Katarina and Neville separated quickly. By the time Mummy glanced their way, they walked side by side with the utmost decorum, smiling politely at her inquiry.
“Neville invited me for a ride later.”
“Oh, how lovely! The weather is a bit unpredictable, so be sure to wear your bonnet.” She turned around again.
“And nothing else,” Neville whispered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Mummy!” Katarina smacked Neville’s arm. “What were you saying about the weather?”
“You know, my old bones still haven’t quite grown accustomed to this English climate, and I sometimes . . .”
Neville spied a closet between the family parlor and what had been the old duke’s private study. He grabbed Katarina’s hand and dragged her inside, immediately pressing her back against the bare wall. He held her by the hips and devoured her with his mouth—such sweet heat, such torture! The encounter lasted only seconds and did nothing to slake his desire, but he knew he should not press his luck.
Neville tugged her out into the well-lit hall once more. They scurried to catch up to Mummy, who was still finishing her thought.
“. . . but I find it is the combination of cold and damp that is most distressing, and . . .”
Katarina gave Neville a sideways glance. They both had to stifle their laughter. In that instant, Neville knew he would never grow tired of her lovely face, those fiercely intelligent dark eyes, her kind heart, and her wickedly playful behavior. And to think, this remarkable woman was about to become his wife, his duchess, his lifelong best friend.
Indeed, fortune had smiled upon him. Overcome, he reached for her hand and cradled it in his.
“Now, now, you two! Don’t get carried away!” Mummy Beckham had spun around and now wagged a finger in the direction of their handholding. They pulled apart obediently.
“Be patient, my darlings.” Paulette faced forward again and resumed walking. “As I was saying, I am still uncertain about the cakes. After all, this shall be the wedding of the year! So should we offer a lemon poppy seed along with a chocolate? Or perhaps the nougat almond cake with . . .”
Neville placed his lips to Katarina’s ear. “We’re going to have an extraordinary life together, you and I.”
She nodded softly, reaching up to caress his cheek. “Indeed, we are.”
“I love you, Kat.”
“And I you, Neville. Forever.”
• • •
AND BACK AT WORTHINGTON HOUSE . . .
IRIS DARED NOT to change her rhythm, continuing to brush Atalanta’s long ginger hair in repetitive strokes, making a bit more progress on the tangles with each pass.
The youngest—and most combative—of Iris’s children had decided that today was the day she would allow her mother to give her long hair a thorough brushing.
Attie fiddled with her slingshot in silence as Iris dragged the boar bristles through the strands. Only a few times had Attie hissed in discomfort. On those occasions, her eyes would flash a warning in the mirror. Iris merely smiled back.
She wondered why Attie had suddenly acquiesced. Since the day the child was born, everyone in the family had struggled to perform even the most basic grooming on Atalanta’s hair. Her screeching refusals were legendary.
Iris wondered if it was her age. She was almost fourteen now. She wore proper dresses regularly, sometimes over hidden breeches, but still it was an important development. Perhaps Attie was aware that she was maturing, approaching the day on which she would become a woman.
Iris concentrated on gathering the thick hair into a single handful. Perhaps, if she could distract Attie long enough, she could even put it up into a chignon atop her head. “Shall we add a bit of satin ribbon?”
Attie looked up and frowned, causing Iris to assume she had asked for too much. Oh well. Tomorrow was another day.
But then Attie nodded. “I don’t see why not.”
Iris’s hands froze. “You don’t?”
“I can always remove it if I find it does not suit me. It’s not as if a ribbon is permanent.”
Iris stifled her smile and went back to brushing.
“So, Iris, I’ve been wondering about something.”
“Mmm-hmm?”
Attie fiddled with a tiny bow on the front of her dress. “Who’s next?”
“Who’s next for what, darling?”
“You know . . . which Worthington should we match next? So far we’ve found good homes for Orion, Castor, Calliope, Elektra, and Bliss. Whose turn is it now?”
Iris hummed in thought. “That’s a good question, dearest. Who do we have left?”
“Daedalus, Lysander, and Pollux, of course.”
Iris pulled up on the thick bundle of hair and began to pin it in place. “Of course. So, do we begin with the easiest match to make? Or the Worthington most in need of companionship? Or perhaps we should start with the one whose match will require the greatest amount of time and effort?”
Attie met her mother’s gaze in the mirror. “If you put it that way, I suppose we have quite a decision to make.”
“Indeed.”
Attie set her slingshot on the dressing table. “Well, if you ask me, Pollux is in most need. He ran away when Miranda chose Cas over him. I think his heart may still be broken.”
