by Cara Elliott
It was not like her to lose focus in the laboratory. Here was the one place on earth where she counted on seeing things with a sharp-eyed clarity. But this afternoon, her head seemed to be in a fog.
Slapping down the spoon, Ciara scribbled a note in her logbook. Worrying would not keep Lord Hadley from his appointed lesson. Perhaps she could concoct a magic potion that would turn him into a frog. That would solve two problems at once—she would not be tempted to indulge in improper thoughts, and Peregrine would have a male playmate.
Peregrine.
Ciara sighed. Her son was a far more serious concern than a rakehell rogue. The boy had been a bit moody since his return from the country, but her gentle probing had so far uncovered no specific reason. Had he somehow overheard some nasty gossip during the trip? A whispered reference to the Wicked Widow?
Her grip tightened on the pen. Perhaps she ought to consider a retreat to the country, despite the fact that her legal advisers strongly advised against such a move. Or perhaps she should seek shelter in some foreign land. Peregrine would lose the trappings of title and privilege but gain the freedom to live his life untainted by her sordid scandal.
The sound of steps in the corridor warned that she would have to set aside such complex conundrums for the next hour. Lord Hadley was here, and though the effort would likely be a waste of time, instructing the earl in the rudiments of scientific inquiry might at least provide comic relief.
Assuming he didn’t set the laboratory on fire.
Ciara was aware of a slow burn spreading across her cheeks. Damn. The powders and potions were not the only things at risk to the earl’s incendiary touch. She would have to keep a tight lid on her own reactions to the man. But it was growing harder and harder. Try as she might to ignore his smoldering sensuality, his looks—his kisses—sparked a volatile reaction deep inside her.
It was best not to analyze why. The answer was too… dangerous.
“Lord Hadley is here for his appointment, milady.” McCabe’s reedy voice announced the visitor.
Drawing a deep breath, Ciara opened the door. “I see that you are punctual,” she observed, slanting a look at the mantel clock. “That is a step in the right direction, sir. In all disciplines of science, one must be precise in measuring minutes and seconds, else the results can be disastrous.”
“I make it a point never to be late for an assignation,” replied Lucas with a languid flutter of his sable lashes. “You are right—the repercussions can indeed be disastrous.”
No man should possess such sinfully beautiful eyes. She forced herself to slow her skittering heartbeat. “Lord Hadley, you are only wasting precious lesson time by trying to provoke me with more of your innuendos.”
“I can think of worse ways to spend an hour than in trying to bring a blush to your lovely cheeks,” he murmured.
Ignoring him, she went on, “Let us get something straight. While you are here in my laboratory, I expect you to behave and follow my instructions to the letter.”
“More rules?” Lucas heaved a martyred sigh. “You know, it’s not really allowed for one party to add restrictions once a wager is agreed to. But seeing as you are new to this, I will grant you a little leeway.”
“I…” Ciara opened one of the cabinets, unwilling to be put on the defensive. “I have here the basic textbook on ornithology that we will be using for the course of our lessons.” She held up a weighty volume for his inspection. “The author is a noted expert, and his writing offers a clear, concise introduction to the subject.”
As she turned back, Lucas placed the package he had under his arm on the worktable and removed the wrapping paper. The gilt title sparked in the sunlight—Birds of Britain—A Detailed Compendium of Observations and Methodology by Fitzwilliam Bergemot.
“I took the liberty of acquiring my own copy,” he said. “The clerks at Hatchards were very helpful in helping me choose. I am happy to see that we guessed right.”
“Lesson number one, Lord Hadley,” she said sternly. “Do not presume anything in science. And don’t make guesses.”
“Even educated ones?” he replied.
“Sir—”
Lucas held up a hand. “Yes, yes, I know. I am to be serious at all times.” He schooled his face to a sober expression. “I shall strive to be an attentive student.”
She thinned her lips against the temptation to smile at his teasing. The man had a quick wit, she granted him that. And a quick tongue—
No. It was best not to think of his tongue, or the soft, sensuous slide of his mouth on hers. This was not an anatomy class. Ornithology was, she hoped, a far less dangerous subject.
