by Gina Conkle
His fingers skimmed the scabbed-over nick from his morning shave, but Lord Greenwich shook his head. “Not good enough. If I wanted a valet, I’d hire one.” He angled his head at her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “However, I could use some assistance with bathing. Someone to scrub my back, perhaps?”
Lydia playfully slapped his shoulder. She loved the humorous brigand.
“You care not even a whiff for fashion, my lord?”
“Not a bit. Growing up, my brother eventually accepted—with resignation—our mother’s mandates on attire. Later he came to embrace them with relish. As for me, I despise anything I’m supposed to do. Hence, you see a bare minimum of lace on the lad in the portrait back there.” His head tipped at the massive painting dominating the wall. “Lace scratches my chin, bothers my neck, and gets in the way of my hands. When I was a boy, the seams and lace at my wrists were muddied and torn before the day was done. No amount of my mother’s threats could make me place boyish curiosity on the shelf in favor of decorum. My father finally intervened and banished lace from my wardrobe.” He favored her with a mischievous smirk. “And then there was peace.”
“A bit recalcitrant,” she said in good cheer, but her smile faded.
If their conversation were a stream, the waters turned turbulent as Lord Greenwich frowned.
“At odds with my mother more times than I care to admit…and my father, tolerant and understanding until his authority was needed to render an edict.”
“Then he was not only a man to be admired in public, but privately as well.”
“Yes, I loved my father. His loss was”—Lord Greenwich trailed off, and he stared ahead—“more than I can explain.”
Lydia chewed her lip. More questions wanted to spring off her tongue, but wisdom held back that tide.
“Don’t get me wrong. I…love…my mother,” he said, but his hesitation over that singular declaration was more like one trying to ascertain the missing ingredient in a dish of middling appeal. “But she’s…”
He let his words disperse, finishing with a bland shrug. Lydia let the silent gap stay between them, and then his lordship narrowed his eyes at some vague point in the room.
“More the point, she pressed for whatever gave the best appearance of things, what she thought was best for you, instead of letting one act as one saw fit. My mother tried to force malleable young girls down my throat”—he touched his scar and finished dryly—“in previous days. She decided their biddable nature worked as counterbalance to mine. You know, opposites attract.”
“And?”
“That works best with magnetic force fields, not always with human nature. The girls were duller than dishwater.” His eyes rolled with mock agony.
“How terrible for you as a young man.” She gave him a coy smile and patted his arm in playful sympathy. “To have Society’s loveliest young women vying for your attentions.”
He snorted at that. “More like get in my way. But we digress. I don’t need a valet, Miss Montgomery. What’s my second choice?”
They strolled quietly, passing portraits of blank-faced family members from other eras, each defined by modes of fashion and hairstyles of other times. Her shoulder grazed his arm, a bare rustle of wool against velvet. Candlelight bounced off gilt frames and mirrors. For the first time in distant memory, contentment flooded her. The evening, however unique from others, counted as excellent. She didn’t want this to end.
Lord Greenwich tipped his head. “Woolgathering?”
“No, my lord, simply afraid I may disappoint you. You have such high expectations.” She turned her mouth in a playful moue. “My second offering: I will assist you in your greenhouse. In Wickersham I was rather handy in the garden. I grew lemongrass to make my own soap. I could make some for you as well.”
Lord Greenwich stared ahead as he appeared to consider the notion, but shook his head in the negative.
“Your talents are legendary, I’m sure, but I must refuse the offer.” His voice slowed, dropping an octave. “I’m very selective about who touches my varietals.”
Lydia licked her lips, her mouth quirking over that playful innuendo. His eyebrows snapped together from that simple movement with her mouth. The dangerous brigand was back, and his gaze traced her face, eyes to mouth, catching a moment on her lips and back again to her eyes.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
The refusal was deflating. He must’ve known that, because he offered his brand of reassurance.
