London's Late Night Scandal

by Anabelle Bryant

  Heavens, it was wonderful to laugh. It seemed too many weeks, months . . . too long she’d gone without the unconditional freedom of pure joy.

  She turned and he did as well, their eyes matched in the moment before he averted his attention to the landscape ahead. They coasted along for a good stretch, wordlessly happy in the uncomplicated thrill of the ride. At last they glided into a wide field beyond the main house and gardens, down a small hill to a tall row of holly bushes, where he brought the horses to rein.

  As she’d hoped, everywhere she looked, the ordinary was made beautiful by the weather, pure white and crystalline, an enchanted fairy-tale vision that caused one to pause, awestruck, though she was out of breath from laughter more than anything else.

  * * *

  Matthew wrapped the leather reins around the hook inside the dashboard and clamped the remaining length beneath his boot. The sleigh ride was a fine idea on his part. He relished Theodosia’s gleeful reaction throughout the ride.

  Glancing at her now, he paused in appreciation. Her cheeks were pinkened to a rosy blush, her pert nose just so, and true delight danced in her gray gaze. In an unexpected rush, he was pulled back to their intimate exchange in the library, the weight of her breasts crushed against him and the flavor of her curious kiss. He found himself mesmerized and distracted in the best way by the intriguing, beautiful woman beside him.

  He cleared his throat and broke the uncomfortable silence. “That was refreshing.”

  “It was.” Her breath danced between them before it disappeared. “I can’t remember the last time . . .” Her words faded just as quickly.

  They sat in silence a few more moments, as he was at a loss to intrude on whatever memories haunted her.

  “I haven’t been a very good hostess.” She shifted on the bench and placed her gloved hand on his forearm. “I should apologize for earlier.”

  “Think nothing of it.” How delicate her touch despite they were both bundled for warmth.

  “Well, I do and I’m sorry.”

  He merely smiled, wishing to change the subject and alleviate her concern. “I get on well enough, able to do most anything, or at least the most important things.” He struggled for a way to bypass the stilted niceties that held their conversation hostage.

  “Dancing is overrated, or so I’ve heard.”

  She returned his words with grave sincerity, and for some reason that small gesture touched his soul. The moment stretched and reformed, and while he watched her intently, a different mood took hold and all previous jocularity evaporated.

  “Are you cold?” She’d long before removed her glove from his sleeve, though he wouldn’t have minded if she’d clung to him longer. “Shall I take us back?’

  “No, not yet, please.” She looked about the scenery before she darted her eyes back to his. “Most people find winter weather confining, but I’ve always preferred nature to a ballroom. I suppose that’s where we differ.”

  “I’ m not sure about that.” He followed her line of vision to the landscape and spied the snow-dusted ruins of burnt wood and broken beams. “You’re fortunate to have this vast scenery at your disposal. I imagine it has supplied you with countless days’ adventure.”

  “And research.”

  “Yes, of course. Research.” He shifted on the bench, angling toward her as he spoke, and his knees inadvertently rubbed against hers beneath the blanket. Her eyes widened with the contact, though she didn’t move away. Then he said what he needed to say, despite the words caused an unexpected spike of disappointment in his chest. “I see no reason not to return to London in the morning. The roads should be clear and I’ve several matters to attend to.” His latter statement lacked significant conviction. “I’ve enjoyed my visit here at Leighton House.”

  “Truly? You traveled extensively to investigate a dubious journal article, which you quickly proved lacked valid substance and was written by an imposter. Not to mention I’ve insulted you more than once. I wouldn’t label that hospitality by definition.” She hemmed her lower lip, seemingly abashed at the truth spoken aloud.

  Their conversation paused as fresh snowflakes filled the air, much to Theodosia’s delight. Her eyes lit with pleasure and she immediately brought her palm upward to catch a few atop her black leather glove. “Under a microscope, scientists have discovered each snowflake is composed of two hundred ice crystals. Yet they’re as unique as fingerprints, no two the same.”

  “Indeed.” He couldn’t tear his gaze from her profile and how intently she admired nature’s gift. “That must have made for chilling work, or perhaps a race against the clock before the specimen disappeared.”

  She smiled at his teasing and blew the snowflakes back into the air. He watched her lips pucker and relax, and his body recalled that kiss but again. Surely every snowflake that landed upon him melted on contact. He reached for her hands and enveloped them between his.

  “I should bring us back. I wouldn’t wish for you to become chilled.”

  Somehow they’d drawn closer, though he’d swear neither of them had moved.

  “I’m quite comfortable. Aren’t you?”

  There was a question he couldn’t answer honestly. For the truth would reveal a disputable scientific fact that cold temperature did nothing to relieve a raging erection.

  “Theodosia?”

  She blinked away a few snowflakes caught in her lashes. “Yes?”

  He searched for appropriate words, never before so careful to choose wisely. “I’m glad we’ve had this opportunity to become acquainted.” He watched her reaction. His sentiment didn’t seem adequate, though he lacked the ability to categorize it in any way more than an unforeseen anomaly.

  “I am too, Matthew.”

