Mariah bit her lip. She was not one to typically avoid a confrontation, but she had hurt Lord Donal, and she had been only lashing out due to frustration at another.
She had been unfair to him, and he had walked away. Was this, perhaps, a chance to apologize?
“Goodness, have you seen what Miss Tilbury is wearing?”
Mariah jumped. Unnoticed, a gentleman she did not recognize had moved to her side and was now smirking at a lady wearing a gown a few years out of fashion.
“God’s teeth, I am not sure whether I would have ventured out of the house if that was all I had to wear,” the gentleman tittered, nudging Mariah with his arm. “What say you, Miss Wynn? Mr. Cox should have introduced myself.”
There was nothing Mariah wanted less than gossip, let alone a particularly cruel strain of gossip with a stranger. Lord Donal had looked over at them, and she hoped, for a moment, to catch his eye—but he quickly looked away.
“And her hair!” Mr. Cox sneered. “Miss Wynn, have you ever seen anything so hideous?”
Mariah sighed. “I see absolutely no reason why you should make disparaging comments about a person, Mr. Cox, especially when it has naught to do with the person themselves.”
She did not even look around to see whether Mr. Cox was impressed or disappointed with her reaction. Her eyes were fixed on Lord Donal, who appeared to be pointedly avoiding her gaze.
“Oh,” said Mr. Cox. His voice seemed to deflate, but it returned with vigor. “Well, Miss Wynn, ’tis awfully hot in here, do you not think? Perhaps you would like to step outside for some fresh air?”
Mariah rolled her eyes and finally gave Mr. Cox her full attention—and he took a step back. “Mr. Cox, I know what that means, and no. I have no interest in being kissed by you, whoever you are.”
Mr. Cox’s mouth gaped like a fish on land, but Mariah had lost all interest. Lord Donal was watching her, and what was more, he was grinning.
Mariah felt her cheeks pink. Had he been listening to their conversation? She had been true to herself, at least, and a flicker of hope grew.
What difference was it to her if Lord Donal paid any attention to her?
“My word, Miss Wynn, what a thing for a young lady to say!” Mr. Cox was evidently ruffled, though whether it was his injured pride or manners, Mariah could not tell. “Good evening, Miss Wynn.”
Mariah did not bother to incline her head as Mr. Cox walked away. She was still watching Lord Donal, and though he had turned his head away, she was resolved. She would say something.
Weaving across the room and almost knocking over a card table, which caused irritated cries from its occupants, Mariah walked straight up to Lord Donal, finding with surprise that he was a great deal taller than she had remembered.
“Lord Donal,” she said with no preamble, “I wanted to speak with you about our conversation outside the Bodleian Library. I did mean to hurt you, but not that much. I apologize.”
Lord Donal raised an eyebrow. “Did mean to hurt me, but not that much?”
Mariah flushed. Damn and blast it, why did her words never express what she was attempting to say! It was much easier to write things down and consider them, rather than just blurt out whatever came to mind.
“I meant, you hurt me, and I was retaliating, but I should not have said…” Mariah swallowed. “I should not have said what I said, and I am sorry for it. Will you forgive me?”
Her gaze caught his, and a rush of pity overwhelmed her. There it was again, the pain in his dark eyes which he could not hide.
“Apology accepted,” Lord Donal said gruffly, but no other words were forthcoming.
Mariah had expected him to explain himself in turn, sharing the reason why the mention of his mother had had such a profound effect. But it was clear Lord Donal had absolutely no intention of sharing this information. In fact, they stood in complete silence for almost two full minutes.
It had to end. Mariah could not stand it for one more second. “I…I am honestly a little disappointed in myself. I do not know why I would be so…so cruel.”
Lord Donal spoke so quietly that Mariah could almost not hear him. “For most people, it would not have been cruel.”
She waited for him to continue, but when it became evident he had ceased, she prompted, “Most people?”