“You might be right about that, dear.” Iris was amazed—somehow Attie had not complained about the position of her chignon. Iris set about placing the last few pins.
“But if Poll’s heart is broken, he might not be ready for love,” Attie continued. “He might be so afraid of getting hurt again that he would resist even if we found a most excellent match.”
“Oh my, yes. That is a very wise observation, dear. Perhaps we should give him more time to heal. So, who will it be?”
“Dade is the obvious choice.” Attie absently patted her hair. Still, there was no shrieking. “I should think someone as handsome, brave, and honorable as Dade would be easy to match. I can’t see anyone not falling in love with him.”
“Ah, that is true, but what will it take for him to fall in love? He holds everyone to the highest of standards, especially himself. Finding a woman who can provoke Dade’s admiration might prove to be a challenge.”
Attie sighed. “Then that leaves only Lysander.” She said nothing more.
Iris stayed quiet as well.
The silence stretched on for a long moment, during which time Iris had begun to tie the ribbon in place. Still no complaining.
In truth, Iris did not know what to say about Lysander. She loved her brave boy dearly, and her heart ached for him. But she worried he might be too damaged to marry, no longer even capable of giving and receiving love from his family. She desperately wished happiness for her taciturn son, but she knew it was almost too much to hope.
Attie broke the silence. “I propose we make Lysander our priority, then. It could take years to find his match, and it will probably be a great deal of bother, and in the meantime Poll might become more amenable. We might even come across someone special enough for Dade in the process.”
“Now, that is a fine plan, Atalanta.” She tidied up a few stray hairs and patted her on the shoulders. “There we are. Now, don’t you look lovely?”
Attie turned her head to and fro, poking at the chignon and fiddling with the ribbon. “It is not terrible, I suppose.”
Iris saw her little girl try not to smile at her own reflection. Atalanta Worthington would one day become an exceptionally beautiful woman, perhaps during the time it would take for them to find matches for Lysander, Poll, and Dade.
Iris pressed her cheek to Attie’s ear. “Aren’t we forgetting someone, my dear?”
Atalanta wrinkled her nose.
“There is one more Worthington—you, Attie.”
She dropped eye contact with Ir
is and stared at herself in the mirror. Attie raised a hand to her cheek. Iris watched her daughter in fascination, noting how her scowl had transformed into a look of speculation.
“Yes,” Attie said matter-of-factly. “There is me.”
READ ON FOR A PREVIEW OF ANOTHER
WICKED WORTHINGTONS ROMANCE.
I Thee Wed
AVAILABLE NOW FROM SIGNET SELECT.
ORION Worthington stood in the foyer of Blayne House while a footman swiftly divested him of his wet hat and overcoat.
Although he was not yet accustomed to such attention to his person, neither was he disturbed by it. Although Iris and Archie never cared for abundant household help, there was no shame in keeping servants. A highly trained, highly paid position in a fine house was much sought after in these troubled times. Sir Geoffrey was exacting in his preferences, but Miss Judith Blayne, Sir Geoffrey’s daughter, saw that the master’s every desire was catered to.
In a way, he was also now a retainer, although laboratory assistants were more in the way of apprentices, generally there to learn and to someday progress to take their master’s place.
The contrast between this serene abode and the anarchic, jumbled Worthington House was so extreme that for an instant Orion doubted his impression of his own home. While the last memory of mud was being rubbed from his gleaming boots by a kneeling footman, Orion squinted against the shimmer of pristine housekeeping perfection and brought his family home to mind.
In the foyer, one might find random deposits of books, muddy shoes, dropped gloves, books, stray machine parts collected by or for Castor, one of the inventor twins, a scowling sister, books, a vague and dreamy mother, books, a Shakespeare-quoting father—dressed, one might hope, in something more than baggy winter drawers—a dueling sword or two, a musical instrument that was meant to be sent for repair but had gathered a decade of dust to its once-polished bosom, books, a second scowling sister . . .
“Ah!”
It was his new mentor, Sir Geoffrey himself. “Mr. Worthington, at last!”
• • •
UNFORTUNATELY, IN HER flight from the cook, Francesca ran in the wrong direction. Had she headed to the right, she could have used the servant staircase to make her way to her bedchamber unseen. Instead, out of habit she headed left, and the only staircase for her to use led directly through the main living areas of the house.
She looked a terrible mess, of course. One could hardly cook, and cook well, without digging in deep. But she’d been at it since dawn, first baking the delicious crusty bread that even the cook admitted was excellent, and then beginning her sauce with all the first beautiful pickings from her little garden in honor of the new arrival! And of course she’d had to stop to weed a little, and she’d spent a few minutes seeing to her specimens housed by the back garden . . .
