by Cara Elliott
His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed even more. “You think I planned to seduce you?”
Ciara didn’t know what to think. Or feel.
“And if I did, is that so very bad? It seems to me that you have experienced very little pleasure in your life.”
Confused, she sought release from the weight of his presence. “My personal life is none of your concern.”
He did not object as she pressed her fists to his chest and gave a little shove. His grip slipped away and he stepped back, watching in silence as she smoothed her skirts.
The loss of his heat left a dull ache imprinted on her flesh.
“I—I must ask you to leave, Lord Hadley. And to take your papers with you.” Like her fingers, her voice was now stiff with embarrassment. “I granted your wish—you have had the chance to state your desire.” She drew in a breath. “It was, to be sure, an eloquent performance. But I have decided to say no to your request.”
His gaze turned opaque, his expression hardened, betraying no emotion save for a sardonic curl at the corners of his mouth. “You have not yet heard the rest of the details about the manuscript.”
“Whatever they are, I am not interested.”
“Where is your sense of adventure, Lady Sheffield? I thought all scientists were excited by the possibility of new discoveries.”
Ciara looked away, appalled by her lapse in judgment. “It is not really my field of study,” she lied. “Your uncle will have no trouble finding someone else.”
“He wanted you.”
Her hands fisted in the folds of her skirts. “Well, we all must learn to live with disappointment in our lives.”
The earl acknowledged his dismissal with a slow, mocking gesture at the row of instruments aligned on the table. “A strange sentiment for someone who clearly has a passion for exploring the unknown.”
She bit at her lip, unwilling to admit the truth of his words.
“You may want to add an observation to your laboratory journal.” He retrieved his overcoat but made no move to pick up the manuscript as he turned for the door. “Even the most carefully controlled experiments can have unpredictable results. I will keep my word—for today. But be advised that you haven’t seen the last of me.”
Chapter Four
Dismissed. Given his congé. Rather than dull the prick to his pride, Lucas found that the walk to White’s only honed his temper to a more dangerous edge. Tossing his overcoat to a club porter, he stalked into the reading room and signaled for a bottle of brandy.
Lady Sheffield was right. He wasn’t used to taking no for an answer, especially from a female. He had become accustomed to having the opposite sex beg for a favor, rather than the other way around.
Bloody hell.
Swearing under his breath, he slouched into one of the chairs by the hearth and stared at the dancing flames.
The tiny, teasing tongues seemed a mocking reflection of the heat still lingering in his limbs. Hiss. Crackle. Snap. Was there smoke coming out of his ears?
Two quick drinks finally cooled his fury. By the third, Lucas was in a more reflective mood. The fire-gold flickers now seemed to sway in unison—wagging, scolding fingers of conscience. Had he behaved badly with Lady Sheffield? The urge to kiss her had been irresistible—and he wasn’t very good at self-discipline or denying himself what he wanted.
But intriguingly enough, despite her protests, she hadn’t been averse to his attentions. Indeed, her words had said one thing, but her body had said quite another.
Lucas pursed his lips and set his glass down. An experienced rake should have no trouble charming an unworldly widow into granting him a favor. However, to do so he would need another meeting. And by now Lady Sheffield had likely nailed every door and window shut.
She was smart… so he would have to be exceedingly clever.
But no matter how hard he thought on it, his mind remained blank.
Damn.
He looked around, desperately searching for some familiar face to distract him from his dark musings. But none of his rakehell friends were present—with his closest comrades-in-mayhem still rusticating in country, their ranks were a bit thin. The only other person in the room was a sober, serious-looking gentleman who was reading the newspaper as he smoked a cheroot.
Lucas cleared his throat. Even stuffy Lord Brewster was better company than his own thoughts. “Any fresh news from Russia?” he asked.
“General Kutusov may be old, fat, and blind in one eye, but it seems he has Boney in full retreat.” Brewster turned the page with a low snort. “Now, if our navy can keep the French fleet bottled up, we may have a chance to end this interminable war.”
“Indeed,” murmured Lucas.
