by Rowan Nina
“Why are you always carrying that thing?” Northwood asked.
“Because if I don’t write down my ideas as they come to me, I fear they’ll come out my ears.” Lydia looked up and smiled as he stepped into the room.
Not returning her smile, he gestured to the book. “What is it this time?”
“Wha—Oh. One of the papers I’m working on relates to the dimensions of the roots of equations. When we were on the train, I had the idea that the theorem might be simplified by the extrication of a lemma.” She studied her book. “That is, if the lemma were to give all the values of r… it could represent the dimensions of the roots.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know. And that’s rather gratifying.” Lydia closed the book. “Though I suppose it’s impolite to work when I’ve been invited here as a guest. The manor is lovely, my lord. Thank you again for the invitation.”
He was still frowning at her. Apparently the travel hadn’t done his temper any good.
“Why are you in such an ill humor?” she asked. “Will a walk in the garden lighten your mood?”
She rose to pass him and, as she did, he turned to her so suddenly that Lydia took a step backward and came up against the wall. Before she could move aside, he put his hands on either side of her, trapping her between the wall and his body.
Lydia gasped, her gaze flying to the study door, which stood half open.
“No one is near,” Northwood murmured.
He shifted his hips against her, making her pulse stutter. “Still, you… you must release me.”
“Make me laugh, and I will.” His lips touched her temple.
“What?”
“Make me laugh, lighten my humor, and I’ll release you.”
Make him laugh? Despite her remark, she wasn’t exactly a fountain of hilarity.
Lydia searched her brain for an amusing anecdote. She could think of theorems and proofs with no effort at all—surely some witticism or conundrum would spring to the surface.
“I’m waiting.” Northwood shifted against her again, his knee beginning to push between hers. Lydia flushed, curving her hands around his forearms as she fought the urge to allow him access, to press herself against the hard length of his thigh.
“At what time was Adam married?” she blurted.
“Adam who?”
“Adam. The first man. Adam.”
“Oh.” Northwood lifted a brow. “At what time was he married?”
“Upon his wedding Eve.” She gave him a weak smile.
Not a spark of amusement flashed in his eyes. He shook his head. His knee pressed with more insistence, causing her legs to part. Air wafted up beneath her skirt and petticoats. She shuddered.
“What…” Her breath caught. Her mind whirled. “What… er… what is the proper length of a lady’s skirt?”
“What?”
“A little above two feet.”
“Hmm. Not funny. Not true, either.” His hands fisted in the folds of her skirt, his eyes darkening. “The proper length is well above her knees, as far as I’m concerned.”
Oh good heavens. He was drawing her skirt up, and her petticoats along with it. The material of his trousers brushed against her calves, his knee sliding upward between her thighs. Heat bloomed through her, a tightness centering in her sex and making her want to writhe against him.
She swallowed. Some faint but still rational part of her mind reminded her anyone could walk into the study.
“What…” She squirmed, trying to avoid the insistent caress of his leg. “What is that which can be right but never wrong?”
“An angle,” he replied. His lips skimmed her forehead. Her skin tingled.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Me.”
He laughed. His eyes creased at the corners, his teeth flashing white in the pale light of the sun coming through the windows. The deep laugh rumbled through his chest, causing a shiver of pleasure to ripple over her.
“You… you ought to release me now.” Lydia tried to bring her legs together, tried to quell the intense arousal that this man could spark with a mere touch.
Amusement still glinted in his eyes as he gave a slow nod, the movement bringing his lips in line with hers.
“You’re right,” he murmured the instant before his mouth met hers.
Although her mind warned her against it, Lydia sank into the kiss as if nothing else mattered. And in that moment, nothing did. His tongue caressed hers, his teeth sliding across her lower lip. She drew in a breath as her pulse began a low, heavy throb that echoed in her head.
She curled her hands around Northwood’s arms, pressed herself down onto his hard thigh, felt his fingers digging into the stiff lines of her corset. A tremble ran through his body. His knee shifted, his thigh beginning to rub against her with delicious friction.
Then without warning he was moving away from her, his palms smoothing down her skirts as he positioned himself between her and the study door. Lady Talia’s voice began to penetrate Lydia’s fog of desire.
She pressed her hands to her cheeks, attempting to regain her composure. Northwood leaned toward her, putting his mouth close to her ear, one large hand sliding beneath her breast.
“Why is a good woman like dough?” he whispered.
“Why—”
“Because a man kneads her.” His lips touched her ear before he moved away, his dark eyes filled with a combination of humor and desire. “And make no mistake. You are a good woman.”
Lydia pulled herself from his grip so swiftly that her heel caught on the edge of a rug. She grasped the back of a chair to steady herself, all amusement evaporating like steam.
“As you once told me, Lord Northwood,” she said, “it’s dangerous to make such assumptions.”
“That, Miss Kellaway, was not an assumption.”
Dear Jane,
Hah, I’ve perplexed you, haven’t I? Did you ask your sister for help? Though I suppose that might be a bit like cheating, considering her apparent talent for numbers.
Don’t feel badly that you haven’t got the same facility as Lydia—not everyone is capable of grasping certain concepts with ease. I’d wager that she doesn’t see the insect world in quite the same way as you do, which is rather unique.