But with the earl, it was hard to tell.
“Let us start out with a quick survey of the instruments and their proper usage,” she began. “Although we won’t be using them until later on in our studies, I think it best to give you an overview. The mechanisms are extremely delicate and must be handled with great care.”
Lucas looked on the verge of speech but then merely nodded.
“Follow me.”
Ciara led the way to the work counter by the window. “This microscope is the latest model from Heidelberg, with a magnifying lens ground to a precise specification of…”
She moved down its length, explaining the different areas and the orderly array of implements. Lucas listened to the detailed discourse without comment. Though whether he was taking it all in or was merely bored to perdition was impossible to gauge.
Finishing up a warning to him about the chemical compounds stored above the small gas burner, she indicated the bookshelves. “There are a number of reference books that you will need during the coming weeks—” She stopped short, seeing him pause to pick up a round object from her desk.
“Lesson number two, sir—never touch an item in my laboratory without permission.”
The object in question flew into the air for an instant and then landed back in his palm with a soft slap. “Are you a secret sporting enthusiast, Lady Sheffield? Or am I deluded in thinking that this is a cricket ball?”
Ciara flushed. “It belongs to my son,” she replied tersely. She didn’t add that she was practicing throwing it against the pillow propped in the far corner, so she might prove a more proficient partner than young Isabella.
“Ah.” He seemed intent on examining the stitching of the leather. “You ought to buy them at Silliman’s Emporium. These ones made by Brompton are of inferior quality.”
“Thank you for the advice,” she said a bit curtly. “But can it really matter?”
“Very much so. You see, the seams can greatly affect the flight of a ball. Observe how uneven they are here.”
Ciara leaned in a little warily, wondering if he was playing games with her. But closer inspection showed he was right. The raised cording was indeed irregular, with noticeable lumps in the waxed thread.
“They should be uniformly smooth and even, otherwise it’s hard to be accurate with a throw.” He tossed the ball from hand to hand. “Physics, you know.”
“I hadn’t realized that sport was such a science,” she said dryly.
“You might be surprised how seriously we frivolous fellows take our pursuits of sports. As for flight patterns, ask any bird about—”
The earl’s reply was cut short by a tentative knock on the door. “Mama?” called Peregrine. “May I come in?”
Masking her surprise, Ciara turned quickly and clicked open the latch. Her son knew better than to interrupt her work, save for something important.
“Shouldn’t you be at your lessons, young man?”
“Mr. Welch let me go early as reward for getting a perfect score on my mathematical test,” replied Peregrine. “I wanted to practice my pitching against the garden wall, but I can’t find my ball anywhere. I thought perhaps you might have seen it?”
The brisk slap of leather echoed against the earl’s palm. “It was serving as a physics specimen, but I’m sure it could be put to better use outdoors.”
<
br /> Ciara saw her son’s eyes widen at seeing an unfamiliar face inside their townhouse. “Perry, this is Lord Hadley, who has come to consult me on a scientific question.” She slanted a sidelong look at the earl, praying he would not make some mocking remark. The boy was shy around strangers. “Lord Hadley, my son, Peregrine.”
“You like cricket, lad?” Lucas dropped to a casual crouch, so that he was at eye level with her son.
“Yes, sir,” answered Peregrine.
“So do I. Do you play often?”
“N-not really.” Her son made a face, accentuating the bull’s-eye bruise on his forehead. “The trouble is, my only playmate is a girl, and her aim isn’t very good.”
“A problem,” agreed Lucas gravely. “Have you tried teaching her a corker pitch? The spin helps add control.”
Peregrine looked downcast. “I—I don’t know how.”
“It’s actually quite easy.” Lucas cocked a brow. “If your mother would allow a short recess from our lessons on ornithology, I’d be happy to accompany you to the garden and give you a few pointers.”
Ciara nodded in answer to her son’s pleading look.
