The orangery was filled with exotic plants. Their colored foliage and lush pendulous branches created a visage of an exotic location, far away from England, deep in the jungle or untouched woods. The moist air was rich with the pervasive scent of loamy soil and pungent herbs. Sunlight dappled the slate tiles in patches, while the snowfall insulated the glass room as if a kept secret. Every curious example of flower or plant sat in assorted pots on the tables and floor, while within it all, Lady Leighton stood, a tea-rose blush upon her cheeks. Indeed, she looked as if she enjoyed it here and belonged among the other rare varieties.
“Shall we continue to the library?”
“What do you do here, Lady Leighton?” He strode to an apricot-colored bloom, its petals as plush as velvet to the touch. “Do you tend to all these plants, or does your grandfather have staff on hand to manage their care?” His imagination began to place her among the rows of flowers, a watering pot in one hand, a little song ahum on her lips while she worked. He shook away the outrageous image.
“It takes a large number of servants to keep the estate functioning, including the science rooms, but I do enjoy the time spent here.”
It was the most she’d granted since they’d met and the most relaxed he’d seen her. “Your grandfather must be pleased and surprised by your interest in academics.” His comment brought a change to her demeanor. Had he mis-stepped?
“Are you implying erudite subjects are beyond female comprehension?” She huffed a breath that dared him to smile. “I know every genetic form of life, from genus to phylum and beyond.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Perhaps you’re among the dull-witted scholars who believe women aren’t capable of accomplishing more than delicate embroidery?” She paced a stride and back again, and he found himself captivated with her volatile, if not intriguing, reaction to his otherwise innocuous comment.
“I’m not, and if you knew my sister we wouldn’t have this conversation at all.” He stifled a chuckle. His sister, Amelia, was a hellion who spent most of her childhood, and a good portion beyond, keeping him on his toes. When she’d married, he’d at last found a modicum of peace.
“And your sister, I’m certain, possesses grace and refined deportment, adept at the pianoforte and never out of step during a dance.”
“You haven’t met Amelia. Besides, dancing is overrated.” Her eyes fell to his leg, the chit too clever by half.
“Women as a whole have been treated unfairly by men, scrutinized and judged at every turn. We’re expected to simper and flutter our lashes upon the gentlest word, enraptured by a bit of imported lace or the newest fashion plates, no matter that many women possess more intelligence than their counterparts.” Her expression grew serious, a fiery light in her eyes that emphasized the importance of her words.
“I believe the human brain is a masterpiece composed of wonder and intelligence. Where it is housed, whether in an old man’s head or a lovely young lady’s, has nothing to do with my respect for its function, and I have met exceptions to and confirmations of that belief in every walk of life. You won’t suffer such inanity from me. There’s nothing at all wrong with being bookish.” He tapped his walking stick on the slate tiles for emphasis.
“Bookish.”
He watched her lips as she tested the word and accepted his answer. His own mouth twitched with amusement. Apparently, he’d met with approval.
“We should move on to the library.” With another swish of skirts, she proceeded toward the door and he followed, the tip of his walking stick punctuating each step.
They arrived at the entrance, the panels of solid walnut closed tight and not the least bit welcoming. Again, he watched as Lady Leighton selected a key from a silver chatelaine and unlocked the latch.
“Are all the doors kept secured?” It seemed tedious to be forever opening locks when one lived on the premises. “There are no young children here, are there?”
She raised her left shoulder in the slightest shrug, as if it was a habit she knew she needed to break. “It’s the way of things here at Leighton House.”
She didn’t offer more, and he followed her into a large rectangular parlor that might have been labeled a sitting room if not for the most obvious reason: There was nowhere to sit. Leather-bound books lined shelves, floor to ceiling, while periodicals, magazines, and newspapers were piled in neat stacks against the crenellated baseboard and atop each seat cushion. Oval mahogany tables held collections of every kind, clockworks and compasses, magnifying glasses, kaleidoscopes, prisms and crystals, and everywhere he looked he found another opportunity to investigate. His mind rejoiced and his fingers itched to touch, experience, and discover.
He raised his eyes to prim Lady Leighton, who waited patiently near the hearth, and he wondered at his own expression. Dare he say, she appeared amused.
“You didn’t mention how intriguing the interior.” He nodded and swept another glance at the nearby shelves. “Books are only one aspect of the library’s many charms.” Indeed, he included Lady Leighton in that remark but knew better than to mention it.
“One could while away hours in here.” She grinned with a now familiar touch of mischief, and her eyes caught the light. “I often do.”
He realized then she was really quite alone. At least it seemed that way. He walked to one of the mullioned windows and looked out over the snow-covered acreage to spy the stables and a few modest cottages farther from the house. There was a barn to the left and beyond that, an unexpected structure. As he looked more closely he realized it was nothing more than a frame, seemingly composed of burnt wood. Could it have been a house? Would that explain the extensive construction here at Leighton House? And why wouldn’t the workers have dismantled the worthless and dangerous structure, victim to strong winds and otherwise likely to cause peril? He hesitated, but the question was out before he thought further of it. “What is that ruin to the south? It appears nothing more than a burnt-out shell.”
