by Rowan Nina
“His bark is worse than his bite,” Mr. Hall said without concern, his voice almost amused. “Unless you’re his own child. Sit down, please, Miss Jane, and we’ll begin.”
Jane sat at the piano but glanced toward the alcove at the earl. The outside door shut with a click as he left.
She turned her attention to the piano, obeying Mr. Hall’s instructions as she tried to convince her fingers to cooperate with her brain. After an hour of learning the keys and starting scales, Jane followed Lydia from the town house with a lesson book and a sense that she might not have an exact talent for music.
“It’ll take some time,” Lydia assured her as the cab rattled toward home. “Once you start learning songs and such, I’m sure it’ll become more interesting.”
“Did you ever take piano lessons?” Jane asked.
“No.” Lydia looked out the window. “Too busy with other things.”
Jane glanced at the notebook Lydia still held on her lap. As much as she loved her sister, she couldn’t help wondering why Lydia never seemed to do anything beyond mathematics and tutoring. She’d never married, she didn’t have friends over for tea, and she attended social events rarely and only when Grandmama insisted upon it; she didn’t even like shopping or going to the theater.
Seemed to Jane there ought to be more to life than numbers. Certainly there ought to be more to Lydia’s life.
“Where did you meet Lord Northwood?” she asked suddenly.
Lydia gave her a startled look. “Oh… I can’t remember. Why?”
“His father is a bit stern. Lord Northwood didn’t seem that way. Neither did Mr. Hall.”
Lydia made a murmuring noise. “What did you say to him? Lord Rushton?”
“I asked him about his seedlings and what might be the matter with my fern. Seems he’s got an insect problem. He wasn’t as… as earlish as I thought he might be.”
“What did you think he’d be like?”
“Rather majestic, I suppose, as if he’d just come from meeting with the queen. Instead he was more grumpy than regal. I don’t suppose he’s invited to court often.”
“Because of his temper?” Lydia smiled. “Papa was once received at court, you know. When he was knighted. That was years before you were born.”
“Did you attend the ceremony?”
“No, but Mother told me about it. She said it was magnificent, if a bit severe. I’d the sense that she would have liked to tell a rude joke or something simply to see what would happen.”
Jane grinned. “Was she fond of jokes?”
“She was fond of laughter.” A soft, bittersweet affection flashed in Lydia’s eyes. Jane knew that though their mother had died a decade ago, shortly after Jane was born, Lydia had lost her long before that. And yet Lydia rarely spoke of their mother’s illness—she told Jane only of the days when she was whole and well, the way her eyes lit with happiness and her laughter sounded like bells.
“She wanted everything to be light,” Lydia said. “Cheerful.”
“Not like Papa,” Jane said, then added, “Or you.”
“No.” Lydia slipped her arm around Jane, drawing her closer. “I’ve always been like him. Serious, academic. But secretly I wanted to be more like her.”
“Why?”
Lydia brushed her lips across Jane’s temple. “Because I thought life would be easier.”
“But her life wasn’t easy at all,” Jane said.
“No, that’s true. I was wrong.”
Lydia’s arm tightened around Jane with sudden urgency, and she pressed her cheek against Jane’s hair. Jane started a moment, then slipped her arms around Lydia’s waist and hugged her.
“Do you still miss her?” she asked.
“All the time.”
“I wish I did.” Jane’s voice grew smaller, colored with a hint of shame. “But I didn’t even know her. I mean, I wish she were still here, but I didn’t know her at all, or what she was like… Is it wrong that I can’t miss her?”
“Oh, no. No. And you did know her. For too short a time and not as any of us would have liked, but you knew her.”
“Everything would be different if she hadn’t died, wouldn’t it?” Jane asked. “If she hadn’t gotten sick.”
Lydia’s grip tightened. Jane heard her sister’s heart beating beneath her cheek, a rapid thumping that made her look up.
“Yes.” The word was tight, strained. Lydia looked over Jane’s head out the window. “Everything would be different.”
