by Regina Scott
“And he approves of you working?” Miss Janssen asked as they detoured around a group of young ladies on their first Season. Oh, how lovely not to have to endure the posturing, to smile when she wanted to shout.
“Not in the slightest,” Lydia said. “Beau finds work, of any sort, abhorrent. But my parents didn’t leave me an inheritance, expecting him to take care of me. At least I’m sparing him the expense. Oh, look, there’s Lord Stanhope.”
Tall and impossibly lean, with a nose as sharp as his mind, the earl was a familiar sight in London when Parliament was in session. His hair had deserted his head, leaving a greying wing on either side of his long face, but his smile was always welcoming. He was standing by one of the pillars, in discussion with another man Lydia didn’t recognize. His companion was short and slight and also balding. Unlike Lord Stanhope, he was apparently unwilling to accept the fact, for he had taken pains to hide the skin by combing his blond hair across the spot. He was older than Worth and more flamboyantly dressed in a vivid blue coat, silver-shot waistcoat, and white satin breeches.
Miss Janssen followed Lydia’s gaze, then blanched. “Oh, Miss Villers, we shouldn’t.”
“We most certainly should. He will not bite, I promise you.” Lydia took Miss Janssen’s arm. The lady resisted, but Lydia managed to tow her over to the pair.
Lord Stanhope glanced her way as they approached, then smiled. “Miss Villers. What a pleasure. Come to renew our argument about the uses of electricity?”
The suggestion was nearly enough to make her forget her purpose, but the tug on her arm grew more insistent.
“Nothing would suit me more,” she assured him, “except perhaps to introduce you to a dear friend of mine, Miss Janssen. She is also keenly interested in scientific pursuits and was most desirous of making your acquaintance.”
Lord Stanhope inclined his head to the weaver. “Miss Janssen. I believe I heard your name in connection with Lord Worthington’s work.”
“My lord,” Miss Janssen said with a bob of a curtsey. Her voice came out breathless and fast. “Such a pleasure it is to meet you. I must not keep you to myself. Come, Miss Villers.”
She transferred her grip to Lydia’s arm so fervently she forced Lydia back a step to two. Lord Stanhope frowned, but his companion closed the gap, smile pleasant.
“No need to hurry off. I’d love to hear more about what course you’re pursuing.”
Miss Janssen let out a squeak, released Lydia’s arm, picked up her celestial blue skirts, and fled.
“Extraordinary female,” Lord Stanhope said. “I don’t usually frighten them away.”
“Ah, but you have been known to reach some frightening conclusions,” his friend reminded him with a laugh.
Lord Stanhope smiled as if recognizing the reference to his sympathy for the French Revolution. “Forgive my manners, Miss Villers. May I present Mr. Curtis. He’s interested in scientific pursuits as well.”
Lydia offered his friend her hand. “I know the name. Your work on the chemical reactions of hydrogen was fascinating.”
His eyes lit. They were a faded blue, as clear as the apothecary jars Gussie favored. “A lady who reads Philosophical Transactions,” he said. “How refreshing.”
“And one who puts action to interest,” Lord Stanhope assured him. “Miss Villers was instrumental in helping Augusta Orwell develop the salve that’s all the rage.”
The light in Mr. Curtis’s clear eyes dimmed only the slightest. “Stillroom crafts can be quite efficacious.”
“Did I hear you are also working with Lord Worthington now, Miss Villers?” Lord Stanhope asked.
Lydia dimpled. “I am. It’s delightful work, engaging all my attention.”
“Ah, then the gentlemen of London must be in mourning,” the earl teased her.
Mr. Curtis perked up. “What are you studying that could possibly require all your attention, Miss Villers?”
Behind them came the sound of a violin. The orchestra was tuning up. That meant the first set would begin shortly. This was her cue to slip away. She really couldn’t tell Mr. Curtis everything he wanted to know. She’d promised Worth. And she certainly didn’t want to say anything that might imply the work was secret. That would only invite more questions.
She glanced around for a partner to rescue her and sweep her onto the dance floor, only to find Worth bearing down on her, color high and face set. Now what had she done?
