Outrageously Yours

by Allison Chase

  “Was it a dream?” Her voice was so soft he felt the question burrow inside his chest, rather than heard it with his ears.

  Lying seemed the wise choice, but he knew he couldn’t, not to her. “No,” he said, and waited for her rebuke.

  Instead, her hand closed around his sleeve. “I am glad it wasn’t.”

  For half a heartbeat every ounce of control he’d mastered over his emotions slipped from his grasp. All his bloody effort of self-preservation, gone in a split second of weakness for this wisp of a girl, this marvel of a woman, who was able to strip his defenses with a press of her fingers.

  And she witnessed it all in the fleeting but unpreventable contortion of his features. A tear formed in her eye; her hand went to his cheek. “Oh, Simon . . . why?”

  His insides clenched—with joy and despondency both—as she spoke his given name for the first time. “I’m sorry,” he said inadequately. “I suppose I’d hoped to prove we could be together without . . . driving each other insane. Sadly, I was wrong.”

  She pulled closer, her lips near enough to warm his own. “No. Why did you grant my pleasure but not take your own?”

  He groped at the air, then let his hand fall with a slap against his knee. “Because nothing right could have come of it. Because I could not now be looking you in the eye.”

  “Is that all?” She studied him as though stripping him naked and analyzing every inch of bare skin, until he felt the urge to squirm, even as she had squirmed beneath his touch. “There is something else, something holding you back, preventing you from ...”

  Don’t. He only thought the warning, but it must have shown on his face for she immediately fell silent.

  “Whatever it is,” she continued more quietly, “you’ve proved yourself correct, haven’t you? We may continue as we were without worry of impropriety. We have passed the test.”

  “Have we?” Somehow he managed not to vent the uproarious, cynical laughter pushing against his throat. And because he didn’t have the heart or the courage to wipe the trust from her countenance, he nodded.

  Resting her elbows on her knees, she plowed her hands through her hair, peeked up at him, and gave him a crooked smile. “What a tousled pair we are, as if so deep in our cups last night we mutually passed out. We’d best have a care or the dean of students will gate us both.”

  Her jest reminded him of a much more pertinent matter. “It isn’t being gated that worries me. Servants talk and rumors spread like wildfire in an academic community. It’s time to get you back to your own chamber.”

  “Good heavens, you’re right.” She scrambled to untangle herself from the bedclothes. “Mrs. Walsh already abhors me.” Finding one of her boots, she shoved a foot inside.

  “We’ve nothing to fear from Mrs. Walsh, Ned. Nothing that happens in this house would ever be spread abroad by her lips. But lesser servants come and go, and their loyalty is far less certain.”

  He found her silk waistcoat over the arm of the easy chair. Bringing it to her, he bade her turn around and helped her on with it. Then he turned her again and began doing up the buttons. “Mrs. Walsh doesn’t abhor you, by the way. She is confused. She suspects something amiss, but can’t put her finger on what. It’s her perplexity she abhors.”

  “All the more reason to avoid her this morning until I’ve made my bed appear slept in.” She reached for her coat.

  “If we do encounter anyone, we’ll simply behave as if we’ve been up all night working on calculations. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Her cheeks were still flushed from sleep, her eyes heavy-lidded, her lips moist and red. A languid air hung about her, telling a tale that would be difficult to deny.

  “Come,” he said. “We’d best get you to your room.”

  “You’re coming with me? Shouldn’t I simply hasten to my chamber as quickly and quietly as possible?”

  He had to agree that that would look more natural to any of the servants who might already have ventured abovestairs. But simply opening his door and bidding Ned a quick good-bye would have been tawdry and slapdash on his part; only a cad sent a young lady, albeit one dressed in trousers and a waistcoat, off alone to face the possibility of having to explain herself along the way. The Mad Marquess of Harrow might be many things, but a cad was not one of them.

  “I’ll see you to your door. With any luck, no one has been in yet. What time does Ellsworth usually bring your hot water and shaving soap?”

  She peered at the bedside clock. “Not quite this early. Did you know he keeps offering to shave me himself?”

  This produced a grin Simon tried unsuccessfully to hide. “As a matter of fact, it was I who suggested he do so.”

  He could not deny that he thoroughly deserved the whop of Ned’s coat hitting the side of his head.

  Chapter 11

  Later that morning, in a well-appointed drawing room on St. Andrews Street at the center of Cambridge, Ivy found herself in the middle of a standoff, one she half expected to erupt into violence at any moment. She darted a wary glance from Simon—as she had come to think of him since waking in his bed—to the stately town home’s owner.

  Anger and evasiveness flashed in Lord Drayton’s hooded gaze. The fourth member of the Galileo Club, Colin Ashworth, Earl of Drayton, presented as unscholarly a figure as Simon himself: youthful and dashing and filled with the same electrifying energy she sensed in Simon. Now the two men, one as dark-haired as the other was blond, faced each other like two negative charges about to collide with a volatile hydrogen molecule. Ivy braced for a blistering exchange.