When Lord Donal finally spoke, there was more pain in his words. “My mother. She died in childbirth. I never knew her, and I will admit, Miss Wynn, I do not know whether she would be proud of me.”
Mariah had no words to say. Lord Donal’s jaw was tight, but now he had started talking, he seemed unable to stop, albeit in a low tone so that only she could hear.
“I have spent most of my life hoping that my mother would be proud of me, I admit it,” he said softly. “But I have never really known. My father never spoke of her and refused to answer any questions when I was growing into a man. He said…he said it was too painful.”
“I am—I am so sorry,” Mariah said quietly. “I know the pain of losing a mother, but to never know her…that is a different kind of loss.”
The fire that usually flowed through her veins when speaking with Lord Donal was absent, instead replaced with a desire to comfort. She could see the pain etched in his features.
“It is indeed,” he said with a forced calmness. “But it has at least taught me that the best way to protect oneself is to avoid the situation altogether. Marriage, devoting your entire life, your entire being to another like that…no. It is not for me. I could not bear to fall in love and then lose that person.”
Mariah did not know what to say to such a pronouncement. This was a gentleman who had suffered, and she could not understand why he was telling her this. What surprised her the most was that this hint of vulnerability, rather than lowering Lord Donal in her estimations, was instead making him a far more attractive gentleman.
Mariah swallowed. Attractive? She did not find Patrick—Lord Donal—attractive. She could not. He did not believe in women’s education. He was everything she fought and railed against.
But the man before her, in this moment, was not fighting, he needed to be comforted. If only she was not so awkward.
“Not every marriage ends so tragically,” she found herself saying. “Did…did your father choose to remarry?”
He shook his head. “I do not believe anyone could live up to the memory of my mother. It still haunts me sometimes. Motherhood, ’tis a dangerous path for any woman to take. I could not—would not place a woman I cared about in such a position.”
Mariah swallowed. She had hardly had such an intimate discussion with some of her oldest friends and relations, and to hear a gentleman speak so in the middle of another’s home…
“I am sure your mother would have great pride in seeing what you have achieved,” she said quietly, resisting the impulse to place her hand on his arm. “Any gentleman who has an education and circulates with some of the best people in Oxford must be doing well.”
But the expected smile of relief and agreement did not come. Instead, Lord Donal laughed bitterly and shook his head. “Ach, the name gets you so far. I barely tried at old university, and yet in deference to my father’s name, they handed over a degree anyway. I am not sure whether that is something my mother would be proud of.”
Despite the concern in her heart, Mariah could not help but feel a flicker of irritation. He had not even wanted to be here, had not tried, had the opportunity of world-class education and access to some of the greatest minds in the country—and yet still thinks it is women who do not deserve to be educated?
But this was not the moment to allow her frustration to overcome her. Quelling her emotions might be a challenge, but it was one she had to meet.
“Your mother was surely a very kind woman,” Mariah said instead, “and she loved you very much. She gave up everything for you.”
Lord Donal nodded. Words now seemed to be beyond him.
“Not knowing your mother personally means that there may have b
een many things she was in favor of, which, perhaps, you are not aware.”
Her words caused a smile to dance briefly across his face. “Like women’s education, for example?”
Mariah smiled, something warm twisting in her heart. “Perhaps.”
He sighed, but he did not seem offended. “Is it possible, Miss Wynn, for us to have any conversation that does not include this topic?”
“No,” she said, her smile widening.
Something strange happened in that instant between them—something Mariah was not entirely sure she could explain. She was certain that Lord Donal was going to take her hand in his. She wanted him to.
But he did not. Instead, he looked up at the clock and sighed. “Half-past nine. I am going to leave. I have had it with this card party.”
Mariah sighed with relief. “Good. If you are leaving, then it will not be seen as rudeness for me to leave with you.”
There was something strange in walking alongside Lord Donal to thank their hostess, ignore her cries for an offered carriage, and walk through the hallway to the front door, which was opened by another liveried footman.
