by Gina Conkle
“That’s just it. We’re running out of time.” He gritted his teeth at what was coming.
“So you’ve mentioned a time or two before,” Miss Montgomery said as she set the creamer back in its spot. Her direct green-eyed gaze demanded unvarnished truth. “What do you mean by that? And don’t dare brush me aside.”
“One of our ships, The Fiona, leaves in precisely seventy-eight days.” Edward sucked in a deep breath, the same as he did before diving in for a cold swim. “I’ll be on it. Gone for two, maybe three years…on a scientific expedition sailing the world. I accept that there’s the possibility I may not return…and wish you both would do the same.”
Thirteen
If you want to know the mind of a man,
listen to his words.
—Chinese Proverb
Loathsome quiet hung over the cavernous study, a pall as oppressive as a sudden death notice. Emotions jumbled through Lydia, but one of truth’s bitter pills surprised her: the earl was like every other man of her life’s acquaintance, who in the end, would leave. She harbored the heart of a realist. Men were driven to sate their lusts, be they of the flesh or selfish ambition.
And women of all types and relations were left scattered in their wake.
The earl, like other men she’d known, inveigled matters solely to meet his needs, drawing a woman close with a promising beginning, then left, or would leave, at his convenience. Well, Lord Greenwich hadn’t left yet, but his eyes, distant and shuttered, told her in some ways he was as good as gone.
Why did men have such difficulty staying?
“But you could die.” The countess wheezed as one hand braced the desk’s edge. “You cannot leave me.”
Lydia clutched the ends of her shawl low across her abdomen. A protective gesture? But the countess, the way she blanched under white powder, sharp, blinding pain writ years on her fine-boned features. Lydia couldn’t say she cared for the noblewoman, but the gut-wrenching news her son delivered just then would level any woman hanging onto her progeny by a thread. She had to act.
“My lady.” Lydia wrapped a comforting arm about the countess’s shoulders. “Come take a seat near the fire.”
The countess accepted her assistance as Lydia shot Lord Greenwich an incriminating glare, but his eyes stayed woefully blank. He rubbed his scarred cheek and watched Lydia coddle his mother, withdrawn from the displays of emotion. What? Did he think his mother wouldn’t be affected by this latest news? Men and their irritating bluntness. She settled the countess on the settee, and like a mother hen, sat near the older woman, fussing over her, pouring tepid tea that was refused.
The earl moved to the hearth and rolled a new log onto the waning blaze. He poked and prodded the fire to new life before he turned around to address the consequences of his words. Mr. Bacon, Lydia noticed, sat straight-faced and silent. The blighter probably knew all along what his lordship planned and was in on it. Thick as thieves, those two, and Lydia’s harsh stare swept accusingly from one to the other. Lord Greenwich was man enough to speak up first.
“Now you know why I need a wife and that she is…enceinte before I leave. I’m making every effort to protect the line, as well as the family coffers, if I fail to return. That was the nature of the promise I made to Father before he died, though he was especially concerned about financial arrangements.” His lordship tapped ash from the poker before replacing it on the stand. He clasped his hands behind his back and gave Lydia an apologetic grimace. “Forgive me. This is indelicate but necessary.”
“But you could die.” The countess, with her tear-glossed, red-rimmed eyes, repeated the words like an accusation. “I need you to stay.”
“It’s possible with storms, disease, and”—he touched his scarred cheek—“the occasional seafarers bent on murder and mayhem. But I could very well return safe and sound.” Then he nodded at his desk. “At least with this new business venture, you will both be financially set.”
“But you hardly have time to…to achieve an heir,” the countess said, verbally dancing around so delicate a topic. “And there’s no guarantee of a male child.”
“I realize this, but plans were set in motion last summer when I thought all was resolved with the Blackwoods.” He squared his shoulders, but flatness in his eyes and the line of his mouth made him impassive. “Then Miss Blackwood came for a visit.”
