Outrageously Yours

by Allison Chase

  “Lady Gwendolyn is a high-spirited individual.” Sir Alistair’s reply surprised her. Ivy had not thought he would acknowledge her so directly, and now she was emboldened to voice another query.

  “Is she also prone to recklessness?” When the tug of Sir Alistair’s brows indicated she might have strayed over a boundary, she added, “Lord Harrow brought me along to gain a second perspective. An objective one.”

  The man nodded. “Of course. However, Lord Harrow is best suited to answer the question.”

  Simon swirled the ruby liquid in his cup, and Ivy noticed that he hadn’t taken a sip. Was it because no one had provided her with a serving of the punch? The notion made her want to smile. “Gwendolyn has always been restless and, as you say, Alistair, high-spirited,” he said. “Reckless behavior is rather new. I can only hope she is toying with me, and that no harm has come to her.”

  He pushed a platter of tiny sandwiches closer to Ivy.

  “That is unlikely.” Sir Alistair watched Ivy select a creamy concoction of seafood between slices of thin white bread. “Gwen is a resourceful young woman. And perhaps you are correct. She may yet turn up here. She knows she is always welcome.”

  “Yes. I do have reason to suspect that her disappearance and the consortium may be connected.”

  “Has your sister suddenly taken it into her head to delve into the sciences?”

  Simon shook his head. “I doubt that, but if it’s revenge against me for sending her away that she wants, then interfering with the consortium and with my work would be a sure way to get it.”

  Sir Alistair drained his punch as he pondered that statement. “Well, should I hear anything from her, or of her, I will send word to you at once.”

  “Thank you, Alistair. Now, if you will excuse us, we must be getting back.”

  The man smiled indulgently. “Your secret project?”

  “No.” Simon exchanged a brief glance with Ivy. “I’m done with that. I am putting my generator at Ben’s disposal and must make the necessary preparations for transport.”

  “From what you have told me, this generator alone represents a remarkable feat of scientific engineering. I am eager to witness its potency.”

  Simon appeared genuinely pleased by the praise. He offered his hand to the other man, and then he and Ivy took their leave.

  “You were unaccountably quiet on the ride home earlier, and in the laboratory this evening as well.” From across the dining table, Simon studied Ivy’s expression, hoping for some clue as to what was troubling her. She looked up at him briefly before returning her attention to pushing the braised partridge around on her plate. “Even now, you’ve hardly said two words. Or eaten more than two bites.”

  Upon returning to Harrowood, they had made further adjustments to the calculations that determined the generator’s power levels. Ivy’s mathematical skills were impressive, some of the finest he had ever encountered, and that included his own. For the first time since he had built the device, he felt a fair degree of confidence in being able to control the force of the energy currents. Explosions, fires, and singed hands might well be a thing of the past.

  Yet his satisfaction was tempered by Ivy’s decided lack of enthusiasm. It mattered to him, damn it, that such things should matter to her, and when they didn’t, he was left disappointed and frustrated.

  The candelabra on the table between them gilded her skin and turned her eyes infinitely darker. Her thoughts remained her own, guarded in a way they had not been since she had first confessed her secrets to him.

  “Have you something on your mind?” he prodded, unable to let it go.

  “No. Perhaps.” She put down her fork. “It’s silly. Hardly worth mentioning.”

  He ventured an educated guess. “Does it have something to do with our visit to Windgate?”

  She shrugged.

  “Alistair treated you rudely.”

  She let out a breath. “He made me feel . . . I don’t know . . . inconsequential. Invisible.”

  “You aren’t used to that, neither as Ned nor Ivy.”

  Staring down at her plate, she shook her head. “I told you it was silly.”

  “No. Nothing is silly if it leaves you out of sorts.”

  “I’m not out of sorts,” she said too quickly to lend credence to the claim.

  “No one likes to be ignored,” he said gently. “And for the most part, Alistair did ignore you. But try not to think too badly of him. He’s a good man, but he is a product of his class.”

  “And a servant, which is how he thought of me, is beneath his notice.” She tilted her head. A pensive crease formed above her nose. “You aren’t like that.”