“To be fair, the flora in my greenhouse requires very explicit and unique attention. They’re like demanding, high-strung ladies from foreign courts, except they’re blessedly quiet.”
Her head tipped back with laughter. “I shall remember not to talk too much, my lord,” she said, squeezing his forearm. “But I’ve failed to appease on two of my three atonements. I’m close to a perilous end.”
He shook his head, and his face pulled in a melodramatic frown. “I expected better from you.”
“No, you expected something of a sensual nature.”
Lydia said the coy words, hoping to throw him off guard with directness. The simple fact: her confidence melted under the heat of appealing male fixation. Lord Greenwich, when not focused on his work, turned into something of a dangerous flirt with his subtle humor and dark eyes—not the jovial type of man a woman could easily maneuver with a smile. His body tensed beside her when she dared name what lurked between them; yet his lordship’s steps were steady.
“I could be tempted.”
“About that…an idea to be sure, but there is your waiting period, my lord.” Her fingers tapped the lapel of his coat. They stopped, and her hand slid from his arm, a whisper of skin to velvet the only noise in the room. “We can’t tempt fate, now can we?”
“Thank you for the reminder.” He looked away, sounding as grouchy as a baited bear.
They stood close. The air crackled between them. Lord Greenwich’s nostrils flared as if scenting her, and the candelabra behind him gave a golden glow to his neatly combed queue. A faint shadow of dark facial hair, the day’s growth, covered one side of his face, while the other was shiny scars and marred skin.
“Your first two atonements are child’s play, Miss Montgomery. You have your final chance to impress me.”
Or?
She wouldn’t bother to ask what would happen if she failed to impress. Diverting tension thrummed between them, awareness so taut they could be touching. Lydia inhaled deeply, and his black-brown gaze dropped to the thrust of her breasts properly trussed in stays.
“I will sketch for you, plant diagrams and such.” She exhaled once the words were out and squared her shoulders.
She would be taken seriously, not simply as a diversion for a man particular about the female company he keeps, but as a woman with talent and a soul hungering for more than the tiny morsels life doled out to her in piecemeal fashion.
Lord Greenwich’s eyes widened. Idea number three stunned him silent. With her third offer, Lydia stood on the rim of a new precipice, headed to something big, bigger than anything she’d ever done. She clasped her hands at waist height, squeezing them tight to abate her fingers’ faint tremors, and in what she hoped was persuasive solicitation.
“I noticed your journal drawings, both in the greenhouse and in the reading area of your room.”
One imperious eyebrow rose at the mention of her earlier intrusion on his lordly space.
Her head dipped a fraction. “I know…I was completely in the wrong to go in your room and rifle through your personal effects.” She licked her lips and raised her head, “But I’m sorry, my lord. Your sketches are deplorable. Your handwriting’s even worse.”
She must have struck a chord: gone was the flirtatious brigand. Lord Greenwich appeared to embrace the truth of his artistic shortcomings rather than be offended by her noting them. He stayed stone silent, with the slightest cant of his head, though not as one vexed by her critical comments, more like she’d shed light on a new
and interesting theorem. Lydia’s clenched hands touched her chin.
“Oh, I know you can hire a secretary to transcribe your work, but you’ll have a harder time conveying your ideas without excellent images and diagrams.” Lydia splayed her fingers high on her chest. “I’d wager that I sketch, paint, and draw better than most people of your acquaintance.”
His brows rose at the boast. “Quite confident in your abilities.”
“Aren’t you confident in yours?” Her hands slid to her sides as she gave him a level stare. “Truly, I offer this without excessive pride when I say that I’m a good artist, a very good artist, and can help with that part of your scientific papers. An excellent picture conveys a wealth of information; a poor one only confuses.”
“Intriguing.” Lord Greenwich rubbed his chin. “I must say, you’ve managed the impossible. Your third offer not only astounds me but has some merit.”