“Come then, let us fetch your bat, lad.” Lucas gave the boy a conspiratorial wink. “Before your mother changes her mind about letting me scamper on my lessons.”
She took a moment to put her workbench in order, then trailed along behind them, amazed at how quickly her son’s reticence receded in response to the earl’s easy banter. A tentative query turned into a peppering of questions on the sport, and all of a sudden, Peregrine was chattering like a magpie. Laughter—male laughter—echoed off the wainscoting in a counterpoint of baritone and alto notes.
The sound tugged at her heartstrings. A boy ought to have a man in his life. And yet…
Lucas laughed again, and despite the bright afternoon light dappling the glass-paned doors, the sound was like the rumble of distant thunder, presaging a coming storm.
Shaking off such dark musings, Ciara forced a sunny smile as Peregrine looked back at her with a grin and then pelted into the garden. Trouble might be hovering on the horizon, but the skies were clear.
For the moment.
“Just a tic, lad.” Lucas stripped off his coat and draped it over the garden bench. “I can’t afford to split a seam,” he joked as he waggled his limbs. “Throwing requires vigorous movement, and my valet tells me that Weston’s tailoring costs me an arm and a leg.”
The boy giggled.
“Now, first of all, show me your grip.” He handed over the ball.
Laying his small fingers in line with the seams, Peregrine took a tentative hold and looked up.
“No wonder you’ve got no one to play with but girls.” Lucas rolled his eyes in mock despair. “I can see we’ve got a lot of work to do here.” He moved the boy’s hand, showing him how to position his thumb and forefinger. “Use a bit of pressure here. And here. It will give you better control. Go stand by the statue and I’ll show you what I mean.”
The boy scampered across the graveled path.
“Make a target with your hands,” called Lucas. Taking aim, he lobbed a soft toss that hit square on the mark. He crouched down and held his palms in front of his chest. “Now you try.”
The ball sailed high over his head.
Peregrine’s face pinched in embarrassment.
“Relax your arm, lad. Make the muscles like macaroni.” He demonstrated with a deliberately silly shake. “You can’t throw well if your elbow is stiff.”
The boy’s next try was a bit better. “Good, good,” encouraged Lucas. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lucas saw that Ciara had taken a seat on the terrace steps and was watching in solemn silence. Did she disapprove of frivolous fun? It was impossible to tell from her expression.
“Mens sana in corpore sano,” he murmured to her as he passed close to retrieve an errant throw. “A healthy mind in a healthy body—the ancient philosophers believed that vigorous physical exercise was important to intellectual well-being.”
“I’m not sure the ancients were referring to some of your favorite activities,” she replied with a cryptic smile. “But I agree that the principle makes a great deal of sense.”
“You need not worry that I am going to lead your son down the path to perdition. Lads his age need to expend a great deal of energy. A game of cricket will do him no harm.”
A shadow flitted across her face, accentuating the hollows of her cheeks. She looked troubled, though he wasn’t sure why. “I am aware of that, Lord Hadley. And I… I am grateful to you for taking the time to teach him some of the basic skills.”
“My motive is purely selfish. I’ve escaped a stuffy classroom. Dare I hope that I get good marks for sportsmanship?”
“You’ve a passing grade so far,” murmured Ciara.
“Just passing? I guess I will have to try harder—I take pride in earning high honors in hijinks.” Turning, he tossed the ball back to Peregrine. “Remember, keep your thumb firm on the seam, lad.”
“Yes, sir!”
The boy reminded him of an awkward young puppy, so willing and eager to please. Lucas felt an odd constriction in his chest, remembering how lonely it could be for a child living with a single adult. The widow’s notoriety no doubt limited her son’s contact with the outside world even more. No wonder the boy was trying so desperately hard.
“Well done, lad. Well done!” he called, twisting to field the throw before it hit the grass. “A bit more practice and you’ll be a corking good bowler.”