Uncomfortable silence hummed in the sitting area. No one, save Edward, could truly fathom how painful that visit was. Oh, Lydia wanted to hunt down that silly girl and slap her good. Then she scanned the faces of Mr. Bacon and the countess. Both held very different but very powerful connections to his lordship. Something ran deep between the Colonial and the earl. The Greenwich household’s man of business nodded at the earl as if he understood; however, the countess ran counter to all agreement, with her head swiveling side to side as she dabbed watery eyes. Lydia sat in solidarity with the countess, straight-backed and angry.
“Why?” she asked.
“You mean why do I go?” A vertical line marked the space between his brows, and he looked again like the menacing brigand she met a few nights ago.
The earl stood by the hearth, and with his booted legs spread wide, and open-necked, dirt-smudged shirt, he appeared a man of land and sea. He bore the stance of one already on a ship, commanding others to his will. There was nothing dangerously flirtatious about this man. He stood with a purpose that would not be thwarted.
“I will not be moved by feminine tears or pleas to stop this venture. After the first expedition was cut short due to the attack on our ship, I thought I’d recover and turn around for another.” His cultured voice took on a note of iron. “But for too long I set aside those plans in favor of family responsibilities: trying to see Jane settled, then searching for her after she ran away in a fit of juvenile rebellion, taking exhaustive care of my mother, and attending the business of all things Greenwich, all while trying to recover from my wounds and neglecting my research. Not anymore.”
“But, Edward, you are the last of this line.” His mother clutched a frilly handkerchief, dabbing watery eyes. “You cannot take any more risks.”
His chin dropped to his chest. For a moment, he was the Earl of Greenwich shouldering multiple burdens, but when he raised his head, that man was gone. His thick blond hair was barely restrained by his queue, and those scars, lines and shiny burn spots, stretched over twitching jaw muscles. The man before her bore the intense look of someone with a deep-seated need that must be met, and science was the siren that lured him.
“Father set aside his dreams of astronomy to pursue what was best for the Greenwich name. That work diminished to almost nothing when he spent more time in the House of Lords, even though that wasn’t his passion, and well you know. But he filled the role admirably.” He paused, and his chest expanded when he took a deep breath. “And even you’ll agree Jon wasted his youth in idle, debauched pleasures until he was given purpose. That purpose connected with his passion, his talent in shipping and business. He was good at it. And we prospered.”
“And it killed him,” the countess cried, her body shaking.
Lord Greenwich’s brown eyes burned with anger. He opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, but the earl clamped his lips into a narrow line, and he turned away. His lordship leaned an elbow on the dark mantel ledge and stared out the window. Lydia guessed he was going to say something about his brother and Miss Mayhew, and she admired his restraint. But that gain was minimal in life’s costs and rewards: he still chose to leave, and that rankled.
“I am stunned, my lord, that you’d bring me here to turn around and leave.” She leaned forward on the settee to emphasize her point. “Even I can admit how out of my depth I am with the nobility’s silly rules, rules for everything from an able-bodied woman waiting for a footman to help her with a chair to tea service. And there is the matter of selling my artwork. Something you agreed to help me with.”
“No. I agreed not to take legal action whe
re it was justly warranted. And I recall we agreed you would have freedom to paint—” He held up a hand when Lydia opened her mouth to blast him with a few choice words. “I never said anything about helping you in Society or aiding you in selling your art.”
“But I’d just as soon stop breathing than not pursue my art!”
“Then we understand each other very well.” His dark topaz gaze shot across the space.
Lydia’s half-opened mouth froze as that honesty sank into her soul. What had life been like for her these past three years? Had she not quietly sought solicitors in London’s cut-rate back alleys for artistic representation when her finances allowed the occasional venture into Town? Slimy, unscrupulous fellows, they were. Yet, even the few she’d met, men more interested in carnal payment that she refused to give, failed to deter her.
Truth really was so simple: painting fed her person the same way that science fed his. Lord Greenwich had charted his course in secret as much as she had done with hers.
Compromise would be impossible.
His shoulders squared under what must be the sense of a tremendous weight, but he pushed on.