  It was his name on her lips or mayhap it was because he hadn’t stopped staring at her lips or it was none of those things and all of those things, but he found himself acting more than thinking and so he dipped his head and captured her mouth.

  She didn’t resist.

  Her hands climbed his sleeves and wound tightly around his neck, and despite layers upon layers of thick wool and flannel, he felt her touch on his skin.

  It was well below freezing in the open air, but his blood boiled with a riot of desire and emotion and she tasted—she tasted just as he remembered, sweet and curious and delightfully inviting.

  Their tongues met with anxious friction, each velvety slide another stroke to his fervor, and he let go of thought, not something he was apt to do often, and allowed himself to get lost in their kiss. How easily that was achieved, the light-headed freedom of feeling instead of thinking.

  Her hair smelled like lavender, tucked inside the warm hood to enhance the fragrance. Her fingers pressed into his upper arms as if to hold on tightly, though they sat quite securely in the sleigh. And her mouth, her lush clever mouth, opened beneath his and returned his kiss ardently, chasing when he retreated, succumbing when he pursued.

  It took no effort for him to imagine her in bed beside him, all pearly white skin and delicate pink blush, her glossy black hair spilled around her shoulders, her body a gift offered for his exploration. Mayhap it was the forbidden layers that separated them now or a strange curiosity that provoked him to these indulgent erotic images, but they came, one after another, and he allowed them to drench his mind and saturate his soul. Once abed, he was as equal as any man, a passionate, giving lover. It didn’t matter that nothing more would come of their association. Theodosia’s kiss would not be easily forgotten despite his misplaced lust.

  He realized belatedly he should put an end to it and so, reluctantly, withdrew. Their foreheads touched though their mouths parted. Steam filled the space left between them and he concentrated on the hypnotic rhythm of her exhales, committing it to memory.

  “Was that to thank me or say good-bye?”

  “Neither.” He shook his head the slightest. “There’s no need to label it.”

  She looked away and back again.

  “You
should come to London.” Again, it wasn’t what he’d planned to say. “The museums and libraries would please you.”

  Something changed in her eyes. Some emotion he didn’t understand. Without an answer, she righted herself on the seat and straightened her hood. She pushed her hands into her muffler and took a deep breath.

  “We must go.” She tried for cheerfulness, but he recognized the strain. “I’ve already spent far too much time away from the house, and while Grandfather appeared content when I left, I should look in on him again.”

  He leaned down and unhooked the reins. Unsure what to say, he chose silence and urged the horses into a gallop as they crossed the field, overtook the hill, and whipped up to the main house.

  * * *

  Theodosia steamed in a tub of scented water, warmed to the core, her mind busy with unanswered questions. Her normal uneventful and predictable world had been upended since the Earl of Whittingham had come to Leighton House on his mission of discovery and revelation. Indeed, those words served well. She had no way to decipher the new and confusing emotions coursing through her, quick to acknowledge they were simultaneously pleasant and distressing.

  She leaned her head back against the rim of the tub, thankful Dora had left to allow some much needed quiet and contemplation. Too preoccupied with the day-by-day struggles of coping with Grandfather’s lapses in memory, Theodosia had never peered too far into the future. Her parents’ untimely deaths caused her not to conjure the past. And while she saved specific memories like keepsakes in a box, she didn’t dwell on the course of her life any more than necessary.

  But now, with the earl’s arrival and her heart somewhat curious, she wondered what lay in store and how her future would evolve. Deep inside, when she was painstakingly honest, she knew Grandfather’s health was deteriorating. She’d read endless books and articles on the subject, too afraid to face the inevitable truth. No one lived forever. Hadn’t she learned that lesson with her parents? As a child she’d dreamed, but then there was the fire and hope died in the flames, extinguished and buried in ash. Would everyone she loved leave her too soon?

  She’d never considered taking a husband. Never debated whether or not children were part of her plan for the future. She’d grown into womanhood with freedoms and habits most men acquired as part of their manhood. Knowledge was her closest friend aside from a few assorted animals. She wasn’t fit for tea parties and social calls, ballroom dancing or flirtation.

  And yet, the earl’s arrival had stirred something inside her that she once doubted existed.

  Desire.

  What of it? This wasn’t intellectual curiosity. Desire was strong. Reckless and disobedient. It permeated every part of her and begged to be explored. With a huff of disgust or mayhap resignation, she climbed from the tub and toweled dry. At least there was comfort in knowing Matthew Strathmore, Earl of Whittingham, was a temporary distraction and would be gone from her life soon enough. Gone, like everyone she dared to care about before.

  * * *

  Dinner was an unusual affair. Grandfather held logical, enjoyable conversation and never once mentioned marmalade. At times he recalled theories with admirable accuracy and spoke of detailed experiments he’d conducted years ago. She had no way to explain his sudden lucidity other than a rare happenstance and the fickle nature of aging, but she treasured the occurrence, innately satisfied that Matthew witnessed her grandfather as he once was, perspicacious and learned.

  After dinner they’d retired to the library, where the gentlemen took brandy and she sipped a glass of port, and when the conversation turned to recent scientific exploration, she envisioned what life might have been like if she were a different person and circumstances weren’t what they were.