  “I asked you a straightforward question.” Simon’s voice plunged to a threatening rumble. “If you had an ounce of honor in you, you’d stop hedging and answer me.”

  “The answer is not nearly as simple as you would have it.” His chin protruding, Simon’s fellow scientist presented a wall of stubborn resistance.

  Simon’s anger propelled him forward. Ivy flinched, expecting an impact, but he abruptly halted a yard or so away from Lord Drayton. “You had best make it simple. Has my sister been to see you, or not?”

  Lord Drayton’s nostrils flared. As the tension mounted, Ivy conducted a hasty survey of the room for an object she might use to separate the two should they come to blows. A sofa cushion? A candlestick? An andiron? Could she even hope to defuse their palpable enmity?

  “She is frightened of you, Simon,” the earl said. “And who can blame her?”

  “Frightened of me, her own brother?” The bark in his words and the ruddy color that flooded his face made Ivy a little bit afraid of him herself.

  Her heart pattered against the confining silk strips around her breasts, making her feel slightly faint. Stepping between the men, she gestured to the armchairs and settee grouped near the bay window overlooking the garden. Gardens were peaceful and soothing; the view might help. “Perhaps we should all have a seat and calm down.”

  Lord Drayton swung in her direction as if just becoming aware of her presence. “Just who the blazes are you?”

  She deepened her voice a notch. “Lord Harrow’s assistant.”

  “And what business is this of yours?”

  “Leave him alone, Colin,” Simon’s warned. “This is about Gwendolyn. I came here on an educated assumption. Your prevarication is turning that guess into a conviction. When did you see her?”

  Lord Drayton all but spat his reply. “All right, yes. Gwen was here. Briefly. Almost two weeks ago.”

  “Two weeks? And you chose to say nothing? Did it not occur to you that her sudden appearance in Cambridge meant she was in trouble, and that she needed my help? Whatever else she may or may not have done, abandoning her position in the queen’s household is no small matter.”

  “She begged me not to tell you. She said she feared what you might do if you learned she’d left Buckingham Palace without the queen’s permission.”

  “And so you simply let her go on her way?” Simon’s hands swung upward, curling into fists. “A
young girl, all on her own.”

  “I made her promise she’d return to London immediately.”

  Simon flicked a silent question in Ivy’s direction. She replied with an infinitesimal shake of her head. If his sister had returned to London, Ivy would have known about it by now. Victoria would have sent a special messenger racing across the sixty miles that separated London from Cambridge; a single rider could have made the journey in two days.

  Simon scowled at the other man. “Either you’re a fool to have trusted her with that promise, or you’re lying and Gwendolyn is still here, hiding somewhere in this house.”

  Lord Drayton held out his arms. “Search if you like. Quiz my servants. But I assure you, she is quite gone.” His posture eased. “See here, your assistant is right. We should sit down and discuss the matter calmly.”

  With a show of reluctance, Simon dragged himself to an armchair. Ivy followed, taking a seat on the settee. Lord Drayton completed the triangle in another of the richly upholstered chairs. His hands gripped the padded arms.

  “Gwen came to me seeking advice—”

  “And is that all she got from you?”

  Lord Drayton’s jaw turned to steel. Ivy tried to catch Simon’s eye, to communicate that his sarcasm wouldn’t accomplish anything useful. When he failed to cooperate, she resorted to clearing her throat. Loudly. They needed to find Lady Gwendolyn, and if Lord Drayton could lead them to her, it would do them little good to antagonize him.

  Simon’s mouth pulled in irritation. “What kind of advice did she want?”

  “Mostly how she might appeal to your better nature without worsening matters.”

  “And she thought you could assist her with that?”

  “Lord Harrow . . . ” Ivy murmured a cautionary sing-song. Her impatience grew in direct proportion to the anger that so obviously prevented him being objective. So be it. He might berate her later, but her obligation to Victoria demanded that she not sit silently by. “Lord Drayton,” she said, “did Lady Gwendolyn tell you why she left the palace?”

  “She said she was homesick,” he replied tersely, eyeing her with just enough disdain to convey his annoyance at being questioned by an underling. His attention shifted back to Simon. “And that she wished to reconcile with you.”

  “Nothing else?” Simon’s caustic retort sent frustration shooting through Ivy. She burned to ask far more pointed questions than his accusatory ones.

  Lord Drayton held out his hands. “Isn’t that enough?”

  Ivy decided to take a chance, just to gauge the earl’s reaction. “Did she perhaps mention having in her possession a particular item from the palace?”

  His nostrils flared and his chin protruded. “Are you accusing Lady Gwendolyn of stealing?”

  “He is accusing Gwendolyn of nothing,” Simon replied before Ivy could.

  Another silent battle electrified the air between the men. Obviously, their mutual resentment centered on Lady Gwendolyn herself, and Ivy’s imagination took flight with possibilities.