“My father and brother finessed their way through life…politics, shipping…both were skilled with people, where I lack all patience,” he said quietly, speaking only to her. “My passion, my purpose is science. I’ve buried this too long.”
His firm, cultured voice cloaked a plea that she understand him, and that plea wrapped around her more seductively than the cleverest touch. Her legs tensed, as if she would spring from the furniture at any moment to…what? Touch him? Lydia gripped the ends of her shawl in both hands, and locked her gaze to his. They could be the only two in the study for all the intensity that flowed between them.
Somewhere in the periphery, Jonas coughed, and the countess sniffed while making use of her handkerchief.
“Time I went to my room and got settled.” Jonas rose from his chair and moved around to the settee. “Countess, may I escort you to your room? I’m sure you’re in need of rest.”
In the nature of a true gentleman, the Colonial offered his arm to the countess, who gripped the beefy forearm like a lifeline.
“Yes, I, I need to lie down.” Her voice sounded frail.
Lydia glanced down in her lap, twirling the shawl’s fringe, and waited for their exit. Once the door clicked shut, she looked up to see his lordship watching her with smoldering heat in his eyes. Odd how mutual understanding could be an elixir between a man and woman. Lord Greenwich’s chest rose and fell under his linen shirt, a steady, hypnotizing rhythm that she couldn’t help but follow. Her gaze rose to his lips, the scars crisscrossing his cheek, and she wanted to touch him. Badly.
“I find I want to kiss you, my lord, but I’m baffled by that, since I’m also angry with you at the same time.”
“Why?” His lips quirked in a half smile at hearing her quandary.
She slumped back in her seat, sitting in a way no future countess would ever be caught doing. “Because you’re turning out like every other man of my existence. Here today. Gone tomorrow. Not that I wanted all of them to stay. There were some I was glad to say good riddance to.”
“Such as that farmer you took a tumble with? Or the likes of George Montgomery?”
“Yes, both…though for different reasons.” Her eyes spread wide, and her mother’s letter came to the fore. “He’s gone, you know, as is Tristan.”
“I know.” His handsome mouth pulled in a line of sympathy. “Jonas watched them board a ship at dawn after our meeting at the Blue Cockerel. They’re bound for the Colonies.”
Lydia’s palm rubbed the square paper still in her pocket.
“Leaving my mother to face…” Her words trailed off from quavering bitterness, and she stared at the floor. She gripped her stomach. A stone could’ve settled there for all the heaviness. “All those debts. Apparently more than what you mentioned at the Blue Cockerel.”
She looked at Lord Greenwich, ready to plead on behalf of her mother, but the tenderness in his brown eyes took her by surprise.
“Wait. Did you know about the other debts?”
“I learned of them, yes.” He gave her a warm, genuine smile. “My solicitor is a busy man these days. He gathers the notes as we speak.”
Did the light around him grow a little brighter? Was the Greenwich Recluse a knight in shining armor?
“Thank you, my lord,” she gushed, her shoulders slumping as that burden lifted.
“And I’ll pay every last one, even grant your mother an annual stipend after our wedding.”
Then his actions weren’t all generosity of spirit, but a calculated maneuver to keep her firmly in place.
“Of course, my lord,” she said, brittleness lacing her voice.
He couldn’t simply perform a kind act; there was a logical means to his ends. Had to be. And keeping her body available for the blasted Greenwich line was something he needed to cross off his list of things to complete before sailing off to who knows where.
His dark eyebrows raised a notch. “One would think that news would please you. Rescuing your mother, providing for her all the rest of her days, not exactly what we originally agreed to, but I understand the need to care for one’s mother.”
Lydia winced at that truth. She wished he would’ve offered to save her mum simply for the goodness of it, but he did go above and beyond, looking to the care and concern of others. And their bargain fundamentally stayed the same, benefitting her by removing her mother’s debt and by providing a secure future, thus, removing that worry. Save the sticky issue of selling her art, Lydia was very well situated.