He might have mentioned seeing a sea monster on the lawn for the stricken expression on Lady Leighton’s face. The rosy bloom he’d only just admired transformed to pale alabaster and any joy in her silver-gray eyes extinguished to ash.
“I’ll leave you now, Lord Whittingham.” She didn’t wait for him to reply. “I’m confident you’ll find more than enough reading material to pass the afternoon.”
He stepped forward, his arm extended in ridiculous fashion, as if he sought to make amends, though he had no idea what had caused her dismay, and when he finally managed to make use of his tongue, his words were lost to the sound of the closing door.
“Good day, Bookish.”
* * *
Theodosia hurried down the corridor, a jumble of emotions aflutter in her chest, as chaotic as a rabble of butterflies. Lord Whittingham, the positively unnerving man, had the annoying habit of causing her to consider things better left alone. They’d shared a walk of hardly thirty minutes, and within that time he’d touched on myriad subjects she preferred to keep tucked away.
Her somewhat isolated existence.
She grabbed hold of the newel post and began the stairs.
A lack of social polish.
An unconventional preference for academics.
Her feet pounded the treads as if she could stamp out Whittingham’s far too observant suggestions. She reached her bedchambers and slammed the door.
The loss of her parents.
She collapsed against the panel, out of breath and patience.
How long would the overbearing earl be a houseguest anyway? The question brought her attention to the window, and despite her sullen displeasure, she walked to the rectangular seat and climbed upon the cushions. Unfortunately, the somber skies matched her mood. Ominous clouds, dark as slate, limned the horizon with the threat of more snow. She couldn’t remember a time when the winter proved this relentless and harsh. Emotions bubbled to the surface again and she forced them down. She should find Nicolaus and bend his ear long enough
to exorcise her conflicted solicitude.
Still tethered to Lord Whittingham’s invidious question, her eyes sought the burnt remains of the estate house, and the few memories time dared not erase rose with clarity in her mind. Her father, grandfather’s eldest son and only heir, was a brilliant man, tall and strong, as handsome as he was intelligent. He knew how to make her smile with endless laughter as he tossed her high into the air or onto the buoyant safety of a nearby haystack. He’d chase her through the wildflowers until they were both out of breath and then he’d lift her to his back and carry her all the way home, as easily as if she weighed no more than a feather. If it wasn’t too close to dinnertime, he’d stop at the pippin tree and hoist her into the branches, his deep voice a comforting song locked in her heart.
Choose us two rubies, Theodosia, sweet as your smile.
How she strove to find the finest apples among the leaves, wishing to please her father if only to return a thimbleful of the love he shared.
Her mother was beautiful, generous, and smart. She devoured books, her love of learning contagious. She’d taught Theodosia to read fluently by the time she was four. But unlike Theodosia, who considered herself ordinary, her mother was graceful and lovely. Her mother’s heartfelt words of encouragement were never far from mind.
You may choose any path to happiness, Theodosia. Follow your heart and capture your dream. Intelligence has no limits.
Theodosia didn’t wipe away her tears as they fell; the relief a long cry promised to be too precious to ignore. How dare Lord Whittingham intrude on her solitude and bring to the surface all her tightly held emotions and buried insecurities? His questions were likely nothing more than conversational curiosity, though having struck a nerve they evoked an insightful examination of her person. Either circumstance was unwanted and thoroughly uncalled for, no matter everything he perceived was true.
Still, unscrupulous fear gripped her heart. Fear of discovery. Fear of loneliness and unending solitude. And fear that her simple life was being upended, changed and transformed beyond her control. All caused by the intrusion of one man. Now, for more reason than one, the sooner Lord Whittingham left Leighton House, the better.
Chapter Five
Matthew spent more than two hours perusing Talbot’s collection of scientific journals and reference books, the majority of his time occupied by Young’s “Experiments and Calculations Relative to Physical Optics.” Having listened to Young lecture at the Royal Society in London on his wave theory of refracted light, the readings were engaging and relevant, most especially when considering the reflective property of Lady Leighton’s eyes.
Still, with a handful of hours to waste before dinner, he wondered how he would while away his time and left the library to roam the halls and pursue his curiosity further, the mark of a true scholar.
He happened upon the kitchen quite accidentally and recognized Coggs’s voice above the din, his valet often at the ready to woo a willing female. He gave a slight nod to gesture that Coggs should move into the hall.
When they were alone in the corridor, he hurried his valet to answer. “What are you doing here? Haven’t you learned your lesson yet? Don’t do anything that will appear disingenuous or be misconstrued. We’re houseguests of Lord Talbot and your actions are a reflection of my character.”
“You needn’t remind me of that.”
“Apparently, I do.” He tapped his walking stick against the floor molding so he wouldn’t use it on Coggs’s shin. “I saw that young maid giggling at your every jest. You enjoy the attention. Don’t deny it. I have known you long enough to realize a warning is justified.” He paused, but then thought additional cautioning necessary. “I never received another invitation after your debacle at Pembrook’s.”
“That was an isolated incident.”
“That’s what you say every time it recurs.”