The cold night air hit Mariah’s face and woke her far more competently than any of the card games. There was utter stillness in the evening, with no person and no carriage in the street.
Lord Donal stepped down to the pavement and said curtly, “Are you left or right, Miss Wynn?”
“Right,” Mariah said as she stepped down to join him. “Good evening, Lord—”
Her words were stopped by Lord Donal as he pulled her into a stolen kiss. His lips were heavy on hers, his hand cupping her face, and something wild and passionate was pouring from him into her.
Mariah gasped into the kiss, clutching at the lapels of his greatcoat, barely able to stand. Passion she did not know was meeting his, and his tongue teased her lips into a wild dance that made her entire body feel on fire.
Before she could realize what was happening, it was over. Lord Donal released her, and Mariah staggered back, leaning against the cold metal railings of the Worsley’s home.
“Wh-What was that for?” she managed to splutter.
Lord Donal had something incomprehensible in his eyes. He was staring as though she was the first woman he had ever seen.
“Just an experiment,” he said lightly.
Mariah barely had enough breath to say, “I am not here to be wooed, sir, but to be educated.”
Something like a fiery challenge blazed in his eyes. “An experiment,” he said, “which may have to be repeated.”
Chapter Six
Patrick was smiling as the door opened. “Patrick O’Leary, Viscount Donal.”
The butler nodded. “Yes, you are expected, my lord.”
Patrick stepped forward with a thumping heart. The invitation had been unexpected, true, and guilt now tinged his memories of that lecture, but to be invited to Sir William Herschel’s home… The gossip in Oxford was that Herschel was a recluse, rarely seen in public, and permitting almost no one to visit. The lecture itself had been a surprise.
But to receive an invitation to dine? That was a real honor.
It was at least a break in the monotony of his own rooms. He had never expected to stay longer than a week here, but the Wessex College events calendar had expanded and expanded, and with the heady temptation of Mariah Wynn somewhere in the city at all times, he had not managed to find an excuse to leave.
The hallway was dark, with a musty smell that suggested the front door was rarely opened. A single candle flickered on the wall, and Patrick had little time to take in anything else before the butler had taken his greatcoat and hat, and stepped across the room to open a door.
“My master is in the drawing room, my lord,” he said quietly. “If you will join him.”
Patrick smoothed down his waistcoat and took a deep breath. He was not a fraud for being here. He had a degree, just like anyone. The fact that he had barely cared what his degree was even for was a side point.
Stepping into the drawing room, he had to blink in the comparative brightness that the many candles created. Once his eyes had adjusted, he could see the elderly gentleman seated by the fire, beside an elderly woman who looked remarkably like him. Standing between them and holding a bottle of wine was Mariah.
Patrick’s jaw dropped.
Mariah’s smile was a little too knowing as she looked down her spectacles at him. “Ah, Lord Donal, I thought you would never get here. Did you get lost, or are you employing the socially acceptable rule of being fashionably late?”
Speak now! But he was not able to marshal his thoughts into coherent words. Of all people to find in Sir William Herschel’s drawing room—Mariah? Something desperate was beating with his heart: panic, desire, confusion? A heady mix of all three, maybe something more, but it was enough to entirely paralyze the viscount.
Mariah had not left his thoughts in the last forty-eight hours, not since he had stolen that kiss outside Mrs. Worsley’s card party. But it was one thing to ruminate on desires and passion, and quite another to find the subject of those desires pouring wine for one of the greatest scientific minds of his generation, intruding on his personal dinner invitation from Sir William!
It was time to say something. All three of them were waiting, and Patrick could feel a flush of embarrassment growing.
Unfortunately, his tongue did not seem to agree. “Y-you? Ma-Miss Wynn,” he corrected hastily. “I did not think…what?”
Damn and blast it! Friends described him as silver-tongued, and yet when standing before a scientist, a woman, and the woman he could not stop thinking about, all of that intelligence seemed to disappear!