She turned to Lord Stanhope. “I’m certain I must owe you a dance, my lord,” she said, seizing his arm. “Shall we?”
~~~
Intent on rescuing Lydia from the company of a scoundrel, Worth pulled up short as Lord Stanhope led her out onto the floor. Or was Lydia leading him? It was difficult to tell by the bemused expression on the earl’s lean face. His wife, seated on one of the velvet sofas along the wall, whispered something to her friends behind her painted fan, and they all shook their heads.
He might not understand motivations, but he thought he knew the reason for their reaction. His face warmed on Lydia’s behalf. She might once have been hunting a title, but she would never dally with a married man. That much he could say with one hundred percent certainty. The alliance would only alienate her from the Society she could otherwise have ruled. Very likely, she had chosen Stanhope because he could gratify her desire to talk about scientific advancements. Worth smiled just thinking about the exchange.
A movement caught his attention. Near the marble pillar, John Curtis inclined his head in greeting.
Worth turned his back on the fellow.
The cut direct. No doubt someone would notice and comment, but it was no more than Curtis deserved.
Charlotte must have seen him as well, for she hurried to Worth’s side, Miss Pankhurst puffing in her wake.
“Worth?” she asked, brows knit in obvious concern.
“I’m fine, Charlotte,” he said, though even he heard the tension in his voice.
Charlotte put her nose in the air. “I am shocked Lady Baminger would allow toads at her ball,” she said with a look in Curtis’s direction. “I’d think they’d make a mess of the flooring.”
Worth shook his head, a chuckle rising even as his shoulders came down. “You always know what to say, Charlotte.”
“That’s because I know you,” his sister said.
Miss Pankhurst glanced between them, lips more pinched than usual. “I fear I don’t understand. A toad? Mr. Curtis? Has Lord Worthington taken him in dislike?”
He was not about to discuss the details with her, particularly in the middle of a crowded ballroom where anyone might overhear.
“That is a tale for another time,” he told her. “Miss Pankhurst, when this set ends, might you honor me with a dance?”
She fluttered her lashes, cheeks turning pink. “But of course, my lord.”
He did his duty for the next while, partnering Miss Pankhurst as well as Miss Janssen. Indeed, he was pleased to see his sister and her team in much demand, their smiles engaging, their movements graceful. He lost sight of Charlotte only when he escorted Lady Stanhope out onto the floor.
“I understand I have you to thank for the young lady who has stolen my husband’s attention,” she said when the pattern of the dance forced them to stand out for a time.
Worth glanced to where Lydia was dancing down the center of the line of couples, arm-in-arm with Lady Baminger’s oldest son. She hadn’t sat out once, her bubbly laughter and bouncing curls evident in each set.
“Lord Stanhope was simply indulging a young lady’s interest in natural philosophy,” he assured her.
“Natural philosophy,” she said, accepting his arm as they returned to the line. “Is that what they call it now?”
The dance prevented him from responding until he led her back to her seat. As he bowed over her hand, he met her gaze. “Miss Villers is a valued member of my staff, Lady Stanhope. I would not like to see her reputation diminished because of a mistaken belief in her interests.”
She inclined her head. “No more than I would, my lord.”
Satisfied he’d made his point, he went to find his next partner. He was near the sofa where several of the dowagers had congregated when a gentleman moved to block his way.
“And what’s this about you imposing on my sister?” Beau Villers demanded.
Fans stilled, necks craned, eyes brightened. Worth took Villers’s elbow and steered him out of earshot.
“To be precise,” he told the fellow, “my sister is imposing on her. If you are concerned, I advise you to take up the matter with your sister and not link our names in the middle of a ballroom.” He released his hold and started around the fellow, but Villers dodged to cut him off.
“Lydia and I have spoken,” he assured Worth. “But she doesn’t seem to understand her role in your household. Surely you aren’t allowing her to assist in your work.”
Worth studied him. Villers was as sleek as a panther, from his ebony hair to his polished evening pumps. Poised on his feet, he even gave the appearance of being ready to pounce.
