by Gina Conkle
She didn’t immediately respond. He’d deftly moved the conversation away from questions about his face and saved her from blundering anew.
“You mentioned something about misunderstandings,” he prompted, drumming his fingers on the mantel.
“There are some things you should know,” she said, glancing toward his door. “Earlier this evening, when you saved me from my clumsy fall, I wasn’t bothered by your catching me or your closeness. I was embarrassed.”
He gave no response. Not even a shift in position or batting an eye. So, he’d give no quarter. His hard-eyed, stark silence was condemning enough, as if he’d judged her and found her statement lacking. She made herself sit up straight.
“Lud, you’re making this difficult. I was embarrassed at having my hand on the front of your breeches. Is that plain enough?” Lydia folded her hands in her lap and exhaled her relief, freed by unvarnished directness.
Lord Greenwich placed an open hand at his hip and studied her.
“Your reaction had nothing to do with my presumed madness?”
“No.”
“My supposed diseased state?”
“No.”
“Or that I’m some kind of malformed, rutting beast?”
“Of course not.”
He’d fired each question at her, she’d answered truthfully. Lydia swiped at hair that fell across her eyes. She stared up at him, almost daring his perusal. Then, the barest hint of a smile showed on the earl’s face.
Her whole body eased back into the chair, and rigidness melted from her spine. Glad for the respite from the tense atmosphere, she decided to face that other issue another time. There was only so much bravado a woman could muster in a single night. Lydia smiled brightly and put her hands on the sides of the chair, ready to rise.
“Well, then I shall take myself off to bed, and we can both get some sleep.”
“Wait.” He held up a hand. “You said that you had some misunderstandings you felt I should know.” His eyebrows snapped together. “You spoke in the plural. What else did you plan to tell me?”
Her jaw dropped. His lordship had paid enough attention to detail to catch every nuance of what she’d said, very unlike most men of her experience. Relief over their simpatico, however brief, drained, as did her courage on the other point. She wanted to slink off to the safety of sleep, hide under thick covers, and not emerge for days.
“That can wait for morning, my lord.”
She tried a smile, but by the way his eyes narrowed, a muddled, caught-in-the-thick-of-trouble look must have been written all over her face.
Lord Greenwich shook his head. “Now is as good a time as any. After all, you came to me.”
“Oh, but…” Whatever argument died from her lips under his scrutiny.
She contemplated a lie, if only for a second, to relieve the pressure of his penetrating stare. Lydia noticed the rich amber liquid in his lordship’s glass, very nice scotch whiskey, she was sure. A bracing swig would be welcome right about now. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
“I’m not a virgin.”
Lydia’s hands clasped neatly over her abdomen. Lord Greenwich’s gaze dropped to the protective gesture.
“Not a virgin,” he said softly.
“No.” Her thumb brushed the robe’s velvet belt. “I’m not sure what George told you about me, or if that was a requirement in this unusual transaction, but with your need of an heir…ah, perhaps that might be an issue.” She glanced up at Lord Greenwich and tried to gauge his reaction, but the man stayed stiff and unreadable.
“He inferred you were pure as the driven snow…but go on.”
She winced. “In the carriage, I pieced facts together. I was sure you didn’t know, and of course, that detail would be important to you. Usually is to family lines, isn’t it?”
Lydia stared into the fire behind him. The late hour and warm, hypnotic fire lulled her. With the worst of what she had to say over and done, easiness with the earl loosened her tongue.
“My stepfather has a talent for trickery.” She peered up at him. “Once I understood the whole situation, I realized you likely didn’t know why I live in Wickersham. I was a bit of a hoyden in the past, caught in a compromising situation and packed off to my great-aunt’s house some four years ago. Ironically, I left to spare my mother eviction from the old steward’s cottage, which happened later from something George did. We lived there by the benevolence of the Duke of Somerset after my father died.” Lydia kept playing with the velvet tie. “But the duchess thought me a bad influence. She, along with some houseguests and one of her daughters, stumbled upon me in the barn”—she looked down at her clasped hands and chose her words with care—“with, ah, a man of close acquaintance.”
