Night Watch Bill.
During his summers at Tetbery, he’d watched as Felicity changed one variable in an experiment to see if it produced a different conclusion. As in all things, she was fastidious, observing every result and taking comprehensive notes.
Science, Felicity had said, was about progress. The human race could not expect to move forward by continuing on as they always had, with the same exact habits and beliefs. So when he’d created his bill, he’d tried to improve upon the existing policing system, increasing communicating and hopefully lowering the crime rate.
But the House of Lords did not want the new and untried. They wanted the same established strictures giving them power for centuries.
There was comfort to be found in the old and routine, or so he’d always believed. Toe the mark, and never court controversy. Hardings, as his father always said, did not need to work at being important—by the grace of their lineage, they already had everything anyone could want.
Aunt Margaret, though, had been different. When she’d married Randall, it was not his title that mattered. It was Randall himself: his kindness, his inherent sense of responsibility, and his love for his family estate.
That was what had mattered to Randall and Margaret: family. They’d mourned their lack of children fiercely—not because the Tetbery title would go into abeyance without a male heir, but because they longed to share their love with a child. When their friends passed, they’d immediately volunteered to take Felicity in.
Even as a boy, Nicholas had marked how much happier they were once Felicity came to live with them.
Now, as Nicholas sat at the long dining table that had once belonged to them, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his uncle was watching him—and frowning in disapproval because he’d kissed Felicity.
He, who ought to know better than to enter into an emotional entanglement with a woman who didn’t want to be his duchess. Felicity had made it damnably clear that she didn’t want anything to do with the beau monde.
Or him, for that matter.
That was enough experimentation, I think. You may go now.
It was not the first dismissal he’d received from her over the years. Yet it was the first one to feel final, as if a door had been summarily closed—a door he hadn’t even realized he wanted to remain open.
Before he arrived at Tetbery, he’d been sure of his plan—almost as certain as she always seemed to be. Now that Margaret was gone, Felicity ought to move on with her life. As the daughter of a baron, with ties to both Tetbery and Wycliffe, she could find her place in society, and marry someone who would find all her peculiar mannerisms endearing.
He’d never stopped to question whether or not Felicity would want this future.
Or how he’d feel about her marrying someone else.
He tried to push those uncomfortable sensations to the back of his mind. Outside of this estate, he was sure, any strange yearnings for Felicity would cease. He just needed to get back to London, where things were familiar.
By the time he’d plowed halfway through his plate piled high with cold meat, cheese, and eggs, Tolsworth had entered the dining room. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
It never failed to amaze him how the butler managed to sound and look perfectly deferential, yet still convey his disapproval.
Nicholas bit back a sigh. Tolsworth had never liked him, but he didn’t dare dismiss the butler, given how many times Margaret had said her servants were like family.
Even if Felicity was certain there were no ghosts, he didn’t want to risk Margaret’s unearthly wrath.
“Miss Fields mentioned no one had informed her of my arrival.” When Tolsworth did not comment, Nicholas continued, “Did you not receive my letter?”
“Oh no, Your Grace, we did.” Tolsworth stood there, hands at his sides, that vaguely-respectful-but-not-really expression upon his old, square face.
“I assume there is a reason why you did not inform Miss Fields of my arrival.”
Tolsworth nodded.
“And that reason is?”
Tolsworth’s lips turned down in a pained grimace. “Would you want to be the one to inform Miss Fields of your arrival?”
The butler looked so aggrieved at the thought, Nicholas found himself nodding in agreement. “It wasn’t the most pleasant experience, I’ll grant you that.”
Tolsworth nodded again, yet this time Nicholas could have sworn he saw the hint of a smile on the stoic man’s lips.
“I have to ask, Tolsworth, how has she been these last few months? Since Aunt Margaret’s death.”
Tolsworth swallowed, that small smile eradicated. “There is some concern, Your Grace, that Miss Fields has not processed the countess’s demise well. It might be to your advantage to visit the mausoleum.”
Were it not for how the worry etched deep in Tolsworth’s forehead, Nicholas would have thought the man was criticizing him for not coming home for Margaret’s funeral. Instead, it sounded as though the butler was genuinely concerned for Felicity—as thoug
h he were trying very hard to delicately express something he didn’t know how to explain.
“I see,” Nicholas said. “I will take that under advisement. Do you know where Miss Fields is now?”
“I believe she said something about the kitchen, Your Grace.”
Nicholas nodded. She’d always liked baking—she’d said once that every recipe called for a specific amount of ingredients added in a specific manner, and the slightest deviation from the norm created a different result.
Perhaps that was what he had done wrong with his bill: he had deviated too far from the norm, too fast. He ought to have taken it slower, changed one thing at a time and observed the results.
How funny it was that the girl who claimed she’d never prosper in society might know how to navigate it better than he had.
Chapter Ten
Felicity had spent the morning in the kitchen with the cook, Mrs. Manning, as she always did when she couldn’t solve a puzzle. While cooking was chaotic, leaving too much room for experimentation, baking had a set order. She knew the precise amount of time she had to whip heavy cream to get a perfect filling for her cake; stopping too soon would make the cream watery, while whipping too long produced butter.
Being in the kitchen soothed her disordered mind, and often she found the solution she was looking for while in the midst of a recipe. And she got to eat the results, so it was as delicious an enterprise as it was productive.
Baking was logical.
Science was logical.
Emotions were not.
Felicity sighed, drying her hands on her apron. She’d just placed her famous three-layer lemon cake in the oven, and she was nowhere closer to knowing why kissing Nicholas had affected her so. All of her attempts at reducing the kiss down to a purely physical reaction came up short. She could attribute her pounding heart, heavy breathing, and sweaty palms to anatomical responses; the increased blood flow had given her stiffened nipples and contributed to her fluttery stomach and her tingling core.