“Consider it the most basic partnership, easily ended by either of us when no longer convenient. I might add that I work quickly…quite fast at my sketches. You’ll not have to worry about me slowing down your progress.”
Lydia held her breath under his scrutiny. Did she hold her head higher? For she was sure he was assessing her as a colleague, an equal. The revelation gratified her to no end. Gone was the man who’d made the unusual bargain at a ramshackle inn—Was that only last night?—and in his place was a scientist, a peer in the realm of talent. His lordship tolerated nothing less than the best from himself and would demand the same of her. That alone exhilarated her.
“I’m intrigued. Definitely. I won’t present my papers to the Royal Society in person, but have been contemplating sending a folio of my latest findings for distribution. Excellent pictures, clear diagrams are a must.” His eyes glittered in an unusual way, as if he was trying to read deeper into her person. “I admit some of my past sketches have caused confusion, as you put it.”
“Then you accept my offer?” Her voice was on the perilous line of faltering.
She held her breath, waiting. His scarred face, calculating, severe, and uniquely handsome, was something to behold as the mental measurement of his decision came.
“Yes.” Lord Greenwich’s sharp inhale punctuated the decision. “Be in the greenhouse by eight o’clock, Miss Montgomery. I’ll brook no tardiness.”
Her whole body relaxed as she breathed out slowly. There was one more obstacle, her secret wish, to clear with him, but now was the time to outline that singular stipulation.
“Wait.” She held up a hand to stall him. “I make my offer with one exception.”
“What’s that?”
“I work for you a few hours a day and then am allowed to pursue my painting as originally promised.”
“Done.”
She sighed in relief, a giddy happiness filling her. Lord Greenwich clasped his hands behind his back and peered down at her. She appreciated his decisiveness in the matter, yet he gave the impression of an exacting headmaster the way he stared at her, albeit a young, brooding headmaster. Then the earl put his hand at her elbow and steered her quickly toward the door.
“Your happiness may be short-lived.”
“Why’s that?” She glanced up at him, their heels clattering echoes against the high ceiling. “And why are we leaving the portrait gallery?”
“If you displease me, I’ll exact payment in the form of my choosing.” His hand on her elbow tightened. “And we’re leaving so you can get a good night’s sleep. I need you refreshed and ready to work hard. For that matter, I need sleep. I had so little last night.”
As Lord Greenwich led her down another hallway, she was sure he muttered, “You’ve been enough of a distraction.”
They took the familiar vermillion path past a blur of exotic blooms she recognized from his greenhouse, and Lord Greenwich halted outside her door. She faced him, about to protest. With her back to the portal, he leaned close, his velvet-clad arm brushing hers as he touched the brass doorknob. More blond hair tugged loose from his queue, framing his face.
“I’m not an easy man by any stretch. I’ll have my due one way or another.”
Ten
What is madness?
To have erroneous perceptions and reason correctly from them.
—Voltaire
The silver tray hovering at nose level could not be the harbinger of good news. Lydia sat up amongst a soft crush of pillows and hooked a tangle of hair behind one ear. From her upright angle, she recognized the familiar script, and lurking dread chased away the morning’s heavy drowse.
“Good morning, miss.” Tilly, the young, practical maid who’d helped her dress the night before, stood beside the bed, polished salver in hand. “This came yesterday with your things. Got lost in the mix with his lordship’s correspondence. Sorry for the delay.”
Lydia lifted the heavy brown paper from the tray—a message from her mother. She hoped all was well in the wake of her hasty departure, without even the chance to say good-bye. The maid held the tray, extending a slender mother-of-pearl penknife to open the missive. Another welcome side effect of nobility, someone waiting with a helpful convenience.
The letter crackled in her hands, written on unused brown butcher paper, the commoner’s stationary to sidestep the paper tax. Lydia grinned at her mother’s thriftiness and replaced the penknife with a quiet clank.
She sat bolt upright.
In between messy splotches of ink, her mother’s alarming words jumped off the page.