Tension threaded through her sister’s body. Jane frowned, then reached over to squeeze Lydia’s hand.
An odd, uncomfortable feeling rose in her—the sense that Lydia didn’t want to imagine just how different things might have been if their mother had lived.
Hot, damp air filled the greenhouse, making Alexander’s collar too tight, his coat too heavy. Resisting the urge to pull at his cravat, he passed rows of flowering plants to where his father stood examining a pot of soil.
“Sir.” Alexander stopped a short distance away. An old, familiar feeling rose in him—a strange combination of pride and inadequacy whose layers Alexander never wished to examine. He’d experienced that feeling in the Earl of Rushton’s presence for as long as he could remember, a fact that made his recent aggravation with his father all the more unsettling.
Rushton looked up. “Northwood. What brings you here?”
“What have you heard about the war?”
“Whatever you have.”
“In the event of a declaration, the Earl of Clarendon has emphasized the right to consider anyone residing in Russia an enemy,” Alexander said. “I’ve sent word to Darius in St. Petersburg, though I suspect he already knows.”
The earl pushed the pot away with a grunt of annoyance and went to pick up a watering can. His big chest and shoulders were encased in a plain black coat and waistcoat—never one for fripperies, Rushton—and comb marks furrowed his metal-gray hair. Although he still appeared formidable, his frame had grown thinner over the past two years, his face gaunt and creased with lines of stress.
“Your brother won’t alter his plans,” he said.
“I know. But if you wrote to him, he’d be more inclined to consider the ramifications.”
“If he continues to reside at the court,” Rushton said, “he will be in less danger there than here.”
“I’ve little doubt Darius can and will take care of himself whether he resides at the court or not. However, I’m concerned about the consequences this could have for us here.”
“Such as?”
“Talia, for one. She’s of marriageable age, and she—”
“As are you.” His father shot him a pointed look.
“But Talia is—”
“Let the girl alone, Northwood. It’s your own lack of prospects that ought to concern you, especially after the Chilton debacle.”
Frustration swelled in Alexander’s chest. They’d all borne the embarrassment that followed his broken engagement. Between that and his mother’s desertion, even Alexander admitted it would be difficult to believe any of the Halls could contract an advantageous marriage.
Since he had no rebuttal to his father’s remark, he chose to change the subject. “Talia has expressed a wish to visit Floreston Manor again.”
Rushton’s expression darkened. “Ought to have got rid of the place years ago.”
“She wouldn’t forgive you if you did.” Although none of them had visited Floreston Manor since their mother left, Alexander knew it was the one place Talia had been happy as a child.
His sister had been a mystery to him then—a bronze-haired child who flitted through the corridors of Floreston Manor and the gardens of St. Petersburg like a wood sprite.
He sighed. Talia was even more of a mystery to him now, though her faint otherworldliness had become weighted beneath a layer of shadows.
“Sebastian has agreed to accompany us, if you’re willing to reopen the manor,” he said. “And we’ll invite Castleford.”
The earl didn’t respond, clipping dead leaves from a plant.
“It would do Talia some good,” Alexander persisted. You, as well. “She doesn’t enjoy being in London during the season.”
Rushton finally gave a short nod. “Very well.”
“Good. I’ll leave the arrangements to you, then?” Anything to get the old bird to do something besides tend to his blasted plants.
He turned to leave when his father’s voice stopped him. “What of the Society exhibition, Northwood?”
“The council has expressed concern about the Society’s connection with France and the substantial Russian component. However, I do not anticipate any difficulties yet.”
His father glanced at him, his mouth turning down. Alexander’s final word seemed to echo against the damp glass of the greenhouse.
Yet.
Chapter Eight
Alexander paced to the hearth, then swiveled on his heel and went to the windows and back to the hearth. Sebastian hunched over the piano, pencil in hand, looking at a sheet of music as if it were an earwig.
