She startled as Ramsdale’s tongue flirted with her upper lip. So soft, so intimate that single touch.
He eased his mouth from hers, and Philomena sank her hand into his hair.
Don’t go. Not yet. Not so soon. This experiment isn’t over.
He wrapped an arm around her, and Philomena leaned into him, breathing with him and gathering her courage.
All day, she’d remained steadfastly loyal to her missing Duke, droning on and on about cats, nightcaps, megrims, and mulligrubs. She’d puzzled out abbreviations, resurrected forgotten vocabulary, and deconstructed sentences that were the grammatical equivalent of London’s Roman wall.
Her mind was tired, her soul was lonely, and her body was clamoring for more of Ramsdale’s kisses.
He apparently considered that little taste of intimacy enough, a mere pressing of mouths and bodies, a single flirtation of the tongue, and this half embrace in twilight shadows. Indignation organized itself from among the welter of emotions silently racking Philomena.
Indignation that her only experience of a pleasurable kiss should be so brief, so quickly over. Years ago, a few of the university boys had tried to steal kisses from her. Their larceny had been hasty, inept, and so very disappointing.
Philomena’s history of kisses had nothing in common with the raptures Catullus had written of, and Ramsdale’s kiss hinted of greater joys than she’d glimpsed. He ran his hand down her back, a slow caress that spoke of competence and confidence.
He drew a breath and slowly let it out, her cheek riding the rise and fall of his chest. “Philomena, I did not intend—”
No. No, Ramsdale would not apologize, reason away, or explain his kiss, not when he’d shared such a fleeting, paltry hint of what Philomena suspected a kiss—with him—could be. She took a firm grip of his hair, gave him one instant to stare at her in surprise, then joined her mouth to his.
He remained passive, drat him to the bowels of the British Museum, did not repeat that caress to her back, did not sigh against her mouth, but remained stoically enduring her kiss, as if some other man had shown her the cherishing tenderness he’d lavished on her moments ago.
Philomena did not know what to do, did not have a vocabulary of caresses or love words, so she resorted to imitation, to dancing her tongue across his lips, once, twice… To running her hand over his chest in a slow exploration of masculine contours. She pressed closer, until she could feel the mechanism of his watch moving in a tiny, mechanical march beneath her heart.
Do not leave me to wonder for another ten years what a kiss might be. Do not abandon me to uncertainty and ignorance. Do not set me aside, ignore me, or assume that you may determine all the parameters of our dealings.
All of this she put into her kiss. She conveyed to Ramsdale the longing and loneliness, the outrage and frustration, on a soft groan. He lashed his arms about her and lifted her bodily, bracing her back against the wall.
He plundered, she invaded. He lectured, she rebutted. He took her captive, and she declared victory, until they were both panting. Ramsdale braced a hand above her head against the wall, and Philomena let him support her.
Her mind would not work, her body would not calm. Not in any language did she have words for what she’d just experienced.
With Ramsdale before her and the wall at her back, Philomena occupied a small world filled with the scent and heat of him, and with her own sense of vindication. There was more to life than Latin and mending. She had both hoped and feared it was so, and silently thanked Ramsdale for confirming her suspicions.
“I hear Catullus laughing,” he said, straightening enough to trace a finger down the side of Philomena’s cheek.
The earl was all self-possession and wry amusement, while Philomena felt as if she’d walked into a door. What mortal could survive a thousand such kisses, much less write poetry about them?
“Laughing at me?” Philomena asked.
The amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by what might have been sadness. “No, love.” He straightened and ran a hand through his hair. “Should I apologize?”
“I will kick you if you apologize, my lord. Kick you in a notoriously vulnerable location.”
He stepped back. Moment by moment, he was assembling his earl-lishness. Sardonic half smile, proud bearing, distant gaze, subtly unwelcoming expression… Philomena wanted to weep, to take his hand and place it against her cheek, to prove by touch that a man, not merely an aristocrat, shared the alley with her.