  Simon lifted his wineglass. “I didn’t choose the path of a typical nobleman. As a scientist, I’ve learned to respect men from many different backgrounds. Take Ben Rivers, for instance. He was born a miner’s son, but was lucky enough to be apprenticed to a relative who owned an apothecary shop. Luckier still, the man recognized Ben’s abilities and saw that he received an education.”

  “I am glad for him. And for others who have had the good fortune to rise above their origins and achieve their dreams.” Her voice held an ironic note that conveyed so much more than her words, as did the impatient way she tugged at her neckcloth and raked her fingers through her curls as if to smooth her hair down over her neck.

  “You fear never achieving yours,” he guessed. “Is that what is making you unhappy tonight?”

  “Unhappy?” She shoved her plate away. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”

  The conversation left Simon wondering. By the time supper ended, he had formed a plan he hoped would please her enough to rouse her from her doldrums. In the course of a single afternoon, he had come to miss her exuberance, and to realize how much he depended on her energy.

  Her halfhearted, chin-in-hand inquiry as to whether they would take their customary evening ride or walk in the gardens only further encouraged him to take matters in hand. When they retired instead to the drawing room fire, he sat apart from her and penned a brief missive. Then he folded the page, sealed it, and handed it to Ivy.

  “Would you mind taking this note out to Cecil and waiting for his reply? There are several other matters that need my attention before bedtime.”

  Note in hand, she made her way outside and down the terrace steps. Simon watched her until she disappeared from view. Then he set his plan in motion.

  At the edge of Harrowood’s gardens, the groundskeeper made his home in a picturesque cottage of stucco and timbers topped by a tidy thatched roof. From inside, firelight danced against the windowpanes and tossed a cheerful glow across the cobbled pathway that led to the arched front door. Ivy knocked, and steeled herself to show no reaction to the sight that would greet her when the door opened.

  She needn’t have bothered, for when Cecil’s misshapen face filled her view, she felt no repulsion at all; on the contrary, her mood lifted at the sight of his kindly eyes and welcoming smile.

  “Mr. Ivers! To what do I owe this pleasure?” He opened the door wider.

  “I’ve brought a message from Lord Harrow.” She held out Simon’s note. “He asked that I wait for your reply.”

  “Did he, now?” Cecil took it in his meaty hand, imparting a soiled thumbprint on the ivory paper. “Then do come in, young sir. I was just repotting some begonias, but I could use a bit of human company.”

  Ivy took a tentative step over the threshold. “I’m not disturbing you?”

  “Good heavens, dear boy, no.”

  The main room, with its overstuffed chairs and shelves of books, presented an inviting and comfortable prospect. A round oak table surrounded by spindle chairs occupied one corner. On the wall opposite, the fireplace stretched wider than Ivy was tall. A pot hanging from the hearth hook released spicy curls of steam. Ivy could well imagine spending happy winter days here, curled up close to the fire with a good book.

  “What a lovely home you have.”

  “I’m qui
te comfortable here.” Cecil glanced over his shoulder at her as he reached to take a pair of wooden tankards from a shelf. His bushy eyebrows waggled, a gesture that made her realize she’d blundered yet again, for what young man termed another man’s home lovely?

  Cecil carried the two tankards to the hearth. “This is my special recipe for mulled wine.” Carefully he ladled steaming crimson liquid into each vessel, and held one out to Ivy. “I grew every spice myself, either in the garden or the hothouse. Try it. It will warm you now, and help you sleep well.”

  Ivy blew onto the surface and took a small sip. The woodsy flavors of cloves, allspice, cinnamon, and rich port melted like velvet over her tongue, tempting her to sample a deeper draft. “It’s wonderful!”

  “Indeed.” He flashed his lopsided and thoroughly endearing grin. “Now, make yourself comfortable and let’s see what Lord Harrow has to say.”

  Moments later, he glanced up from the page. “It isn’t so much a reply his lordship requires as a certain item. Let us finish our wine, Mr. Ivers, and see if we can comply with Lord Harrow’s wishes.”