After his third trek across the carpet, Alexander stopped. Through three layers of fabric, he felt the heavy weight of the locket pressing into his chest. He hadn’t looked at it closely for the past three weeks, had only dropped it into his pocket every morning for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend.
He tugged it out now and stared at the silver surface, the intricate engraving.
“You wouldn’t have that grim look about you if you’d got rid of it,” Sebastian remarked.
Alexander shook his head and replaced the necklace. He’d told his brother the whole tale in the hopes of obtaining some words of wisdom. Instead, Sebastian had strongly advocated that he simply give the locket back to Lydia.
Alexander had been unable to explain why he knew she wouldn’t accept it.
“Her mother was mad,” he said.
“Mad?”
Alexander paced back to the windows. “It happened when Lydia was a child. Sir Henry was forced to institutionalize his wife several times. She died at a sanatorium in France after giving birth to Jane.”
“What has that got to do… Oh.”
Alexander’s shoulders tensed as he stared at the garden. “I assume it caused a stir at the time, though no one appears to remember. Or if they do, they don’t care. Perhaps that speaks to the Kellaways’ lack of importance.”
“Then you oughtn’t be concerned about gossip should you”—Sebastian cleared his throat—“pursue her.”
Pursue her. Alexander hadn’t told his brother that was exactly what he wanted to do. And despite his near-constant thoughts about Lydia, his determination to unravel her complexities, his memories of her soft mouth, Alexander hadn’t devised quite the right approach. He could pursue any other woman in the world with flattery and attentiveness, but those alone would not work with Lydia.
He had yet to determine what, exactly, would.
He sank into a chair and rubbed his forehead. A knock came at the door, and the butler stepped into the room.
“Pardon, my lord, but there’s a woman to see you.”
Alexander and Sebastian exchanged glances. “A woman?”
“Miss Lydia Kellaway.”
Sebastian laughed.
“Send her in, Soames,” Alexander said.
Soames nodded and slipped from the room. Alexander experienced a gleam of anticipation as they waited. He smoothed his hair away from his forehead. He straightened his collar. He brushed his hand against his breast pocket and allowed it to linger over the locket.
The door opened again. Soames stepped aside to let Lydia enter the drawing room. Both Alexander and Sebastian stood.
Alexander’s body tightened at the mere sight of the woman. God only knew how those severely cut dresses managed to give her such allure, but they did. This one fitted her form with such precision that once again he couldn’t help wondering what those rounded breasts would look like bare and quivering under his hands.
He grimaced and shifted, forcing away his lustful thoughts. “Miss Kellaway.”
“Lord Northwood.” Her gaze slanted to Sebastian. “And, Mr. Hall, a pleasure to see you again. Jane greatly enjoyed her first lesson.”
He smiled. “Pleased to hear that. She’s a lovely girl.”
Lydia returned his smile, her blue eyes bright. Alexander smothered an irritating surge of jealousy.
She looked at Alexander again. “Your footman told me you were here, my lord, if you’ve a moment?”
Alexander made a point of consulting the clock. “A moment, yes. Sebastian, go find out what time the Society meeting starts this afternoon.”
“Soames already—”
“Then ensure John knows to order the carriage.”
“But—”
Alexander turned on his brother. “Go do something.”
Sebastian gave Lydia Kellaway a charming grin before pushing himself away from the piano and strolling out the door as if walking through a meadow of wildflowers.
Alexander’s teeth came together as he gestured for Lydia to sit.
“I won’t stay long.” She shook her head, her blue eyes unnerving in their directness. “I have another proposition for you, Lord Northwood.”
His interest stirred. He moved closer to her, stopping when she was within arm’s reach. “And once again I find myself intrigued.”
She withdrew a piece of paper from her notebook and extended it to him. Alexander took it, glancing at her again before looking at the paper. Written in a neat, precise hand, the numbers and final question caused a wave of sheer puzzlement.