“Do you agree,” he said, taking her rose from the top of the wall, “that one need not resort to potions or magic formulas to engage the attentions of a member of the opposite sex?”
Philomena took the rose from his grasp and brought it to her nose. He’d tried for lordly amusement and failed. His question had been flung too carelessly in her direction, his gaze remained too steadfastly on the cobblestone path they’d trod.
Philomena unlatched the gate to her father’s back garden. “No, I do not agree. A wound might heal without medical attention, but heal faster if properly treated. You might attract a lady through your appearance, wealth, or skills, but capturing her heart could happen more easily if you had the Duke’s secrets. We can discuss this at greater length when I resume translating tomorrow.”
She was grateful for the deepening shadows and steeled herself for a witticism that would cut, for all it amused. Ramsdale hadn’t meant for that kiss to become so passionate, and that bothered him. Philomena liked that he was bothered on her account, and that was foolish.
He bowed. “I’ll bid you good evening.”
A curtsey was in order. Philomena instead kissed the earl’s cheek, then latched the garden gate behind her. She sat in solitude long after the earl’s steps had faded, until darkness had fallen and the air had grown chilly, and still, she had no words for what that kiss meant to her.
*
“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” Lady Maude said, “I’ll bid you good evening. Do enjoy the port.”
She curtseyed and aimed a demure smile at Ramsdale. The angle of her curtsey was such that a view of her décolletage was also aimed his direction.
“You’re fond of chess,” the Marquess of Amesbury said as his daughter quit the dining room. “Let’s repair to the game room, shall we?”
“A fine notion.”
Was Ramsdale fond of Lady Maude? Of all the young ladies on offer this year, he’d thought her the most appealing. She was sensible, of an appropriate station to become his countess, played the pianoforte well but not too well, and enjoyed apparent good health.
“How did you find His Grace of Lavelle?” Amesbury asked, taking a seat on the black side of the chessboard.
The game room was the most masculine domain in the entire town house, with fowling pieces, dress swords, and hunting portraits sharing equal space on the walls. A billiards table dominated the room, and the card table would seat eight comfortably.
The chess table had been set up by the fireplace, with screens positioned to reflect both light and warmth.
So why did the chess set feel like a metaphor for an elegant ambush?
“I found Their Graces well,” Ramsdale said. “Their daughter thrives too. Berkshire is pretty at any time of year, and Lavelle’s ancestral pile has benefited from having a duchess in residence.”
Amesbury tidied up his forces, putting each piece at the exact center of the square. The marquess was a spare, dapper fellow with thinning sandy hair and an avuncular air that masked a keen interest in politics.
Ramsdale was not interested in politics, any more than most schoolboys were interested in sums. One endured, one did what was necessary. One did not pretend to a propensity one lacked.
“Lavelle’s choice of duchess was unusual,” Amesbury said. “But then, His Grace is without parents or elders to guide him on such a matter. Perhaps the duchess, being of gentry stock, will be a good breeder.”
The comment was distasteful. Lavelle had married a neighbor of long
-standing from a respectable family. More to the point, he’d married a woman with whom he was wildly in love.
Ramsdale moved a queen’s pawn.
“Their Graces were well acquainted before the marriage,” he said, “and the duchess comes from respectable family on both sides. Lavelle chose deliberately and well. Your move, sir.”
Actually, Ramsdale was the one who should have been making a move. The purpose of this gathering, despite the meal served and the chess in progress, was for him to ask permission to court Lady Maude.
He’d made that decision in June, as the Season had ended. An earl needed heirs, and Ramsdale had no interest in entangling himself in that great drama known as the love match.
The marquess moved his king’s knight, which usually presaged a slow march across the field.
“Lavelle chose expediently,” Amesbury said. “His duchess, being of common stock, won’t expect lavish entertainments or London extravagance. She’ll be content to manage her nursery, but she’ll hardly be a political asset.”