Dearest Lydia,
Don’t do it! Do not marry in haste, or you’ll invite unhappiness on your head and live with regret as I have. Too many women, in search of false security, make terrible mistakes with men, and they pay for it in misery the rest of their lives.
But I’m afraid my letter bears only dismal tidings.
George and Tristan disappeared. Gone to the Colonies for good, I hear. To George, I say good riddance! But I will miss Tristan so very much. The path he’s taken these past few years breaks my heart. I had such hopes for him.
I’m leaving to stay with Sarah, at least as long as she and Virgil will have me. Creditors have come knocking more and more of late. I’m not sure what I’ll do, but it’s high time I figure out what I should’ve done long ago—learn how to live as an independent woman forging her own happiness instead of believing it comes from a man.
In your case, sacrificing yourself for Tristan’s and your stepfather’s errors goes far beyond family duty. Don’t worry about me.
Save yourself. Return to Wickersham immediately!
With all my love,
Mother
Hands and sheaf slumped to her lap. She flopped into the bank of pillows and set a hand over her mouth, digesting the news. The weight of her mother’s worries pressed her shoulders like a palpable burden. That George ran away was not so much of a surprise. But to leave her mother to answer what were likely his creditors? Just how much debt did he leave behind?
How like the blighter to leave her mother holding an empty purse, with creditors calling.
And what about Lord Greenwich? Her hand slid to the top of her chemise, clutching the fragile fabric. When he discovered this turn of events, the disappearance of George and Tristan, would this change matters? Certainly the earl wouldn’t exact so-called justice on an innocent woman old enough to be his mother, when the true perpetrators had vanished. In the priority of things, his lordship struck her as wanting his heir much more than any repayment of thievery or debts. But did she truly know the lay of his mind on that score?
Lydia refolded the letter and placed it on the nightstand. She looked across the room where Tilly had already set up a tray of breakfast foods and was in the act of opening the gaudy wardrobe.
“Is his lordship up and about?”
The energetic maid stepped back, a plain leaf-green dress with underskirts and brown shawl in one hand, shoes in the other. She snapped the door shut with her hip.
“He was up with the sun, as usual, miss. In
his study, he is, going over some business.” She laid out the dress and tipped her head at the tray. “He instructed me to bring your breakfast up now, and said something about both of you needing to work in the greenhouse.”
Lydia hopped out of bed, prepared to take advantage of a ready breakfast. Her mind reeled as she tried to digest her mother’s letter. She picked up a slice of toast and dabbed a corner in the cup of jelly. She closed her eyes and savored her first bite—delectable rose-petal jelly—a luxury she could get used to enjoying. If her mother was at Sarah and Virgil’s, she’d be safe for now. Lydia chewed the toast, ideas of how to approach Lord Greenwich rolling around her head as she crunched.
The carrot-haired maid stood by the dressing table, her hands folded demurely in front of her. “Will you be wanting me to fix your hair this morning, miss? Or do you want to take care of things, like yesterday morning?”
Her mind raced. She couldn’t wait for eight o’clock. Surely his lordship wouldn’t mind an interruption? She had to talk to him about her mother. Did he know this latest turn of events?
What if Lord Greenwich went back on his word about her mother now that George and Tristan had left England? This morning’s missive was most unusual for her cautious mum. She’d put a lot of weight and trust on a single day and night with the earl; more of that indelicate pressure strained against her.
“I just need you to help me dress.”
Genteel poverty made her self-sufficient about getting dressed, but the help of a maid would get her downstairs twice as fast. She dropped the half-eaten toast on the plate and swigged some hot, black coffee, then availed herself to Tilly for a quick dressing. The maid went about making the bed while Lydia splashed her face with bracing cold water and cleaned her teeth. A few rapid brush strokes to her hair, and she swept the mane into a hasty knot on the back of her head. Pins scraped her scalp; long wisps dangled for an imperfect mess.