The sum of three numbers is 6, the sum of their squares is 8, and the sum of their cubes is 5. What is the sum of their fourth powers?
Alexander scratched his head. “Ah, would you care to explain? What is this?”
“A mathematical problem.”
“I can see that. Why have you given it to me?”
“I want you to solve it.” There was an amused glint in her eyes, a slight curve to her mouth—all evidence of a wicked side that Alexander hadn’t seen before now. “I believe my puzzle about the woman selling eggs was too simple for you. This one is more complex.”
Alexander stared at her. A weight seemed to descend on his heart at the realization she hadn’t sought him out just for him.
“You want me to solve this problem,” he said, “in exchange for the locket.”
“Yes. I don’t like to put all my eggs in one basket, you know.”
Alexander barked out a laugh. “I imagine you still wish to establish the parameters of a time frame.”
“Yes. If you are unable to solve the problem in two weeks’ time, with no help from anyone else, mind you, then you will promptly return my mother’s locket.”
Alexander continued staring at her. Her expression still contained that wicked gleam—quite appealing, if he were to be honest with himself, seeing as how it made her eyes darken to the color of a dawn sky—but other than that, she appeared utterly serious.
He looked at the problem again. “You wrote this?”
“You needn’t sneer, my lord. You know I enjoy devising puzzles, but the one you solved was just that—a puzzle. This is a problem.”
“And you don’t think I can solve it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Despite his irritation, Alexander experienced a prickle of anticipation again, a feeling aroused only by this particular woman. It was sharply pleasant, like the taste of Russian black bread, fragrant and tart.
“You implied it,” he said; “otherwise you wouldn’t have made the offer.”
“Yes, well…” Her lips curved—lovely, tempting; he wanted to put his mouth over hers and feel her yield…
“Perhaps implications aren’t so vague after all,” she said.
Alexander tossed the paper onto a table and planted his hands on his hips. Lydia Kellaway stood there looking like a little black rabbit in her charcoal dress, her bl
ue eyes and flushed skin the only sources of color on her person.
For a fleeting, unexpected instant, he wondered what she’d look like in bright blue or green, ostrich plumes flowing from her hat, her cheeks and lips enticingly painted with rouge.
No. He didn’t like that image. At all.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Kellaway, it appears I’ve behaved unfairly with regard to your mother’s locket. And if you ever tell Sebastian I said that, I’ll deny it to the end of my days. However, you’ve made your desire for the locket quite clear, and as I’ve no wish to cause you further grief, I will return it to you immediately.”
A brief flicker of surprise crossed her face before her smile curved again. “You don’t think you can do it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You don’t think you can solve the problem.”
“I do not think that.”
“And I’ve no desire for pity, my lord.”
“I do not pity you,” Alexander snapped. “I’m trying to behave like a gentleman, which I don’t find an easy fit.”
“A gentleman conducts business in a fair and just manner.”
Alexander tried not to grind his teeth together. “Which I am attempting to do.”
“Returning my mother’s locket out of pity is neither fair nor just. However, if you wish to concede defeat, then I will gladly accept the mantle of victory and claim my winnings.”
Alexander stared at her. Then he crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed her by the shoulders, pushing her up against the wall so swiftly that she gasped. Without giving her an opportunity to resist, he lowered his head and captured her lush mouth, driven by a sudden burning intent to sear her with a kiss.
Her body stiffened beneath his grip, her hands fisting against his chest. He pressed harder, moving his mouth across hers, urging her to let him in. Heat swept through his blood, and though she began to soften, her closed lips did not yield, did not open for him.
A mathematical problem, for God’s sake. The only problem he wanted to solve was the soft, supple one currently in his arms.
Alexander growled with frustration. He pressed one hand against her lower back, pulling her as close as he could. His frustration mounted when his desire to feel her body was thwarted by a morass of skirts and petticoats. He darted his tongue out to lick the corner of her mouth, and when her lips parted on an indrawn breath, he delved inside with one heated stroke.