  Their tankards empty, Cecil lit a lantern and led Ivy down the garden path beneath a stand of pines to the entrance of the smaller of two hothouses. Along the way he chatted about this autumn blossom and that flowering hedge. A quality in his eager explanations rang with familiarity; Ivy might have been listening to Simon expound on scientific principles. Though their spheres differed, both men possessed remarkable expertise.

  Cecil had been correct about the wine. Though the night air carried a sharp chill, the brew’s lasting warmth kept her comfortable enough.

  Inside the glass enclosure, Cecil continued to point out exotic palms, hybrid roses, tiny fruits she had never heard of, as he led her along the rows. After nearly a quarter hour of this, she began to wonder if Cecil’s mind had begun to wander.

  He suddenly hurried forward. “Here. This is what we are looking for.”

  Even before Ivy could see around the groundskeeper’s stout figure, a sweet perfume surrounded her. Expecting some large, leafy blossom resembling a rose, she joined Cecil at the wooden plant stand to discover that the enticing scent was the product of clusters of tiny star-shaped flowers clinging to the shoots of several bushy evergreen plants.

  He began plucking branches, laying each in the crook of his arm.

  “I’ve never smelled anything so lovely.” Ivy inhaled deeply. “What is it?”

  “Night-blooming jasmine. All the way from the West Indies.” Cecil gently filled her arms with the fragrant bouquet.

  “Lord Harrow wants these?”

  “He wishes you to bring them back to the house. To your room, Mr. Ivers.”

  “My room . . . ? Cecil, what is Lord Harrow about?”

  “Ah, I am only a servant, sir.” A mischievous light brought youthful charm to his irregular features. “I’m sure whatever Lord Harrow’s intentions are, he’ll soon make them clear.” He touched the back of his forefinger lightly to Ivy’s cheek.

  If she’d ever entertained doubts as to whether Cecil saw through her disguise, that gesture put them to rest. Of course he knew. Yet the revelation didn’t make her feel vulnerable or urge her to shrink from his oddly comforting presence. In fact, knowing she needn’t pretend came as a liberating relief.

  “Thank you, Cecil,” she whispered.

  “Go on now, Mr. Ivers.” Speaking her name with all the deference of a gentleman addressing a lady, he gave a wink of complicity. “It is time.”

  “Time for what?”

  He waved a hand at her. “Go on.”

  Ivy cradled the aromatic jasmine in her arms as she climbed the garden slopes. In her room, a vase filled with water waited on the dresser. A roaring fire and numerous candles bathed the furnishings in a mellow glow. She slipped the flowers into the vase, and turned to discover another, far more startling surprise.

  The candlelight glimmered on a sumptuous green gown spread across her bed. Ivy ventured closer, captured by the simple elegance of the silken garment with its delicate puffed sleeves, beribboned waistline, and abundant, sweeping hem.

  Beside the gown lay a pair of filmy stockings that all but floated when Ivy touched them, a set of beribboned garters, and a diaphanous chemise that smelled of the same flowers she had brought from the hothouse. A pair of embroidered slippers that matched the emerald dress were arranged neatly on the floor beside the bed, and across the footboard she discovered a cashmere shawl, deliciously soft and warm. Finally, a pair of sleek, ebony combs completed the ensemble.

  From her pillow, a note scrawled in a familiar hand beckoned:

  Dearest Ivy, if it would please you to do so, put these on and wait for me outside on your terrace. Yours, Simon.

  Heart thumping, hands shaking, she hesitated. Coming to Harrowood disguised as Ned Ivers had proved more than a masquerade, more than a mission for the queen. Being Ned Ivers, wearing breeches and immersing herself in scientific experiments, had freed her and allowed her the self-expression she’d been denied all her life.

  Simon knew that. He knew it and had encouraged her in ways few men ever had. Yet tonight, it seemed, he would transform her back to her feminine self. Why? What did it mean?

  Her questions remaining unanswered, she lifted the beautiful gown and held it up in front of her.