“Then having your hands on men’s breeches isn’t a stretch for you, is it?”
Her head shot up. “That’s a touch rude.”
“Not as rude as the trap you and your stepfather have set for me, is it?”
“I’ve done no such thing,” she said, her voice sharpening.
“You’re as quick with deception as old George, aren’t you, Miss Montgomery? I played nicely into your hands. The cash-strapped family of no rank marries nobility. Oh, you’d all be set up well.” His dark eyes sparked. “I should’ve known at the inn. What you said to me…bold as brass.”
Lydia sat up taller. “I came here to spare you any false assumptions. I’d like nothing more than to be free of this absurd arrangement, which as you may recall, I had no hand in making.”
“What?” he scoffed. “No convenient marriage for the unmarriageable hoyden? You’re pretty but not that pretty.”
She blinked, unsure how to respond to such insult and accusation. He’d twisted her best intentions into something horrible. Lord Greenwich’s face contorted from one dark emotion to the next, but that stare down was brief. He lunged at her and yanked her within an inch of his chest.
“Or does this have something to do with my scars? Now that you’ve seen me, having second thoughts about your scheme?”
Lydia’s hands fluttered in defense. Her palms pushed against the warm, hard wall of his chest.
“No,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper through rapid breaths. “Your scars don’t bother me, took me by surprise, yes, but I’m not a schemer, least of all with George.”
Gone was the calm, arrogant noble, replaced by a wild-eyed beast caught in a snare. His hands gripped her upper arms, manacles that clamped hard. Eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, he searched her face. Surely she’d struck a nerve with something in the mess that was this evening. She’d spoken the truth.
“You’re hurting me,” she whispered. “Please.”
He released her. She slumped into the chair, but her heart kept a wild thump against her ribs. The earl’s chest rose and fell with rapid, deep breaths. He looked away from her and rubbed his scarred cheek.
“I’m not sure what to make of you, Miss Montgomery. I realize this has been a most unusual night.” Lord Greenwich’s gaze slid sideways back to her, as if adding up the sum of the evening’s parts. “On the one hand, you appear lovely and sometimes well spoken. On the other, you tend toward the com—” He stopped himself.
“Common.” She supplied the unfinished word, holding her head high.
“Yes.” He shrugged quick agreement.
“You don’t insult me with the truth. I am exactly what you see, my lord: an honest, barely educated, commoner of some past disrepute.” She dared a cheeky introduction of her own and tipped her head to him. “Miss Lydia Anne Montgomery of nowhere important.”
The scarred corner of his lordship’s mouth curved up, giving him a dangerous, if humored, brigand’s smile. That miniscule change shifted awareness; they were an arm’s length apart, and all of her sensed him, as if they touched. Both had been deceived this evening and were sorting through the confusion, but excitement ebbed, and a crashing wave of weariness claimed Lydia as she rose from the chair.
“You understand, the
n, I must leave in the morning. We can put this unusual arrangement behind us, and you’re free to search for a more suitable wife.”
She gave the quiet pronouncement and moved to go. Lord Greenwich’s hand stopped her. His long fingers slid over her velvet-clad arm, stopping at her elbow.
“Wait. Please. I’ve developed a bad habit of underestimating you. You are something of a riddle.”
Complexity, then, was not an unwelcome attribute for the Earl of Greenwich. They stood rather close, and in his room, the informality of their attire was not lost on her. Another flush prickled her skin, and one hand clutched the robe’s collar high under her chin.
“I’ve come to think the same about you, my lord, in our short acquaintance.” Her head canted to the side. She was unsure of what to make of this new turn.
He motioned to his chair. “Please.”
Lydia, her eyes hazed with sleepiness, expected Lord Greenwich to be glad to wash his hands of this mess—of her—but she took the proffered seat. She couldn’t refuse him. His lordship straddled the footstool facing her, bracing both hands on his knees.