“Speaking of water…” The viscount cocked a bushy brow. “Thought you had sailed out of Town until the outrage over your latest escapade had a chance to blow over.”
“A pressing family matter required my return,” he replied tersely.
“Hmmph.” Brewster pulled a face. “Well, at least you aren’t expected to show your phiz at Lady Becton’s soirée this evening. Don’t know why my wife insists that I attend. The guest list always includes a gaggle of eccentric old ladies who share the dowager’s interest in art and science.” The newsprint crackled. “Perhaps if I got written up for cavorting with a naked whore, I could get banished to the country for the duration of the Season. Just think of it—hounds, horses, hunting.” The viscount sighed and blew out a plume of smoke. “Heaven.”
Somehow, his recent prank no longer seemed so uproariously funny. Lucas slouched a little lower in his chair. “Yes, but there might be hell to pay. I’ve been told that wives don’t find that sort of behavior amusing. Which is one of the reasons why I don’t have one.”
“Smart man,” growled Brewster. “I fear you are right. I have little choice but to suffer through a long evening of music and learned conversation. The only saving grace is that the lady serves a very decent claret.” The baron rose and set the newspaper aside. “Enjoy your devil-may-care freedom while you can.”
Lucas feigned a smile, but he wasn’t feeling overly smart at the moment. In retrospect, he should not have allowed lust to overpower reason in dealing with Lady Sheffield. Clearly the widow was wary of the opposite sex—and he had only added more empirical evidence that the male species were louts. He should have reined in his baser urges. Instead, he had reacted like a randy stallion.
His uncle would be so deucedly disappointed.
Swearing under his breath, Lucas reached for the brandy. However, with his hand a mere hairsbreadth from the bottle, he held back. Hell, he was Mad, Bad Had-ley. He would not give up so easily. Henry did not yet know of the rejection. There was still time for one last assault on the lady’s Ivory Tower. But it would have to be done with brains rather than brawn.
Steepling his fingers, Lucas thought a bit longer. While trying to arrange the first audience with Lady Ciara Sheffield, he had done a little research on his quarry. He knew of her scientific society and her small circle of friends. Recalling Brewster’s mention of Lady Becton’s soirée, Lucas decided to do penance for his earlier sins by making an appearance. It was the sort of staid affair that he would usually avoid like the plague.
However, Brewster’s grousing had sparked an idea. The elusive widow never made an appearance in Society, but as for her fellow ‘Sinners’…
Ciara eyed the Arabic manuscript, half expecting a green-horned djinn or affreet to rise in a puff of smoke from the ancient vellum. However, the only demons were those inside her head. And unfortunately they were speaking the king’s English, loud and clear.
Fool! Fool! Fool!
Stepping over the broken glass, she slumped into her desk chair and took her head in her hands. “Oh, you wicked, wanton woman,” she whispered. “How could you be so woefully stupid?”
A handsome face, a teasing kiss—she ought to know better than to fall for a flirt’s superficial charms. The first time she had been oh, so young and inno
cent in the ways of the world. Now there was no excuse for such an abominable lapse in judgment. All men were charming when they wanted something.
Well, she would not be manipulated or used. Lord Hadley and his wicked, wanton mouth could go kiss Lucifer’s arse…
Out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t help but notice the intricate little painting in the margin of the manuscript page. The fine brushstrokes, skillfully rendered in muted shades of greens and grays, seemed to depict a caravan of camels passing through a grove of palm trees,
Intrigued, she picked up her magnifying glass and pulled the pages closer. “The traders returned from the East, bearing strange plants and spices previously unknown to our world,” she translated slowly.
The tantalizing words raised gooseflesh on her arms. Sitting back, she reached for her pen and a fresh sheet of foolscap.
“Why, Lord Hadley, I fear you are going to ruin my reputation…” The dowager Countess of Becton paused to lay a gloved hand on Lucas’s sleeve. “For throwing a boring party.”
“I am always happy to oblige a lovely lady,” he replied, lifting her frail fingers to his lips.