  Oh, she would never return to London. Of that she was certain, but having spent most of her years isolated in the countryside, her nose buried in a book, a research book no less, defined her person and she could not change to become one of society’s countless ladies who flitted from event to event without a more serious thought than which shoe clips matched her evening gown.

  Furthermore, she didn’t know how to dance and everyone, everyone, in London danced. Quadrilles and reels, waltzes and cotillions. Dancing was practically signed legislation. She secreted a smile at the thought. No matter if one particular gentleman considered it overrated.

  When the longcase clock chimed eleven, she startled from her reverie, surprised by the late hour. The men might have noted the same.

  “Our discussion is highly agreeable and I can speak endlessly on current topics, but I should retire now. I’ll need to get an early start tomorrow morning in case the roadways are slower than anticipated.” He shook Grandfather’s hand. “Thank you again for your kind invitation.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope our paths cross in the future, Whittingham. Our view of science advancement is much aligned.”

  “I owe your lovely granddaughter a debt of gratitude as well.” Matthew bowed in her direction before he retrieved his walking stick from the corner and advanced. “She gave her time freely when I’m certain she had other more interesting pursuits.”

  When he reached where she stood, he inclined his head and spoke softly. “Although our invigorating sleigh ride will not be easily forgotten and was well worth the frigid trip to Oxfordshire. Take care of yourself, Lady Leighton, and your ever-so-clever menagerie of animals. No more ghostwriting antics or false authorship. The next opposer may not be so easily charmed by your alluring gray gaze and remarkable intelligence.”

  Taken aback by his personal aside, she floundered for a response equally compelling. This would likely be the last time they spoke. He searched her face as if he waited for something, but her mind blanked, his absence already felt though they’d spent little more than two days in each other’s company.

  “Safe travels, Lord Whittingham. Thank you for”—she paused, the next words chosen carefully, for she couldn’t mention their kisses or any other of the rare, beguiling moments they’d shared—“your friendship. Don’t forget to use the salve.” She groaned inwardly at her clumsy last statement.

  One half of his mouth climbed in a grin and then he merely nodded his head. And as she watched him leave, broad-shouldered and tall, his uneven gait more charming than anything else, she wondered why Fate had caused their paths to cross and what his future held, and more importantly, her own.

  * * *

  He couldn’t sleep. Despite he needed to be rested before beginning the seven-hour return trip to London in barely improved weather, he couldn’t manage to shut off his mind or stop the incessant questions that begged for answers. Theodosia was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. An intelligent woman with an unusual past, but a conundrum just the same. He rose from bed, dressed again in passable attire, and left the guest chambers in search of relief for his restlessness. He decided upon the library and so took the stairs quietly as he made his way downstairs.

  He paused at the newel post and glanced down the hall into the entryway area. A light gleamed, the faintest shimmer of candlelight. He moved with caution, unsure what creature might cross his path, that spontaneous tabby always at him with a suspicious eye.

  He arrived at the door where light shown underneath and with the tip of his finger eased it wider so he might peer inside without notice. Theodosia sat near the fire, her feet curled under her skirts where she’d drawn them upon the seat cushion. How lovely she appeared, outlined in firelight, like a masterful painting in a gallery of art. The only way to answer the questions that refused to allow his sleep was to ask them. He’d possessed an inquisitive mind all his life. Curiosity was a curse and a charm all the same.

  She turned, the weight of his stare likely the cause, and she smiled slightly. He needed no other invitation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he offered in way of explanation.

  “I couldn’t either,” she answered with a shake of her head that fanned ebony hair over her slim shoulders, e
ach length momentarily glossed in a blue-black gleam from the chandelier overhead.

  He took the matched chair opposite her near the hearth, in the same room where he’d first made her acquaintance.

  “Would you like some port?” She held up her glass, half full with the rich burgundy wine.

  “Thank you, yes.” He moved to the cabinet alongside the far wall and poured himself a glass before he reclaimed his chair.

  It was highly unseemly to drink wine with an unchaperoned lady while in a state of semi-undress, though he rather admired her disdain for decorum. London would be shocked by their combined lack of grace and zealous social familiarity, but he enjoyed that fact. There was little about London’s swells and elites that met his approval anyway. How often they judged an individual on appearance and not their worth of character or intelligence.

  He hadn’t donned his coat or cravat when he’d left his rooms, though his shirt remained closed at the neck. She wore a silky white wrapper that smoothed silently against her skin whenever she lifted her glass to take a sip. The air grew heavy in their silence, so he sought innocuous conversation. In the end she’d proven a most gracious hostess.

  “This has been a liberating visit, Bookish. Even if my initial intention became skewed, I’ve enjoyed my stay. I’m glad we became . . .” He stalled in search of the right word.

  “Friends?” she supplied.

  “Perhaps. I suppose I was thinking more in line with confidants.” He cleared his throat. “Your secret is safe with me. As long as you won’t repeat the offense, I won’t tell a soul you instigated an article in that stuffy Royal Society journal. Nor that you forged your grandfather’s name.”