He took a deep breath, and his chest expanded under the linen weave of his shirt. “I state the obvious when I point out we’re both tired and not in the best frame of mind. Nor were matters helped that we were caught off guard this evening.”
“A few surprises, to say the least.”
Sitting this close, she noticed his shirt stretched across his shoulders. Edges of deep scars showed through pale linen.
“But there is the matter of your family’s dubious circumstances, and I still need a wife. Soon, as a matter of fact.” He paused, as if he chose his words with care. “A woman of experience isn’t necessarily a bad thing in these circumstances, is it?”
Her back stiffened.
“We’ve already established what you think about—”
“Hear me out. Please.”
His last word, less commanding, put her on equal footing. The dangerous brigand turned into a reasonable barrister laying out his middle-of-the-night case with persuasive gentility.
“Go on.”
“At the inn, you asked for freedom to pursue what you will. Why not here? With the full weight of the Greenwich name to support you? And there is the matter of your mother’s best interests…how you can best aid her.” His hands opened in appeal. “I’m happy to offer her my protection, if that helps. Besides, our arrangement ought to work well. Almost all my time’s devoted to my work. You’d be left to your own pursuits.” He finished with a rueful smile. “Most marital unions follow a similar formula with great success.”
Fire haloed his shoulders and tawny hair from behind, casting a golden glow around Lord Greenwich. The dangerous brigand turned reasonable barrister was now an archangel with frightening appeal. Her head drooped as all of her fell prey to the lure he set.
When was the last time a man proposed something beneficial to her?
The offer was no longer a mad scheme, but began to sound logical, even congenial. With the Greenwich name, she’d be more likely to help her mother, too. Exhaustion pressed her from all sides, and Lydia nodded.
“I’ll stay.”
“Good. I’m glad we were able to have our discussion now.” He smiled, and faint lines creased the corners of his eyes.
Somewhere in her chest, warmth swelled into a faint connection with him. Under that pleasantness, her eyelids drooped. Lydia wanted to ask for a blanket and curl up in his large chair, such was her tiredness and ease at that moment. An ember snapped and crackled behind the earl, and the fire sent a spray of sparks. Lord Greenwich got up and took the poker from its iron stand, jabbing the cozy blaze.
“There is one thing,” he said, turning around to face her.
“What’s that?”
“We’ll wait one month, a necessary precaution, if you will. It will stress my timeline”—his full lips pressed into a flat line, looking like all the world pressed down on him—“but it must be.”
His shoulders bunched under his shirt as he leaned both hands on the iron poker.
“A month?” She shook her head, confused, until hot truth hit her.
He said nothing, but his pointed gaze spoke volumes. That warm swell toward the earl, a tiny but growing thing, dissolved into lukewarm puddles of hard wax.
“Of course. You mean to wait for some assurance that I’m not already pregnant.” The words came flat and lifeless.
The way his eyebrows furrowed into a straight line, Lord Greenwich’s face reflected a grim barrister bearing judgment on the convicted. Was he waiting for her to burst into dreaded histrionics? The earl acted as judge and jury: to him, she equaled some kind of blowsy wench. Hadn’t he already said as much? Neck-stretching pride stopped her from saying anything further. She wouldn’t stoop to defend herself. None was needed.
The province of a woman’s life was never truly her own. Men could drop their drawers as often as they pleased, but women always paid the price. Lydia’s smile stretched into a tight line.
“Of course. One month.”
She rose stiffly from the chair, chin tipped high to his stare that she was sure followed her. At the door, she mustered every last ounce of good manners for the final courtesy.
“Good night, milord.”
His lordship surprised her and set a hand on his chest and gave her a chivalrous bow.
“Good night, Miss Montgomery.”
Was there a flicker of regret in his eyes?
Lydia slipped into the other room and shut the door between them. Molded panels pressed her back. She stared at nothing in particular, disappointed that his lordship was no different than other men after all. Nor did he think well of her. The very notion stung deeply.
Six
Women are a necessary evil.