“Your sister has experience and a number of excellent insights,” Worth said. “Why shouldn’t I include her in my work?”
Beau shook his head slowly, as if amazed Worth had to ask. “Her enthusiasm sometimes puts her in untenable positions. As her devoted brother, I would be remiss if I did not ensure her safety.”
Worth raised his brows. “Safety? What do you imagine she’s doing?”
“It’s well known you dabble in chemicals, my lord. Certain combinations can be dangerous.”
He wasn’t sure which was more insulting—the assumption that he would “dabble” in anything, that he might not realize the dangers in his work, or that he would in any way subject Lydia to them.
“I no longer pursue chemistry as my subject,” he told Villers. “Your sister is safe with me.”
The fellow’s smile was sly. “I am very glad to hear that, my lord. I would not like to have to demand compensation for the ruin of her health. Or her reputation.”
Worth’s jaw tightened. “A gentleman should not demand compensation but satisfaction when a lady has been harmed.”
Villers laughed. “Oh, I would never challenge you to a duel, my lord. If you harmed Lydia, I know your honor would demand that you do the right thing and marry her. You once considered marriage, I believe.”
Had come within hours of proposing, but he wasn’t going to admit that either.
“Congratulations on your own nuptials,” he said instead.
“I am the most fortunate of mortals,” Villers answered quickly, as if the line was well rehearsed. “Now, about my sister…”
“Yes, what about me?” Lydia asked, appearing at Worth’s elbow. “You two look entirely too glum. This is a ball, you know. You should be dancing.”
Chapter Nine
Really, but Beau could be tiresome. For three years, she’d followed his advice scrupulously—dance with this fellow, flirt with that one. If she’d questioned him, he’d trot out his excuse for constantly pushing her forward.
“I promised Mother and Father I would see you well wed.”
She shared that goal, though it had become apparent she and her brother defined well wed differently. To her, it meant marrying a gentleman with compatible ideals, a common purpose, two hearts and minds beating as one. To Beau, it meant only a gentleman of wealth and prestige. He had not been born to the peerage, but, through her, he might marry into it.
A year ago, she’d thought she’d found a way to satisfy them both in Worth. Since then, she’d learned there might be a better goal for her. She was not about to allow Beau to push her forward again.
“Go on,” she told him, shooing him with her hands. “Lady Lilith may not be in attendance, but any number of dowagers would enjoy your company. Go!”
Blinking, Beau went.
“So that’s how one handles your brother,” Worth said. “I would not have thought to dangle a dowager.”
“Beau is very good about furthering his cause,” Lydia said, watching her brother bow to an elderly duchess who had been sitting a little farther along the wall. “He simply forgets I am no longer his cause.” She turned to Worth. “I hope he wasn’t bothering you.”
His look was more amused than annoyed. “He said nothing that need concern you, but thank you for asking. I was looking for you earlier.”
She glanced around him but could not catch sight of Charlotte, Miss Janssen, or Miss Pankhurst. “Oh? Did your sister have need of me?”
“No. I do.”
Lydia stiffened, gaze slowly moving back to him. His smile brushed her softly, like tender fingers. But he could not mean that statement as it sounded. Viscount Worthington needed no one, especially her.
As if he noted her surprise, he bowed and explained himself. “I have danced with everyone else on the team. I didn’t want to leave you out. Would you consider partnering with me?”
Her heart leaped up and lodged itself in her throat. Perhaps that was why her voice came out so high. “Certainly.”
Another set was preparing to start. He offered her his arm and led her out.
Earlier, she’d focused most of her attention on her partners, only tangentially aware of Worth down the set. Now he filled her senses. She’d forgotten how well he danced, or perhaps she had not allowed herself to remember. It wasn’t just his athletic grace. Many gentlemen possessed that. No, Worth danced as he did everything else, with an intensity, a fire. While others minced through the steps, he claimed the floor. When he took her hands and turned her, she thought all eyes must watch him. That smile, that power. She wanted only to be closer to the blaze, for all she knew it could burn her.
