Maybe if she’d been smarter. Maybe if she’d tried harder to fit in, she wouldn’t have had to beg other chemists to help her. Or maybe, if she’d simply abandoned alchemy altogether like the Earl of Carwarren had advised, and devoted herself to galvanization. She’d dismissed Luigi Galvani’s success with reanimating a frog’s leg as fool’s work—his work only confirmed the presence of electricity; it did not create it. But she might have been able to change that.
Instead, she’d wasted six months—the only window of time Margaret’s preserved body had—trying to recreate an alchemical myth.
She’d lost everything, and she had no one to blame but herself.
And Death.
She tangled her fingers in her hair, tugging at the roots. The quick burst of pain only served as a reminder she was alive, while Margaret was dead. Her hands smelled of burnt sulfur, nitric acid, ethanol and mercury: a noxious combination twisting her already ill stomach.
Heavy footsteps stampeded down the hall, stopping at the study. She opened her eyes and lifted her head as the door flung open. Nicholas rushed over, kneeling down.
“Felicity?” Concern ebbed in his voice, as it had that day in the atrium—but so much more pressing now. “Are you all right? I heard an explosion—”
She had not realized how much she needed him, until there he was in front of her, those earnest brown eyes wide with alarm, the sound of his rich voice enveloping her. Before she could register her own actions, she grabbed for him, needily tugging him closer to her. His arms fell around her, surrounding her with his warmth and strength. The wonderfully masculine smell of him—leather, sandalwood, and something she could not define but was distinctly him and him alone—masked the bitter acridness of the sophick mercury, and she breathed him in, burrowing her nose in the clean scent of his shirt.
He stroked her back, soft, calming motions. She allowed herself to collapse against him, counting backward from one hundred and then when that did not return her breathing to normal, she began reciting the Dalton chemical symbol for each element.
She had not realized she’d spoken aloud until he shifted, so that he could peer down at her. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Repetition soothes me,” she said, readjusting so that she did not have to look him in the eye. It was too much—to actively see his apprehension, while so enveloped by him, for it made her feel like she ought to explain what had happened.
Which she did not want to do.
Because admitting it all meant admitting that she’d failed.
She knew this, without doubt. There was no hope for Margaret. Yet the wound was too new, too raw, to face now.
He let go of her with one arm, so that he could delicately lift her chin up, so that their gazes met. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
She shook her head. Greedily, her fingers clutched at the hem of his waistcoat, then his hips, trying to bring him closer to her. He was so warm, so right, so steady. He’d changed, yet somehow he remained the same.
And she craved that sameness—that sense of constancy, the feeling of family and the familiar, even when everything with him was so different from how it had been before. She remembered the touch of his lips on hers and the way she’d lost control around him, caring only about those feelings.
She lifted her head up from his chest, locking eyes with him. Perhaps, this was the answer she’d been looking for. Could it really be that simple? The boy who had dogged her steps every summer until he became part of her usual rhythm had returned with so much more than a cocky smile and a domineering attitude.
He’d brought comfort. She did not know why his presence was so reassuring; she only knew that he made her mind stop racing so desperately. It was an undeniable fact, and she clung to that sureness for it was the only thing in a sea of horrible, insurmountable changes.
His eyes hadn’t left her lips. He kept staring at her, his chest rising and falling too fast to indicate relaxation—though she’d already noted this, from the slamming of his heart against his chest, the beat frantic.
She blinked, unsure of how to proceed. About anything—because without this quest for Margaret’s return she had no idea what to do with her life—but mostly about where to go with Nicholas.
His head started to incline toward hers, his focus still upon her mouth. She wondered again if she was supposed to close her eyes. It had worked out well enough for her last time to keep them open. Besides, she wanted to see him.
But then, the secret passageway started to open. They managed to scramble out of the way and stand up before the door released. Lady Mallory stood in the doorway, her eyes rounding with delight when she spotted them.
“Felicity!” Mallory took the few steps between them quickly, giving her an awkward half-hug, for Felicity still had one arm looped around Nicholas. The passage door slid into place. “I was so worried about you.”
“I’m fine.” That was a lie—but anything else would have meant she’d have to explain to Mallory what had really happened, and she was not ready to face that yet.
“I’ll take care of her,” Nicholas assured Mallory with a smile.
There was something deeper in his voice, something that sounded like a promise—for so much more than just now. That ought to petrify her, for it meant more changes.
That promise was the best thing—the only good thing—to come out of this hell.
“I believe I heard your aunt talking about going shopping in the village,” Nicholas continued. “It sounded like she’d be ready to go soon.”
“Oh!” Mallory clapped her hand over her mouth. “Time got away from me. Will you be all right, Felicity?”
She nodded. Nicholas had slipped his arm around her. How had she not wanted physical contact before, when his touch made her feel like she was simultaneously on fire, yet completely at peace? She leaned into him, ignoring the knowing glance her friend shot her as they walked Mallory to the door. It closed behind her, leaving Felicity with Nicholas.