—Proverb
Excruciating need for a forbidden woman never made a good start to a man’s day. Edward climbed out of bed, and every inch of his body roused to the knowledge of Miss Montgomery’s proximity beyond the adjoining door. Some parts stirred more than others, but the worst of it? The lady in question was prohibited and by his own proclamation—a classic paradox.
All the more reason to lose himself in the blessed focus of work: science gave her siren’s call, and she tolerated no competition.
Scraping blade to skin in smooth strokes, Edward acknowledged harsh facts in tepid morning light; a woman invaded his well-ordered world last night, and he raised the gates, letting her in under the interest of familial duty. Yet his gaze wandered to that adjoining door through which she charged unwelcomed last eve. Was he too hasty with that month-long demand?
A nasty nick to his chin brought him back. A spot of blood swelled, and a thin line of red streaked the iron blade with sanguine warning: proceed with caution.
Edward moved through the quiet house and found his way to the center of his world, his greenhouse. With the rough wood of his workbench under his palms, rich soil perfumed the air, anchoring vast arrays of plants begging to be studied. Yet Miss Lydia Montgomery, wrapped in virginal white velvet, kept dancing before him.
Edward squeezed his eyes shut then spread them wide. He blinked and tried again to examine the white blossom under the magnification glass. Fimbriate petals morphed into a chocolate-haired woman with a proud walk and delectable form wrapped in white velvet.
A chocolate-haired woman?
He rolled his eyes. “Next I’ll compose sonnets in her honor.”
Edward was certain his one-month requirement insulted her, but the rationale of simple biology won the day.
He tried once more to reassemble his thoughts. The open journal filled with tables of facts and measurements, his deplorable chicken-scratch notes, and messy diagrams failed to bring typical clarity. Palms flattened on the workbench, Edward’s chin hit his chest, and the placket of his breeches brushed the table’s edge. Yes, mindless, baser parts of him sung their own tune, praising the dark-haired invader.
“Hux, do we have any coff
ee?” His bellow bounced off the high glass ceiling.
“Coffee, is it yer’re needin’?” an ancient voice wheezed somewhere behind a mass of green fronds and exotic, unfurling buds.
“Yes. Black. Strong. Hot.” Edward opened his eyes.
Huxtable, a bantam-sized man of advanced years, ambled over and set a watering can amidst rows of loam-filled tins.
“I can check,” he said and disappeared into a smaller room in the corner of the greenhouse.
Edward hitched a hip on the worktable and rubbed his eyes. A curious thing, this fascination with a woman he hardly knew and of no particular significance to his life prior to last night. She went along with minimum dramatics, threats to her mother notwithstanding. However, he was sure he’d made an accurate assessment of her stepfather: a pettifogger to be sure.
He rubbed his scarred cheek. The month-long waiting period stressed his already tight timeline, but would resolve any doubts regarding Miss Montgomery’s condition and tease out possible deception. This morning’s torment proved an unexpected thorn in his flesh: the reality of a man long deprived of a woman’s charms. Huxtable’s approaching shuffle and the aroma of coffee gave him blessed relief.
“Aye, here ye go.” Huxtable passed a cracked mug to Edward and settled on the opposite table with a steaming cup. “Don’t mind me sayin’, but ye look a bit worse for wear.” He tapped a finger to his own whiskers. “Nicked the chin, too, I see.”
Edward put the welcome black liquid under his nose and breathed in the dark roast’s heady aroma.
Huxtable grinned, revealing chipped, tobacco-stained teeth. “Bad night, was it?”
He sipped the scalding brew. “I returned from London late.”
“And I hear with a certain pretty, dark-haired miss stowed away in yer carriage.” Huxtable waggled wiry brows over his mug. A few gray hairs corkscrewed longer in his bushy brows.
“Yes, she’s pretty and dark haired.” Edward nodded and took another sip as he stared past the glass wall. “News travels fast in the kitchens.”
“It does indeed,” Huxtable ruminated, sipping from his mug. “And I’d say she’s a rather determined one, too.”