“So I have heard,” said the countess dryly. “But unless you have an interest in archaeology, you ought not waste your charms on me. I’m old enough to be an artifact.”
“A very well-preserved artifact,” murmured Lucas. “I would never guess that you and my mother were close friends at school.”
“It was your grandmother, as well you know.”
“Impossible.”
“Naughty man.” Lady Becton chuckled. “I see why you have no lack of willing partners for your head-over-heels escapades.”
Lucas winced inwardly. Put that way, he sounded like one of the acrobats at Astley’s Circus.
The dowager squinted through her quizzing glass. “Which begs the question of why you are here. A cello recital does not attract a very risqué crowd. Indeed, most of my guests are not a day under sixty, and bluestockings to boot.”
“Maybe I’m interested in improving and expanding my mind,” he answered.
Light glinted off the gold-rimmed lens. “That appears to be the only portion of your anatomy that needs any such attention.”
Lucas choked down a laugh. Age had not dulled the dowager’s sharp sense of humor. He seemed to recall mention that the lady had been quite a hellion in her day.
“But if you are looking for intellectual stimulation, you have come to the right place. Do let me introduce you to some of my close friends. It isn’t every day that the old ladies get to ogle a flesh-and-blood rake.” Lady Becton drew him toward the main drawing room. “Let us hope that none of them faints dead on the spot.”
“Indeed. At the moment, I have enough sins laid at my feet.”
She silenced him with a slap of her fan. “And enough ink blackening the front page of the newspaper.” Her brow arched. “Tell me, are you planning to do anything shocking?”
He assumed an angelic smile. “I assure you, my intentions are above reproach.” The last notes of a Boccherini concerto floated out from the music room. “However, like your virtuoso musicians, I sometimes feel the urge to improvise.”
“Well, if you have the urge to submerge yourself in another scandal, the least you can do is let me watch.”
Before Lucas could reply, he was led to a small group of ladies standing near the tea table at the far end of the room. It was hard to tell which they were enjoying more—the lemon tarts or the lively discussion on the cross-pollination of tropical fruit trees.
At his approach the voices rose a notch higher, and in a twittering of ostrich plumes, several of the ladies took cover behind the potted palms.
Like hens fleeing from a fox.
The others, however, stood their ground with admirable sangfroid as Lady Becton moved down the line, performing the introductions. The last in the group was a short, silver-haired female who had wandered off for a moment to study a framed set of botanical prints.
“Lady Ariel.” The dowager tapped her friend’s shoulder. “If you can tear yourself away from Cannabis savita, I should like to introduce you to Lord Hadley—you know, the champion swimmer.”
Lucas heard a splash behind him as someone spilled her tea.
“I am acquainted with the gentleman.” The lady slowly turned, her oversized steel-rimmed spectacles giving her the air of a startled owl. “We met briefly at Lady Wilton’s ball. In addition to your sporting skills, sir, you have quite a gift for reciting entertaining poetry.”
“I am flattered that you recall such details,” replied Lucas as he lifted her hand to his lips. Appalled was a far more accurate word. The limericks she had overheard were bawdy enough to make a sailor blush.
“It’s hard to forget such pithy verses as ‘There once was a lady from Exeter, so pretty that men craned their necks at her. One was even so brave as to take out and wave the distinguishing mark of his sex at her.’” Lady Ariel paused. “Do you know any more?”
“Lots. But most are even more improper to repeat in front of a lady.”
“Then come stand beside me, Lord Hadley. At my advanced age, I find there is little that shocks me. Besides, I am a scientist, and as such, I like to keep an open mind about things.”
Perhaps all was not lost, thought Lucas.
“Alas,” sighed Lady Becton, “I am going to have to take my leave, just when things are getting interesting. I see Lord Highstreet has cornered Mr. Battell, and if I don’t intervene, they may come to blows over whether Beethoven’s music ought to be banned in polite society.”
Lucas smiled. “And here I thought intellectual gatherings were staid affairs.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe some of the things that go on,” replied Ariel. “I know for a fact that when scholars roll out the guns, they can make the Battle of Trafalgar look like a yachting regatta.”