“I thank you for your generosity.” She fiddled with her shawl, pulling it tighter.
“You’re welcome,” he said, but a thread of caution entered his voice.
Under his watchful eyes, Lydia could be a young woman just out of the schoolroom, talking with her first suitor, but that was ridiculous. She was older and wiser when it came to men. And what the earl said next brought that into glaring reality.
“You could thank me with a kiss.” The corner of his mouth kicked up, bunching the scarred cheek. “If I’m not mistaken, you were very ready to kiss me before.”
“No.” She folded her arms, a want to dig in her heels taking over. Why did she have the off wish to cry right then?
“But it’s only a kiss. No harm in that.” He set both hands at his waist. The smile that spread over his face was pure brigand’s mischief. “You all but threw yourself at me outside the gallery today.”
She laughed at his outrageous comment.
“I did no such thing, my lord.” But she could tell by the darkening of his eyes, her laugh, a low, husky sound, did things to him. “But by your own mandated schedule, we’ll have barely enough time for any of that. You won’t reconsider and stay? At least postpone your voyage?”
“No.” His brigand’s smile faded.
The ease of the moment dispersed. They were at an impasse. His lordship stood more like a statue at the hearth, with his fingers drumming the mantel, while Lydia adjusted her shawl. But neither rushed to exit the room. She wouldn’t lose their growing closeness in the face of his determination to leave England. At that, her eyebrows scrunched together.
“Why seventy-eight days?” she asked softly.
“Because my competitor, Joseph Banks, leaves on a similar expedition with Captain Cook sometime in August. If I leave in June, I’ll have a two-month head start.” He leaned a relaxed shoulder on the mantel.
“But I read once that you both were friends.”
“Hmmm, yes, since university.” He nodded. “Friends and the greatest competitors in science.”
“But he makes the rounds in Society.”
“Regularly, and I’d say at the expense of his work. He hasn’t published in the past year, but yes, he’s well liked by many. Certainly the ladies are drawn to him.”
“If there’s one thing your mother and I share, its firm agreement that there a
re other women who’d jump at the chance to marry you.” She tilted her head as honest words spilled from her. “You are rather handsome, the scars notwithstanding. You also have an interesting mix of intelligence and distance, which appeals to many women.”
“Trying to escape the phantom’s lair?” he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Lydia linked her fingers together in her lap. Interesting that her compliment about his appearance, however inelegant in delivery, left him unaffected. “Being realistic.”
His low chuckle came smooth and mellow, like the fine scotch he drank.
“Miss Montgomery, understand I like women, but I had never planned to marry,” he said, staring out the window. “Oh, I thought to seek amusement and connection with the rare woman I could tolerate, should she cross my path. But I generally prefer my own company to others.” He turned his topaz gaze on her. “I’m too candid for social niceties and have no patience for wading through simpering women to find one I might tolerate for a time. Miss Blackwood, in fact, was a consideration only because of her convenient family ties. If it weren’t for the demand that I carry on the Greenwich lineage, you wouldn’t be here.”
She pasted a bland smile on her face as her brain cried: Why not me?
“I see what you mean about those social niceties.”
He rubbed his jaw and winced. “I apologize for my bluntness, but the bulk of our arrangement was spelled out from the beginning.” His voice softened as he watched her. “If it makes any difference, you are by far the most interesting woman I’ve met in a long time. And it’s been only a matter of days between us.”
“My thanks for that highest compliment,” she said, softening to his frankness. “But think: If you stay longer, what more might you discover?”
His lordship faced away from her, staring out the wide-open window. She noticed he highlighted interesting over womanly form or prettiness. That snared her more than any flattery to her appearance, luring her deeper into the lair of this reclusive man. Lydia wanted him, and the ways she wanted him bewildered. Her body wanted to mold to his, to test the hardness she’d glimpsed, and something deeper inside—Her heart? Her soul?—yearned for more of this fledgling bond. And if he caught a whiff of the latter wish, his lordship would shut down and shut her out as quickly as one closed a door. Best she trod carefully.