  Chapter 18

  Having dispensed with his collar and cravat, Simon perched in the embrasure of his laboratory’s southern window. A nearly full moon splashed silver across the fens beyond the property, lending unexpected beauty to the flat landscape. But then, he had always found a wealth of hidden treasures in the bogs and bottomlands, just as he alone had discerned the breathtaking beauty hiding beneath Ivy’s masculine guise.

  The burden of that guise had begun to weigh on her; he knew it had. He could only imagine the daily toil of maintaining such a pretense, of constantly behaving in a manner contrary to what came naturally. In his own life, the only circumstances that came close were the days and weeks following Aurelia’s death, when he had been forced to pretend that he actually still cared about living.

  This was different, of course. Ivy’s masquerade had brought certain benefits a woman would never have enjoyed otherwise. Still, he understood something about the strain she’d been living under as she juggled identities. And he’d realized tonight that he, too, had been struggling to keep the true Ivy in focus.

  Oh, from nearly the first he’d seen her as very much a woman, and that perception never wavered. But there had been times when he’d very nearly forgotten that her upbringing hadn’t been that of a stripling nobleman, but of a carefully sheltered gentlewoman.

  She had not attended Eton or other preparatory school where she would have learned to fight, both literally and metaphorically, as she established her place in the male pecking order of the upper classes. There would have been no recent year spent traveling abroad with an older male relative, during which she’d have lost her schoolroom naïveté. She had never seen the inside of a gentlemen’s club, gaming hell, or brothel, never witnessed a duel, never dabbled in seduction as though it were a sport.

  He had come to see her as strong and as self-assured as any university student, but in truth she was an innocent. Or was, before he’d lost his head and his resolve.

  Was that why he had left the gown for her? As a reminder, more to himself, that Ivy Sutherland was not the cocky youth she often appeared to be, but a sweet, genteel, very feminine young lady, who deserved his respect as much as she needed his protection? Perhaps, but the question remained, would she embrace or scorn his attempt to banish Ned Ivers, at least for a night?

  His thoughts screeched to a halt. Down below, a willowy shadow fell across the terrace outside her room. His pulse sped even as his heart stood still. The outer door of the bedchamber opened and a slipper-clad foot stepped over the threshold, the slender ankle encircled by the hem of the emerald dress.

  Simon pushed away from the window.

  He arrived at I
vy’s door winded, his heart thumping. Before turning the knob, he paused to collect himself, to rein in his madcap desires and remember that tonight was not about seduction but rather about easing the burden Ivy had shouldered for the queen.

  Besides, for all he knew, the image he’d spied from his laboratory had been merely the shadow of a cloud crossing the moon, augmented by the fancies of his imagination.

  But the room, he discovered, lay empty, and the balcony door stood several inches ajar. The sweet, familiar scent drifting on the air made him smile. The note he had left her lay unfolded on the bed. The gown, shawl, and underthings were nowhere to be seen.

  These signs of her consent emboldened him to cross the room. Through the gap in the open door he saw her. She stood at the rail, her back to him, the green gown falling from beneath the shawl in moonlit folds. Using the combs he had left as an afterthought, she had managed to pull her hair up and back into a curling coif; and with the gilded shadows adding depth and dimension to the tendrils, the style emphasized the kissable curve of her nape and made it appear that she had never cut her hair at all.

  An ache spreading through his chest, he stepped out onto the balcony.

  She didn’t turn, but a slight angling of her head signaled that she knew he was there. He moved behind her and slid his arms around her waist. She smelled of the jasmine he had asked Cecil to gather for her—gather without haste, to allow Simon time to prepare.

  Of their own volition, his lips found their way to her nape, and he spoke against her skin. “I remembered that Gwendolyn ordered a gown last winter, but hadn’t had time to take up the hem before she left for London. It might have been made for you. Are you pleased?”

  With a sigh, she leaned back against him. Her skirts rustled as she smoothed her palms over the silk. “Simon.” Her face tilted upward to the night sky. “What are we doing?”

  It wasn’t so much a question as an acknowledgment that they were indeed doing . . . something. Something neither of them fully wanted, something neither had yet found the power to resist.