She was breathless by the time the set ended, and she knew it wasn’t from the exertion of the dance. Worth didn’t look as winded, but his hands disappeared behind his back as they left the set, and his gaze dipped to the complicated pattern of the floor. “Lydia, I…”
“My lord Worthington.” Miss Pankhurst hurried up to them, gloved fingers fluttering before her rose-colored gown and tightly curled ringlets trembling. “Your sister would like to leave.”
Worth immediately turned to accompany her across the room, Lydia at his side. “Is she unwell?” he asked with a frown.
Miss Pankhurst didn’t answer. Instead, she led them to a quiet corner, where Miss Janssen sat beside Charlotte on one of the sofas. Worth’s sister was once more plying her ivory fan, this time before her face.
“The room is crowded,” Miss Janssen was lamenting. “Best you should rest.”
“I have brought your brother, Miss Worthington,” Miss Pankhurst said as if Charlotte wouldn’t notice them standing in front of her. “Is there anything else I can procure? Lemonade, perhaps? A slice of cake?”
“No, nothing,” Charlotte assured her. Her sculpted cheeks were stained pink, and sweat beaded her brow below her swept-back auburn hair. “Worth, could we go home?”
“Certainly,” he said. “I’ll ask for the carriage to be brought around now. Are you comfortable waiting here?”
She nodded, and he strode off.
Lydia sat beside the woman she was beginning to consider a friend. “Is there anything I can do?”
Charlotte’s smile was a ghost of its usual self. “I’ll be fine, Lydia. Please don’t worry.”
“How can we not worry?” Miss Janssen asked, fingers rubbing each other in her lap again. “That horrid Mr. Curtis. He is to blame. I saw him talking with you. How he encroaches. If I had known he would be here, I would have told you we should not come.”
“He does seem to have an odd effect on you all,” Miss Pankhurst said, eyes bright as she glanced from one lady to the other. “It seemed to me Lord Worthington gave him the cut direct earlier, and then you seem to have been overcome after speaking with him, Miss Worthington.”
Charlotte met the woman’s blue-eyed gaze, her own grey eyes implacable. “It is crowded and close in here, just as Miss Janssen noted. I merely ne
ed fresh air.”
“Oh, of course,” Miss Pankhurst hurried to assure her. “Do you not find it odd, though, that…”
“No,” Charlotte snapped. “I do not.” She closed her eyes, and Miss Janssen began flapping her fingers at her as if trying to push the air in Charlotte’s direction. Miss Pankhurst said no more.
An idea burst upon Lydia. “A fan!” she cried.
Charlotte opened her eyes, fingers clutching the ivory. “I have one. Did you need it?”
“No, but we do,” Lydia insisted. “A bellows. A blacksmith uses it to increase the heat of his fire. Why couldn’t we?”
Charlotte straightened. “Of course! Just the thing! Oh, Lydia, you’re brilliant!”
Lydia’s cheeks were probably as pink as Charlotte’s. “No, but I like to think I’m observant.”
“As am I,” Miss Pankhurst said. “And Mr. Curtis appears to be headed in this direction.”
Immediately Charlotte pulled in on herself, as if trying to sink into the velvet upholstery behind her. Miss Janssen waxed white. Miss Pankhurst looked entirely too interested in their reactions.
“Allow me,” Lydia said. She rose, shook out her silk skirts, and went to meet the man.
Mr. Curtis inclined his head in greeting as they drew closer. “Miss Villers. What an accomplished dancer you are. Might I request you partner me?”
What was it about this man that so discomfited Worth and his sister? Lydia looked him up and down but saw only a fellow approaching middle age who dressed perhaps too much like a dandy to be taken seriously as a natural philosopher. He associated with Lord Stanhope, so at least that gentleman approved of him. Lady Baminger had invited him to her ball, but Lydia didn’t know whether he belonged in the creative camp, was a sponsor, or, like her brother, had come with his hand out. She did, however, know what to do when a gentleman offered to dance with her.
She smiled with just the right amount of regret. “Alas, Mr. Curtis, but I shall be leaving as soon as the Worthington coach can be brought to the door. Miss Worthington is feeling unwell.”