The simple praise drew a grin from Peregrine. Ducking his head, he darted a sidelong look at his mother, who answered with an encouraging smile. “I have not Lord Hadley’s experience in sports, but your skills certainly seem greatly improved to me, lambkin.”
“Mama!” Peregrine rolled his eyes in embarrassment. “I’m no longer in leading strings.”
Ciara’s smothered cough sounded suspiciously close to a laugh. “My abject apologies, Perry.”
Lucas masked his mirth, as well. “Sporting champions must become accustomed to adoring female spectators,” he said gravely.
Her gaze narrowed ever so slightly in warning not to tread on dangerous ground with any risqué innuendos.
Much as he enjoyed seeing her cheeks flare with crimson fire, Lucas decided to back off. He was having too much fun. Lud, it had been an age since he had played cricket.
Grabbing up the bat, Lucas took a few cuts through the air. “How are your hitting skills?” he asked.
“Awful,” admitted Peregrine with a rueful grimace.
“It’s all a matter of timing and proper vision. The stance is very important. Here, let me show you…”
For the next quarter hour, he worked with Peregrine on the rudiments of play. The boy was a quick study, and the thwack of wood against leather was soon echoing through the garden, along with whoops of exuberant laughter.
Lucas rubbed the ball between his palms. “Oh ho, showing me up in front of your mother, eh? What a blow to my manly pride.” He winked at Ciara. “Let’s see if you can hit this one.”
Cocking his wrists, just as he had been shown, Peregrine took a mighty swing at the pitch. The bat connected with a resounding crack, but the angle was a little off and the ball flew off in an errant arc. Ricocheting off the brick wall, it shattered a terra-cotta flower urn, which in turn knocked a pot of garden fertilizer—a mixture of watered manure and fishmeal—onto Lucas’s expensive coat. Drenched in slimy muck, the garment slithered from the bench and fell into a small reflecting pool.
The boy dropped the bat and ran to retrieve it.
Lucas joined him at the water’s edge and reached out, only to see Peregrine flinch and cover his head.
“I’m s-so s-sorry, sir,” stammered the boy. “I swear I didn’t mean to ruin your coat. I was clumsy—it won’t ever happen again. I promise.”
Ruffling the boy’s hair, Lucas gave a hearty chuckle. “Think nothi
ng of it, lad.”
Ciara had shot up, but she sat down without a word.
He nodded in silent approval and went on, “You’re not a real player until you have destroyed at least a dozen innocent bystanders. I shattered six of my uncle’s windows in one afternoon.”
“D-did he birch you?” asked Peregrine.
“No, he hired the star player from Lord’s to teach me to hit it straight. Said it was far cheaper than to be constantly repairing the glass panes.” Suddenly aware that the boy was still rigid with apprehension, Lucas scooped him up and tossed him in the air. “Actually, I owe you a debt of thanks. I have always disliked that particular shade of green but have been too cowed by my valet to get rid of it.”
Peregrine relaxed enough to giggle as Lucas set him down.
“Now fetch your missile and let’s continue to play,” he added.
However, a moment later the cook appeared in the doorway and summoned the boy for his tea.
Peregrine looked loath to end the session, but a gentle chiding from his mother reminded him of his manners. “Thank you for the pointers, sir. It was awfully sporting of you to take the time to work with me.”
Lucas dusted his hands on the seat of his trousers. “Next time we’ll practice some basic batting drills to improve your timing.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “You mean we can do it again sometime?”
“If your mother agrees.” He lowered his voice a notch. “So you had best obey her, so she doesn’t decide I’m a bad influence on you.”
As her son marched dutifully toward the door, Ciara turned.
“Th-thank you,” she said in a halting voice. “Our bargain did not include playing games with an eight-year-old.”
“He’s a nice lad,” said Lucas.
“I’m surprised…” Her voice trailed off as she tugged at her shawl.
“Surprised that he is nice?” he said dryly.
Her mouth quirked. “Surprised that you are so good with children, sir.”
Lucas shrugged. “It’s hard not to enjoy their exuberance.”