For the last six months, she’d thought she was alone without Margaret. Lost, without someone who cared about her with no reservations. Someone who understood her, accepting not just her best qualities but her eccentricities and faults too.
She clasped Nicholas’s hand in her own, stared up into his brown eyes and felt hope. Not for Margaret’s continuance—no, there was nothing that could be done for her guardian. Margaret was gone, but Felicity was still alive.
It was time she started remembering this.
Time she made Margaret proud, by living her own life.
It would be hard, and she would falter. She would miss Margaret, forever—that would never stop. She knew this, just as she knew what she was about to do might change her life, again placing her in unfamiliar territory.
She did it anyhow, because she needed the ease of pain, the sense of hope Nicholas instilled within her.
She needed him.
She moved to face him; her back against the door, their faces so near his breath was hot against her m. Raising her hand to his mouth, she traced the shape of his lips. She admired the symmetry, even as she dropped her thumb and lowered her mouth down on his.
Her first kiss had been naught but a peck. Her second kiss—or perhaps her third, or fourth, she was not sure how to divide up the kisses they’d shared—was an attack, an onslaught upon him, rising up to smash her mouth against his. Her arms wrapped around his, her body pressed up against him, fitting together.
Science had abandoned her, but maybe Nicholas would not.
Chapter 16
They fell back against the door, lips meeting fast, furiously, fiercely. His hands cupped her chin, as she grasped the back of his head, each of them trying to bring the other closer. It was not graceful. Their movements had no finesse. They were creatures of need, fueled by desires even older and more primitive than the alchemical text she’d been reading that day in the parlor. Like then, her fingertips as she’d caressed his lips were stained with ink, and there was a smokiness to her sk
in from the fire in her laboratory.
She was safe, in his arms. Safe, and alive. He kept repeating this to himself, silently, as he worshipped her with his lips, memorizing every line and contour of her wicked, delicious mouth.
It struck him as a contradiction, how her mouth—so oft used to utter monotonous statements with an almost brutal dedication to the God’s honest truth—could be so plush, so worthy of plundering, so rife with longing. But that was Felicity, was it not? A mess of contradictions and complications, for all her loathing of change and complexity.
There was the sharp angle of her chin as he nudged it up to kiss her lips, juxtaposed with the plumpness of her breasts rubbing up against his shirt and waistcoat. She opened willingly to him, and he thrust his tongue in her mouth, tasting her sweet spiciness.
Felicity had been tentative in their first kisses, processing it all and documenting it for further note, learning the lay of the land. But this time, she met him, pace for pace, her eagerness for him as paramount as his own desire. God, she fired his blood like no other woman ever had—kissing her was the answer to every question he’d ever had.
He pressed a kiss beneath her ear, and she let out a breathy moan of encouragement that stoked the elemental fire within him. So he did it again, and again, for she’d once said “through repetition, one can achieve success.” He intended to prove that hypothesis correct with many, many more kisses, as her fingers twisted in his hair, holding him close to her.
Every touch of her hands, every kiss, was a gift to him, the greatest of boons. This woman, so brilliant and unparalleled, had chosen him, and he did not take that lightly. She was his match, strong in the areas where he was weak, and he’d guide her through this new phase.
He pulled back from her to kiss her again, loving the feel of her, the taste of her, honey and cinnamon. Upon her lips he branded their own truth, the story of their burgeoning love and the memories of their friendship.
But he didn’t want to push her too far, too fast. Felicity was new to the physical aspects of relationships—hell, she was new to the emotional aspects, too. He needed to respect that, just as he respected how her brilliant mind worked.
When they pulled apart to catch their breaths, Nicholas held her in his arms, and Felicity leaned her head against his chest. He rested his chin atop her head, the smell of smoke from her hair serving as an ever-present reminder of how close he’d come to losing her.
When he’d heard the explosion, he’d immediately run for the stairs, fearing the worst. He’d suspected her experiments were dangerous, due to the depth of what she was attempting. Given her anguish when he’d found her, he surmised she hadn’t been successful.
She hadn’t wanted to talk about it earlier, but hopefully she would now. He pulled away from her to lead her to the settee. She plopped down next to him, rubbing her thumbs against her temples in a circular motion.
He took a seat next to her, but he did not reach for her hand again, suspecting it would be easier for him to talk to her this way. Every time he touched her, his heart pounded like a bloody racehorse running the Royal Ascot.
“So, the laboratory exploded.” He stated this in the same pragmatic way she usually spoke, hoping she would fill in the details. When she continued massaging her temples instead of meeting his gaze, he leaned forward, prompting her further. “What caused the explosion?”
She let out a long breath that ended in a sigh. “Aqua fortis, when added to sophick mercury.”
“I see,” he said, though he hadn’t the foggiest notion what either of those two things were.
“Sophick mercury is an amalgamation of antimony, silver, and mercury,” Felicity explained, hunching her shoulders, as if she could retreat inside herself. It had to be bad, what had happened in the laboratory.
“And you use it to make the Philosopher’s Stone.” He remembered her talking about this now. At the time, he’d been a little stunned by the going to bring your aunt back to life, Nicholas part of her explanation. “Why did you add the aqua fortis then?”