While Lady Maude would be the perfect political hostess.
Ramsdale moved his bishop. Bishops covered a lot of ground in a single move and tended to be overlooked as weapons.
“I hope every mother would take an interest in the denizens of her nursery,” Ramsdale said. “My own mama certainly did.”
Amesbury sat back, as if the game had progressed past opening moves, which—where Lady Maude was concerned—it should have.
“Times were different,” Amesbury said. “My own late marchioness knew better than to meddle where the boys were concerned, but she lavished the best governesses and tutors on our Lady Maude. My daughter had a different instructor for watercolors and pastels, a voice teacher, and a teacher for the pianoforte. She’s quite accomplished.”
Could she insult a man in Low German? Work at the same document for four straight hours? Make a feast of a simple luncheon and kiss as if she were promising her whole soul to the one who kissed her back?
Ramsdale pretended to study the board, though in his mind’s eye, he was seeing Philomena seated at his desk, twiddling a goose quill while she sorted various possibilities for an obscure abbreviation.
Philomena gesturing enthusiastically as she explained the intricacies of the vocative case to Ramsdale along the length of Oxford Street.
Philomena grabbing him by the hair and kissing him so passionately he’d nearly started unbuttoning his falls.
“Your move, Ramsdale.”
He advanced another pawn, a random, dilatory maneuver that fit into no larger strategy.
“How fares your bill?” Ramsdale asked. Amesbury always had bills churning about in the House of Lords.
“Which one? My bill for the establishment of a board to oversee the turnpike trusts is meeting with significant opposition, but then, we knew it would. I’ll not be worn down by a bunch of pinchpenny barons who can’t see that roads are the key to the realm’s commercial success. Yes, we can ship a great deal by sea or canal, but how do the goods get to and from port, I ask you?”
As the game wandered along, Ramsdale lured Amesbury from one political diatribe to the next, though the marquess occasionally tossed in references to Lady Maude’s attributes as a hostess, waltzing partner, and musician.
Before his lordship started mentioning how many teeth the lady possessed, Ramsdale brought the chess game to a close. The marquess played without guile, simply moving pieces about in reaction to Ramsdale’s initiatives.
Such a man was easy to manage, and thus Ramsdale made the game look much closer than it was. Ramsdale did not, however, allow the marquess an unearned victory.
“Will you be attending Professor Peebles’s retirement banquet?” Ramsdale asked, returning his pieces to their starting positions.
The marquess put the black queen on her square. “Phineas Peebles? Why do you ask?”
“I was under the impression he was a family connection. Am I mistaken?”
Amesbury considered the queen. “You are not mistaken, though Peebles disdains to recollect that notion. Academics can be eccentric.”
The marquess, who’d waxed loquacious about turnpikes, excise taxes, and the economic implications of imported French soaps, said nothing more.
“Peebles has a daughter,” Ramsdale said, setting the white king on his square. Ramsdale had looked for a resemblance between Philomena and her cousin Lady Maude and found little. Lady Maude was dainty, blond, and graceful.
Philomena was substantial, plain, and ferociously passionate.
“Peebles has a daughter, as do I,” Amesbury said. “A pity Maude could not play us a few airs while we enjoyed our chess. She’s very skilled.”
Skilled, not passionate. A proper lady had no use for passion, and if asked a week ago, Ramsdale would have approved of that view.
But then Philomena had shown up at the Albion, wearing those ridiculous blue glasses, waiting two hours for a chance to earn some coin.
When all the pieces had been positioned, Amesbury turned the board so he had the white pieces. “Shall we play again? I’ll not be distracted this time by your parliamentary questions. You can fool me once, Ramsdale, but I’m wise to your tricks now.”
Amesbury shook an admonitory finger at Ramsdale, the gesture intended to be playful.
Ramsdale was not charmed. The moment had come to raise the topic of paying addresses to Lady Maude, and Ramsdale wasn’t charmed by that prospect either.