Sincerely,
C
Jane lowered the letter. She looked out the rain-spattered window, down at the street, where pedestrians bustled back and forth, umbrellas blooming like mushrooms. A damp bird flitted onto the surface of the iron fence across the way.
Jane’s fingers tightened on the letter. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember if she’d ever told C her sister’s name.
Chapter Fourteen
Lydia looked at the equation, unable to muster any interest whatsoever. Even though she’d slept well and eaten a hearty breakfast, a headache pressed between her eyes. She couldn’t concentrate. Likely because one dark-haired, compelling viscount kept pushing his way in between her theorems and equations.
A good woman. Good.
Did he really believe that? And even if he did, did it matter? Although her grandmother had expressed a calculated interest in Lord Northwood, Lydia knew nothing substantial could come of their association. So it oughtn’t matter at all what kind of woman he presumed her to be.
And yet, of course it did matter. A great deal.
She shook her head and focused on her paper.
A knock sounded at the door. Lydia dropped the pencil with a frustrated sigh and pushed back her chair. Her eyes widened at the sight of Northwood standing in the corridor holding… a fishing pole?
“What on earth…”
He held up the pole. His dark eyes twinkled with something she’d never seen in him before. “Angling,” he said. “Ever been?”
“No.”
“Come on, then. Great fun.”
Lydia glanced back to her desk, where her paper awaited her return. Northwood made an impatient no
ise.
“Five minutes, Lydia,” he warned. “If you must, you can calculate the ratio of fish to water drops or something foolish like that. We’re waiting in the garden.”
He turned and headed back downstairs. Lydia remembered her promise to herself that she would enjoy her short stay here. A pleasant sense of anticipation tickled through her at the thought of fishing—one of many sports in which she’d never imagined herself participating. She put on her wrap, hat, and gloves, checked her reflection in the mirror, and went out to the garden.
Talia, Sebastian, and Castleford waited by the rose bed, with Talia and Castleford each carrying an array of fishing gear. Sebastian had both his arms wrapped around a rather enormous picnic basket.
“Ah, glad you could join us, Miss Kellaway,” Castleford boomed. “You’re certain to keep Northwood from lying about the size of his catch.”
Lydia laughed at the thought of Northwood lying about anything. Least of all the size of his catch. He flashed her a grin, the warmth of which caused a lovely glow to fill her chest.
The three men began walking toward the river, chatting about the wind, the weather, the possibility of trout. A sense of cheer and good humor surrounded them. Northwood’s shoulders were relaxed, his stride long and easy. Sunlight glinted off his dark hair.
Something loosened inside Lydia at the sight of him. Her headache melted away, and her heart lightened. She liked seeing him cheerful, smiling, hearing his laughter rustling through the tree leaves. She liked it a great deal. Perhaps too much.
“They’ve been friends for ages.” Talia fell into step beside Lydia, adjusting her hat against the sun as she nodded toward the three men. “They were in school together, though of course Sebastian was two years behind. After they graduated, Castleford went off to travel and expand his father’s company. He’s got enormous energy. He’s rarely been in London the past five years.”
A faint wistfulness in the younger woman’s voice made Lydia glance at her. Talia gazed into the distance at the curling ribbon of the stream.
“He did come back after… what happened, though,” she continued. “Lent his support to our family both in private and very publicly. Made things easier, actually. We’re indebted to him for that.”
It had been only two years, Lydia realized, since Talia’s mother had run off to parts unknown.
“It’s not easy, is it?” she asked before she could think.
Talia looked at her. “What?”
“Losing your mother.”
Talia stared at her for a moment, her green eyes wide. Lydia swallowed, color rising to her cheeks as she realized she had deeply insulted the other woman.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“No.” Talia reached out to squeeze Lydia’s arm. “No, don’t apologize. You’re right. It’s not easy. In fact, it’s one of the most horrid things I can imagine. The worst part is that even though I’m so terribly angry with her, I still miss her.” She laughed, a hollow sound. “Silly, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. I miss my mother every day.”
“What happened to her?”
Lydia told her about Theodora Kellaway’s illness and subsequent death. Sympathy darkened Talia’s eyes.
“It’s been nearly a decade,” Lydia said, “but I don’t imagine I’ll ever stop missing her. Thankfully I have Jane, though, and my grandmother.”
“That helps, doesn’t it?” Talia said. “I’ve been fortunate to have a few good friends. They’ve made things easier for me as well. Now if only my brother would leave me be, I think I might actually get through this.”
She gave Lydia a wan smile. Castleford shouted a distance in front of them, waving at them to hurry. Talia grasped Lydia’s hand as they quickened their pace to the river.
“All right, now. This is yours.” Northwood handed Lydia a pole and tied something furry onto it.
“It’s a Royal Trude,” he said.
“A royal prude?”
“Trude. It’s meant to imitate a stone-fly.”
Talia took her pole from Castleford and began fixing the line with an expert touch. She grinned when she saw Lydia staring at her.
“Don’t forget I grew up with four brothers,” she said. “I could tie a fly before I could walk.”