Coggs appeared nonplussed. “Pembrook recovered, didn’t he?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Already angling for a return to Leighton House, aren’t you?” Coggs raised his bushy brows. “All these rooms of scientific experimentation must have your mouth watering.”
“Strange pairing of descriptors, Coggs, even for you.”
The kitchen door opened and two fair-haired maids passed through. One held a tray with a teakettle service, while the other carried a tidy plate of biscuits. They kept their eyes forward, though the shorter of the two darted a glance in Coggs’s direction, which earned her a chide for her boldness by the taller maid.
“Hurry along now, Bess. Lady Leighton doesn’t like to be disturbed once she begins.”
Begins what?
Matthew held his tongue, though the question ignited a wick of curiosity.
“Just don’t make any trouble.” He forced his eyes to his valet.
“I’m affronted.”
Whittingham grinned in mockery. “I’m sensing a disturbing role reversal in our relationship.” He poked his walking stick into the toe of Coggs’s boot and continued after the maids, though he had no idea where they led. When they turned a far corner, he slowed his gait, the ache in his knee a sharp reminder he hurried without sufficient care. No doubt more snow was imminent. He muttered a curse and took a left, down an airy corridor with portraits hung on either side.
Crimson-and-gold striped silk wallcoverings provided a backdrop for what could only be the house gallery, though the frames on the walls weren’t filled with paintings, as one would expect. Instead the display was composed of letters, articles, and handwritten notations. He paused and read through the first on the wall, an article published two years prior on chemical nomenclature.
Odd, how the gallery showcased Lord Talbot’s achievements and not the members of his line. Where were the oils of Lady Leighton’s parents? A favored hound? The traditional earldom heritage portrait of Talbot and his descendants?
He might have remained longer in the gallery if he hadn’t heard what could only be described as an exclamation of joy. Recognizing Lady Leighton’s voice, he executed a quick pivot and changed course, careful to avoid the tabby who sauntered across his path.
* * *
Theodosia vigorously rolled her pencil between her palms in excitement. It had worked. Her umpteenth attempt to solve the Standard Model equation proved correct. The physics formula described the fundamental particles that comprise the universe, and she enjoyed researching the vast heavens. She spent many evenings staring at the constellations, identifying phenomena, or meteorite hunting. On occasion, she even made wishes. But regardless of her purpose, she looked to the night sky often enough to become intrigued and thereby engaged in study. It was how she became familiar with the work of Lagrange, the mathematician and astronomer who developed the Standard Model equation, which she now worked through with success.
Exhaling a prideful huff of contentment, she placed her pencil atop the paper and made for the door. She needed to find Nicolaus or Grandfather and share the news. The dynamical problems of integral calculus were beyond the comprehension of many people if they hadn’t studied theorems at a scholarly level. Grandfather would be pleased at her accomplishment. Lord Whittingham would be impressed. Not that he would ever know. This realization put a spring in her step all the more.
Entering the hall, she made a quick left turn and walked straight into a linen cravat. She barely contained a knowing groan. She’d collided with Whittingham, the intrusive houseguest she’d only just conjured and dismissed from her thoughts. Stepping back, she rubbed the tip of her nose. Despite the soft buffer of his neckcloth, his chest was as hard as a stone wall, the effect somewhat dizzying.
She regained her composure thereafter, although her deep, clarifying breath provided the fragrance of an appealing shaving soap, something woodsy with a touch of citrus.
“Lady Leighton, accept my apologies. I didn’t hear your approach. You have a light step.”
He’d reached out to steady her and his strong grip on her arm added to he
r disoriented recovery. She couldn’t help but look at his hold on her sleeve, then his boots, and last his walking stick. She wouldn’t dare render him unsteady, though while she still reeled from their collision, Lord Whittingham appeared unerringly composed. He removed his hand and she swayed forward the slightest.
“It’s my fault, milord. In my hurry, I failed to pay attention.” At such close proximity she couldn’t help but notice the gold flecks in his dark brown eyes. Very becoming if one fancied things like that.
“Again with such formality?” He tutted a sound of disapproval. “As I already mentioned, I’m here for a short visit, whereafter we’ll likely never cross paths. I reside in London and you on this grand estate in Oxfordshire. For the ease of conversation, why not forgo titles and use Christian names?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” She took a single step backward. “Even more so for the reasons you’ve stated. Temporarily snowbound or not, we’ll soon have no interaction beyond the unexpected situation of your arrival.”
“I was invited.”
“Yes, you mentioned.”
“As you’ll have it, Bookish.”
He smiled then, as if in wait of her objection, and if only to vex him, she refused to react to his absurd teasing of her fondness of reading.
“I thought you were in the library.” A swift change of subject proved an effective diversion. She had no intention of sharing her mathematical victory now.
“I was. For over two hours, actually.”
He shifted his stance, though not a telling indication showed on his face and she wondered if he was uncomfortable or if his injury caused him pain. The latter notion bothered her on some inexplicable level.
“And no matter the Talbot library’s enticing collection of every scientific tome in print, I couldn’t stay there indefinitely. Besides . . .”
He paused, seemingly waiting for her response. This time she acquiesced. “Yes?”
“The door was left unlocked and I thought it better to escape while I had the chance.”
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