No, despite her highly productive day, Sir Geoffrey would not approve of her mussed, floured, steamed, and spattered state!
She put on a burst of speed. If she was in luck, the new resident of Blayne House had not yet arrived, and she could dash up the stairs to change before—
“Ah, Mr. Worthington! At last!”
Francesca skidded to a stop just as she entered the foyer, narrowly avoiding running directly into Judith, her cousin. Blast it!
And of course, the occupants of Blayne House were all present and accounted for. Sir Geoffrey was stepping forward to greet the newcomer. Francesca winced when she saw that her uncle wore the Coat.
She’d lived in Blayne House long enough to recognize Sir Geoffrey’s favorite surcoat, a fitted thing of dark blue wool, trimmed in gold thread, with some sort of family emblem stitched elaborately upon the back—which family she could not imagine, for she knew perfectly well that her father’s lineage was not especially distinguished in history. Like her, Sir Geoffrey was descended from a long line of scholars and professors, with the occasional minor explorer or military officer. Then again, she couldn’t really say, for Sir Geoffrey and Papa were only half brothers.
Whatever the source, the Coat meant that Sir Geoffrey considered the arrival of Mr. Orion Worthington to be an Occasion. With horror, Francesca realized that her cousin appeared entirely prepared for an Occasion.
The statuesque, highly ornamental Judith was always perfectly attired for whatever she did, usually without a single golden hair out of place, and always with her serene expression intact upon her lovely face. Judith would look tranquil in a hurricane, her ivory brow unwrinkled even if she were pursued by dragons!
Francesca brushed furtively at her skirts and then realized that she still wore the sackcloth apron she’d donned this morning. She stripped it off quickly, hiding behind the thankfully tall Judith to do so. The stubborn strings would not untie, so she resorted to pulling it over her head.
The knotted strings caught on her hair, which took advantage of the situation to tumble down around her shoulders. Francesca had an adversarial relationship with her hair. For some time now, she had suspected that perhaps her hair was winning.
There was little she could do about it now. Sir Geoffrey would find fault no matter how she appeared, so she straightened, pasted a pleasant expression upon her face, and hoped that Mr. Orion Worthington would at least be a lively addition to this gracious but incredibly boring house.
Going up on tiptoes, Francesca peeked over Judith’s shoulder for a preemptive glimpse.
Che bello!
Mr. Worthington was what Nonna Laura would call “a superior specimen.” Francesca tended more toward expressive language. The words “chiseled” and “striking” and even “splendid” drifted through her mind as she stared slack-jawed in wonder.
He was tall, dark, and magnifico. With dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, broad shoulders, and narrow hips, he was dressed like a gentleman in somber black. A dark sapphire silk waistcoat was the only touch of color.
He didn’t look like a scientist. He didn’t even quite look like a gentleman! To Francesca, underneath his socially suitable clothing and demeanor, the man before her fairly vibrated with potent male power barely held in check. He looked like a wolf in a sheep meadow, holding very still in the hopes that he would go unnoticed.
Francesca had expected someone bookish, mushroom-pale, and possibly stoop-shouldered, like so many of Sir Geoffrey’s colleagues, but of course younger. Mr. Worthington looked as though he might crack a book, but only after a stimulating gallop through the woods, where he would bring down a buck with a single shot and carry it home on his shoulders.
Wipe your chin, Chessa.
She waited breathlessly for him to smile. If he smiled, or made a clever jest, or even showed the tiniest sense of the absurd, she was sure she would promptly fall in love.
Alas, Mr. Worthington remained entirely somber. His chiseled features portrayed only the thinnest veneer of interest in the social niceties. He looked very much like a man who thought chatting about the weather was a shameful waste of valuable air.
Of course, Francesca rather agreed with that, but she decided that on Mr. Worthington, it looked ever so slightly . . . well, rude. How disappointing.
She ought not to jump to conclusions. When she’d first arrived at Blayne House, she’d thought Sir Geoffrey pompous and self-important, and Judith impossibly unemotional. And look how that had turned out!
Sir Geoffrey dripped pretensions from every word, and Judith was more like a decorative object than a person. However, that did not mean that all of Francesca’s snap judgments would be so accurate. That was a gamble she was bound to lose someday.
Fine, then. Step forward to be introduced to Mr. Orion Worthington and see for yourself.
I will. Just as soon as my toes uncurl!
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Wedded Bliss Page 31