“Not to mention roll a hoop, ride a horse, and climb a tree,” Sebastian added.
“And she was often the fastest,” Northwood said. He held a lure out to Lydia. “Now, watch, because you’re going to learn how to make a proper backcast.”
He moved with deft precision as he showed her how to strip line and whip the fly backward and forward until he had it just where he wanted. Although Lydia became a bit breathless from his proximity, she was able to focus enough to get a handle on it.
Northwood stood behind her and grasped her wrist to show her how to cast, his fingers warm and strong. She knew he could feel her rapid pulse. His hips brushed hers. Her knees went a bit wobbly.
“Concentrate,” he ordered, his breath caressing her temple.
He spoke to her with that husky voice and expected her to concentrate?
“I am,” she muttered, flinging her rod back with a little too much force. Her line ended up tangled in the reeds at the side of the river.
“You’ve got to establish a rhythm,” Northwood said. “It’s the same tempo as breathing. Match the two. Back and forth, in and out.”
“I can’t establish anything with you standing so close,” Lydia whispered irritably.
He chuckled and moved away, but not before she swore he patted her backside. She wished he’d do it again—only at a time when she could actually feel it.
She cast again and landed her line in the middle of the stream. Castleford, Talia, and Sebastian all expertly cast and retrieved their lines, though they caught only one or two small trout, which they unhooked and tossed back in. Lydia found herself thoroughly enjoying the company and spring air, which filled her with a sense of warmth and lightness.
After a couple of hours with little reward, they settled underneath a tree to indulge in a delicious picnic lunch of cold roasted fowl, cheese, fruit, crusty bread, cider, and pastries. The men ate so much that after lunch, they tipped their hats over their faces and stretched out to nap.
Lydia and Talia exchanged amused glances over the three long, recumbent bodies. Faint snores filtered up into the tree leaves.
“Like beached whales,” Talia said.
Lydia smiled. As they packed up the remnants of the picnic, she allowed her gaze to dart every now and then to Northwood. His broad chest moved with heavy, even breaths, one big hand resting over his stomach.
As she moved the basket aside, she felt Talia’s hand on her arm. She turned to meet the other woman’s gaze.
“Lydia, I just want you to know that he’s a good man.” Talia’s words came out in a tumble, two spots of color appearing on her cheeks. “I… Alexander, I mean. He’s had a hard time with… with all that happened, and the broken engagement, and he does have a terrible tendency to want to control everything, but he… he means well. He’s honest. I just want you to know that.”
“I do know that.” Although she spoke with soft certainty, Lydia felt a rustle of discomfort.
Why was Talia trying to convince her of Northwood’s worth?
Talia nodded and sat back, looking faintly relieved. She reached into another basket and removed an embroidery hoop. “Despite what my brothers think, I do enjoy more feminine pastimes. Do you embroider?”
Lydia shook her head, watching as Talia’s needle flashed in and out of the cloth. She stood and dusted off her hands.
“I’ll just go for a walk, I think.”
“I’ll stay and safeguard our priceless bounty.” Talia tilted her head toward the slumbering men.
Lydia picked up her rod and started down the riverbank. The cool, fresh air wiped the lingering stress and fatigue from her body. She breathed deeply, enjoying the stretch of her muscles, the warmth of the sun against her face.
&
nbsp; A splash sounded in the water. She peered out as a large fish broke through the glittering surface of the river and flopped back in. Excitement—and the lure of competition—sprang through her.
How she’d love to catch a big, fat fish while her three strapping male companions snored the afternoon away. She’d return in triumph and—with Talia’s full support—tease them all without mercy.
She looked at the Royal Trude. It didn’t look at all edible to her, but then she wasn’t a trout. Lydia decided she would give the fish something they couldn’t refuse.
A cluster of trees sat near the riverbank, one of them broken and half-submerged in the water. She crouched beneath the base and began digging through the soft dirt. At least eight worms wriggled from the pile.
Lydia winced. Jane would love this. Her sister would collect all the worms in a glass container and bring them into the house for further study.
With a grimace, Lydia plucked a worm from the dirt and tried to ignore its writhing as she impaled it on the hook. She wiped her hands on her skirt and cast the line out. The hook tangled in the reeds.
Lydia muttered an oath and tried again. The line fell short and caught on the grass. She yanked it free and inspected the hook. The worm was gone.
Suppressing her squeamishness, she dug for another worm and attached it to the hook. She cast again and watched the hook plop into the reeds.
Match the tempo to your breathing, she thought. Balderdash. What she needed was to get farther out to the middle of the river where she’d seen the fish.
She reeled the line back in and climbed onto the tree trunk that jutted out into the water. It was slippery with moss but jagged enough that she could maintain her balance by digging her feet into the grooves of bark and holding on to the branches with her other hand.
Clutching her rod, she inched her way to the end of the trunk. The fish flopped through the water again, spurring her determination. She reached the end of the trunk and straddled it, then ensured the bait was still attached before casting the line out again.
The rod bobbed almost instantly. Lydia gave a squeak of excitement and tried to pull the line in, but it slackened before she cranked two turns. She reeled in quickly and cast out again.