He cleared his throat and decided to test the waters. “Lady Becton mentioned you have quite a keen interest in science.”
“Very much so. In fact, I belong to a small circle of learned ladies who meet every week to discuss a wide range of fascinating topics.”
Including a certain Italian sex manual. Lucas wondered whether they considered the subject of its contents biology. Or physics.
“Indeed,” he murmured politely. “I believe our hostess said something of the sort, and that your sister is a member, along with Marchesa della Giamatti and the Duke of Clyne’s granddaughter.”
“And the Marchioness of Sheffield,” added Ariel.
“Ah, yes. The chemistry expert.” He signaled to a passing footman for two glasses of champagne. “Seeing as she is not here, I assume the wine is safe to drink.”
The thick lenses magnified the flash of indignation in her eyes. “Really, sir, Ciara is a very serious-minded scholar, sir. Her work—and every other thing about her—is above reproach.”
“I did not mean to make light of the matter. The truth is, my uncle, Sir Henry Phelps, shares your good opinion.” Lucas hesitated and then made up his mind to take the plunge. There was nothing to lose in trying to win over the elderly lady. He had a feeling that she could be a powerful ally, despite her diminutive size.
“In fact, he was quite anxious to engage Lady Sheffield’s expertise regarding an ancient medical manuscript he recently discovered. But alas…” He exaggerated a sigh. “She refused.”
Ariel’s brow furrowed. “Refused? That does not sound at all like Ciara. She is exceedingly generous in sharing her knowledge with other scientists. We have all read your uncle’s essays and have a high regard for his scholarship.”
“Apparently that opinion does not extend to me, the messenger. Lady Sheffield turned me down flat. Wouldn’t even take a look at it.” Lucas took a small swallow of his wine. “A pity. My uncle suspects it is a long-lost work by some Greek fellow with a funny name. Hippo… Hippo… potamus?”
Ariel sucked in a breath. “Hippocrates?”
“Yes, that sounds about right. No
t that I can tell one from the other.” Was he going a bit overboard on the theatrics? Doing things to excess was, he knew, a real weakness in his character.
“A lost manuscript by Hippocrates?” she mused. “Hmmm. Let me have a word with Ciara at our next meeting. I may be able to help.”
“I would be extremely grateful,” said Lucas. “And if there is any favor I might do for you in return, Lady Ariel, you have only to name it.”
She flexed her frail fingers. “Would that you could thrash the stuffing out of that nasty writer for the Morning Gazette. You know, the one who pens the gossip columns.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been a naughty girl.” Lucas kept his tone light, but he couldn’t help but wonder what had sparked her remark. He hadn’t bothered to read the newspapers for the past few days. Could it be that Lady Sheffield had made some slip that could be used as a bargaining chip? He was determined enough to resort to any means, foul or fair.
“Not me. Unfortunately, I’m too old to get into any trouble.” Ariel sighed. “It’s Ciara I’m worried about. You, of all people, ought to know how the newspapers love to blow a story into lurid proportions.”
“In my case, I’m afraid the ondits are not overly exaggerated,” murmured Lucas.
“Well, in her case, they are greatly distorted,” assured Ariel. “Sheffield’s family is planting scurrilous rumors about her in the press. Having failed to have her indicted for murder at the inquest, they now hope to obtain custody of her young son—and his considerable inheritance.”
Recalling her wary gaze, he felt a stab of sympathy for Lady Sheffield, one made all the sharper by his own devious strategy. It seemed he was not the only person who wanted something from the widow.
“Ciara hasn’t a family or a gentleman to protect her from slander. Or prison. We—that is, our Circle—are very concerned for her. And so, we have embarked on a campaign to find her a protector—oh, dear…” Ariel’s cheeks turned pink. “That did not come out exactly right. What I meant was a suitor. Someone smart enough to see beneath the shroud of lies and recognize what a warm and wonderful person Lady Ciara is.”