“The hour grows late,” he said, the most trite of clichés, “and I’m not entirely recovered from ruralizing in Berkshire. I’ll thank you for a fine meal and a good game, my lord.”
Amesbury was too much the parliamentarian to show his dismay at this abrupt departure. He rose and accompanied Ramsdale to the stairs.
“You were hoping to spend more of the evening with Lady Maude, I venture. How can the chessboard compare to a young woman’s accomplishments? Perhaps next week you’ll share another meal with us. I’m free on Wednesday, and I know Lady Maude will rearrange her schedule at her papa’s request.”
Such an obedient female, was Lady Maude. Obedient, and… dull, bless her soul. Ramsdale would not have to exert himself to win her or woo her, wouldn’t have to compete with Catullus or the mysteries of medieval law Latin to gain her notice.
“My schedule is as yet unsettled,” Ramsdale said, making his way to the front door. “Perhaps I’ll see you at Peebles’s retirement banquet?”
This question was the equivalent of moving a pawn to distract from a larger strategy, a random exploratory gesture that amounted to nothing.
“Not likely. Why don’t we plan on Thursday if Wednesday doesn’t suit?”
“Perhaps the following week,” Ramsdale said as the butler handed him his greatcoat. “I’ll send ’round an invitation when I’ve sorted out my current obligations.”
“And gained the permission of your cook,” Amesbury said. “I know how the bachelor household is run. The right countess could spare you all that.”
Hunt season had begun in the shires and apparently here in London as well.
“I’ll bid you good night, my lord, and thanks again for a lovely evening.”
Ramsdale did not run down the steps, though he set a brisk pace—a very brisk pace.
Chapter Five
‡
“This is the worst codicil so far,” Philomena said. “I’ll need to start a list of terms I can’t translate and have Jane help me with them.”
Ramsdale had taken to wandering the library rather than making notes. That’s how convoluted and hopeless the sixth codicil was. Philomena had been able to translate the first three at sight, the fourth by consulting a few references, and the fifth by consulting every reference Ramsdale’s library boasted.
Five days remained before Papa’s banquet, with three codicils to go and not a Duke or de Motibus Humanis—the portion of the work Hephaestus referenced most often—in sight.
Ramsdale peered into the lens of a telescope
that was aimed at the leafy canopy of the square across the street. “You’d consult Jane rather than your father?”
“Papa thinks I’m teaching your sister French.” That scheme had been Ramsdale’s own invention, though for the past few days, the earl had been distracted—taking very few notes, mostly staring into space, while Philomena stumbled and thrashed her way through Hephaestus’s verbal puzzles.
“Teaching Melissa her French, right.” The orrery gained his notice next. He gave Venus a gentle nudge with one finger and set the planets in motion. The solar system had been crafted mostly of copper, and midday sunshine pouring through the window turned the heavenly bodies to fire as they traveled in their orbits.
“My lord, if you’re bored, I can struggle on here without you. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
Better things to do than distract Philomena from her Latin, which Ramsdale did without even saying a word. The pull and stretch of his breeches over his thighs as he paced the library was a declension Philomena had never noticed before: need, want, desire, yearning, longing.
Ramsdale’s mouth had become a conjugation of possibilities: I kiss, you kiss, he kisses, we kiss…
He halted the sun, moon, and planets. “I shall be going out. I can have your luncheon served here or in the breakfast parlor.”
Philomena was certain that “going out” had not been on his lordship’s agenda two minutes ago, but getting rid of him would be a relief.
Mostly. “In here will suffice. We are running out of time, and so far, I can’t see a single clue among all of Hephaestus’s rantings.”
He’d gone Old Testament on them with the fourth codicil, pearls before swine, a dog returning to its vomit, all quite graphic and unpleasant, and much of it an exhortation in Ramsdale’s direction.
“I’d rather you not consult with Jane, if you can avoid it.”
“I can avoid it.”
How to Find a Duke in Ten Days Page 6