Mariah finished pouring Sir William some wine and turned to his companion whilst saying, with a gentle smile, “Why, your lordship, I shall have to pour you some wine also, you seem to have something stuck in your throat. Of course I am here. Who do you think recommended to Sir William that you should be invited?”
Patrick’s gaze darted from her to the elderly gentleman, who smiled good-naturedly.
“After all,” Mariah continued, “he would never have heard of you otherwise.”
Patrick was not an easily ruffled man, but those words hurt more than he wanted to admit. Not heard of him? What gave her the right to say such things?
“Indeed, Miss Wynn is entirely correct,” said Sir William in a voice which just hinted at his Hanoverian birthplace. “I am so little in society these days, and I tire so easily, I depend on my friends to ensure I am introduced to the right people. Miss Wynn has been invaluable, and I am glad to make your acquaintance, my lord. You will forgive me if I do not rise.”
It was impossible to remain miffed at Mariah’s words with this gentle explanation from his host, and Patrick allowed the unfurling irritation in his stomach to die away. She meant nothing by it, he was sure, but there was something most irritating about being spoken to like that. As though he was nothing.
Recollecting his manners, he bowed deeply to who he presumed was the lady of the house. “Madam, I am your servant.”
“Nonsense,” she said curtly. She had a little of the Hanoverian lilt, too, but much less pronounced. “I have a servant, and you are not her. What nonsense.”
Mariah had been placing the bottle of wine on a sideboard, but even Patrick could see her shoulders jerking with laughter.
“I-I beg your pardon?”
“Do not tease him, Caroline,” Mariah said severely as she turned back to the group and took a seat opposite Sir William. “He does not know you, nor your sense of humor. Lord Donal, may I introduce you to Miss Caroline Herschel, Sir William’s sister.”
Patrick felt his shoulders relax and unstiffen. Now that he knew they were siblings, it was clear to see the similarities in their features, the same nose, the same aristocratic stare. She was absolutely tiny and had a wonderful glare.
“I sense you do not appreciate my quip,” she said sternly, appraising him through spectacles. “Well, that is
as may be. I always said the English had a strange sense of humor.”
“Irish,” corrected Patrick automatically.
Miss Herschel raised an eyebrow. “That is the way of it, is it? My, what a fascinating gentleman you are, Lord Donal. Sit here, next to me.”
He had much rather have sat in the only other empty seat beside Mariah, but it would be churlish to refuse the lady of the house this courtesy. He bowed before taking his seat.
“An Irishman?” Sir William frowned. “You know, I meet very few Irishmen.”
Patrick nodded. “Not many of us feel welcome, sir, but I have always found the inhabitants of Oxford to be the most hospitable.”
“I, too,” nodded Sir William. “Although London, of course, has its merits. Far too bright at night, though, a terrible amount of light in the place. Tell me…”
It was rather thrilling, sitting here sipping the wine pressed into his hand by a swiftly passing Mariah, listening to Sir William. Patrick knew he was an outsider in England, had been the moment he had stepped out of Ireland. But Sir William saw that not as a detraction from his personal merits, but rather an addition.
Perhaps it was because the Herschels themselves were not English born and bred, Patrick pondered, and have found their home here. Whatever the reason, he was seated with intellectual royalty.
“—and what did you think of my lecture?”
Heat seared his cheeks. He had barely listened to a word of it when seated in the lecture hall and had then disappeared to investigate Mariah. How could he say that to the gentleman who obviously wanted to hear his opinion, eyes wide and smile on his lips?
His discomfort was evidently apparent.
“I am afraid, Sir William, that Lord Donal was not permitted much time to listen to your lecture,” Mariah said smoothly from her seat by the fire. “Sadly, he was prevented from enjoying it. Lord Donal accompanied me outside the lecture hall when I was forcefully removed to…to ensure I was being treated well by the porters.”
Always the Bluestocking Page 6