She let out another long breath, then inched toward him, setting her hand on top of his. He remained still, not wanting her to retreat, but also making sure he gave her the space and time she needed.
“I couldn’t get the stone to transition into the Phoenix,” she said, her nose scrunching up and her brows wrinkling in such abject frustration it would have been amusing, if he hadn’t known how much this meant to her. “I thought I’d found the secret in a manuscript Margaret bought me. But there was a crack in the lamp, and the ethanol splashed onto the mercury and nitric acid, and then it exploded.”
“That must have been terrifying.” Lord knew it had terrified him enough; he could only imagine how she’d felt. “Will you try again, with a new lamp?” He held his breath, dreading her answer.
“No,” she said, with such absolute surety his head snapped up.
He exhaled, but his relief was short-lived, for he did not know why she had stopped. Her insistence before had unsettled him, and he still didn’t believe she should attempt to play God. But he also didn’t want to be the reason she gave up, because that meant she’d resent him later on, as his mother had grown to resent his father. He could not bear to ruin Felicity’s life that way—could not bear to see her so desperately, desperately unhappy.
A woman as devoted, loyal, and brilliant as she was deserved the absolute best in life.
He forced himself to ask the question, even if he meant they had to return to their previous vow of friendship. “Why not, Felicity? Because of me?”
She blinked at him, clearly surprised by the question. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“I said I didn’t support what you were doing.” Before this week, he would have been offended that she hadn’t considered his opinion—but now, he was starting to see that sometimes, he did not have the last say on things.
“Oh. Yes.” She patted his hand. “Nicholas, I like you and I enjoy kissing you, but when it comes to science, I must defer to more educated opinions.”
He couldn’t help but laugh, for even in her admission of her feelings for him, she was to the point. He would always know where he stood with her—and after months of dealing with lords who stabbed him in the back, her candidness was even more valuable.
“I like you too, Lissie, and I greatly enjoy kissing you.” He grinned, relishing the quick pink that flooded her cheeks at his admission.
“That is good, then.” She smiled back at him before returning to the point. “I will not continue with my resurrection attempts for two reasons. One, the explosion turned into a fire, and it burnt most of my notes.”
“Oh, Felicity, I’m sorry,” he said, pressing her hand.
“I will never understand the need for people to apologize for things they did not do.” She arched a brow at him, and while he could have explained to her the societal convention of the expression, he figured there was no point. If he had learned one thing this week, it was that Felicity danced to her own beat, and he was damnably glad for that. “Nevertheless, I suppose I appreciate the sentiment.”
“And I appreciate your appreciation,” he said, chuckling.
She nodded, a swift, quick incline before her face became impassive again. “Second, even before the explosion, I could tell that the experiment wasn’t going to work. The stone kept repeating the white cycle, instead of transitioning. Aqua fortis was my last hope. Margaret’s body has degraded too much to be saved.”
Tears had begun to fill her eyes as she described the failed experiment, never falling. Her voice dripped with agony, and he could do nothing to make it better.
“I’m sorry,” he said, without thought. “I mean—”
She stopped him with a quick kiss. “I know what you mean, and I thank you.”
That little kiss meant more to him than the far more explicit attentions he’d received from other women. He chucked her on the shoulder. “I have no doubt in mind that if it was possible to resurrect th
e dead, you would have accomplished it. You’re the most determined woman I’ve ever met, and you truly are the cleverest.”
That made her grin, a real, true, all-encompassing smile, like she’d given Lady Hettie on her arrival. His heart clenched. Finally, he knew what it was like to bring Felicity joy, and it was everything he’d thought it’d be—and more.
“Took you long enough to realize it,” she said.
He tugged her closer to him, placing a kiss atop her head. “Well, I plan on being here for a long time, so you can keep reminding me if I ever forget again.”
She pulled back, so that she could peer up at him. “What do you mean by that?”
Trust Felicity to need it all spelled out for her, with the details neatly delaminated. He didn’t know how she’d take his offer—only that he wanted to be with her, for the long-term. “I’d like to court you, if that’s acceptable. We can take things as slow as you want.”
“I…” She considered for a moment, and he felt his heart stop as her face screwed up in thought. After a moment of nerve-wracking silence, she nodded decisively. “I would like that. But when I said before that I wasn’t duchess material—I’m even less suited to that now. You must see that, given my experiments.”
He couldn’t deny that. But he also knew that he had to start living for himself, instead of seeking everyone else’s approval. And what he wanted—what he’d always wanted, if he’d been honest with himself—was Felicity.
“I can’t promise that the ton will greet you with open arms,” he said, not wanting her to enter into this without having full knowledge. “There are some societal functions I will have to attend, yes, because of my position in the House of Lords. But I can help you navigate that world.” When she blanched, he added quickly, “Without Georgina’s input.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Would you give me a set of instructions? Rules to follow. Proper conversation topics. I work best with guidelines.”
He winked at her. “Do you really think I’d ever pass up the opportunity to order around Felicity Fields?”
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