  Had Lord Drayton ruined her? Victoria hadn’t mentioned that, but she might not have known the full story of why Simon had disowned his sister.

  Lord Drayton was the first to break the seething hostility by flicking his gaze down at his boots. “Actually, she did ask for money to cover her traveling expenses.”

  Those last two words, perhaps keys to Gwendolyn’s whereabouts, once more splintered Ivy’s restraint. “Traveling expenses to get her where?”

  Lord Drayton scowled but replied, “As I said, to London. Or so I believed.”

  “Did you give her the money she requested?” Ivy pressed, the difficulty of obtaining answers making her want to yank on her own curls.

  The man narrowed his scrutiny on her in a way that made her want to shrink back against the cushions. “What are you, some sort of detective?”

  From under his brows, Simon flashed her a warning. She chose to ignore it.

  “Hardly, my lord,” she said to the earl with surprising steadiness. “I am merely doing as Lord Harrow hired me to do. Assisting him by offering a second point of view.”

  “Humph.” Lord Drayton’s irritation didn’t fade. “I find your questions impertinent and none of your business, young man.”

  “But the answers are very much my business.” Simon leaned forward. “Did you give Gwendolyn any money?”

  Lord Drayton sighed. “Thirty pounds.”

  “Damned generous of you,” Simon murmured drily. “And did she give you anything in return? Or promise you something in exchange for your assistance?”

  “Such as what?” Lord Drayton’s handsome features twisted to a dangerous scowl. “If you’re suggesting that Gwen came here to—”

  Simon’s chin came up. “I don’t suppose she offered to help you win the Copley Medal?”

  “How the blazes could Gwen do that? And why the hell would you conclude that I’d require or accept such help?”

  “Because as you said, the work you’re presently engaged in isn’t flashy enough to attract the Royal Society’s notice.”

  “How dare you? My work may lack a certain dazzle, but it is every bit as vital as whatever is producing those sparks you so enjoy shooting from your tower lair—perhaps more so. If my focus on finding a way to protect England’s harvests from pestilence and infestation means I’ll never win a Copley Medal, then I say to the devil with the Royal Society.” Though indignant, Lord Drayton kept his anger in check; his quiet admonition bore a dignity that convinced Ivy he spoke the truth.

  Yet Simon seemed to have heard none of the man’s sincerity, for he latched on to one phrase only. “How dare I? That you of all people should pose such a question to me . . .”

  Lord Drayton shoved to his feet. “That is enough. Hang it, Simon, this is precisely why Gwen got cold feet when she tried to come home. You don’t listen, and you don’t forgive. You haven’t an ounce of empathy in you.”

  “Oh, now, that isn’t fair. He—” Ivy pressed a fist to her mouth.

  She had planned to keep a cool head through this interview. This was not her battle, yet Lord Drayton’s charge incited her outrage. Ivy had experienced nothing but empathy from Simon. Unlike every other man she had ever encountered, he alone comprehended what it meant for women to be banned from the classroom, the laboratory, and every other place where they could challenge their intellects. He not only understood; he applauded her talents, and Ivy could not sit by and hear him so unfairly insulted. Except . . .

  Both men were staring at her, Simon in censure and Lord Drayton in perplexity. Then they went back to ignoring her.

  “I can’t very well forgive my sister if she persists in hiding from me.” Simon put emphasis on the word sister, as if to imply that he would readily forgive Gwendolyn’s offenses, but not Lord Drayton’s.

  “That is between you and Gwen.” Lord Drayton’s lips whitened with bitterness.

  Simon came to his feet and adjusted his coat with a tug. “If you did know where my sister is now, would you tell me?”

  Lord Drayton again glanced down at his boots, and when he looked back up from beneath a fringe of blond hair, his ire had been replaced with a calmer, more conciliatory emotion. “I know you love her, and that you’re concerned about her. If I knew where she’d gone, yes, I’d tell you. And if I could have prevented her from going anywhere but London or home, I would have. Upon my honor, she had me convinced she’d do the right thing.”

  For a moment Ivy thought Simon would contest that assertion. But the tension drained from his posture and he nodded. Then he strode to the doorway, issuing a command over his shoulder in a single, terse syllable. “Ned.”

  Ivy jumped up from the settee and trotted to keep up with him. Retrieving his cloak and top hat, he made his way down to the hall and out to St. Andrews Street. Bright leaves rustled along the thoroughfare; the brilliant sunlight offered little warmth.

  They had ridden into town, a sedate ride befitting the well-bred gentlemen they appeared to
be, and had stabled their horses on Market Street. As Simon headed north along St. Andrews on foot, Ivy fell in beside him. Many aspects of the past quarter hour had left her puzzled, but one question in particular nagged her.

  “That encounter was painfully personal,” she said. “Why did you allow me to witness it?”

  Simon spared her a sidelong glance. “The queen’s authority grants you the right to gather your evidence first-hand.”

  “Yes, but that interview involved a good deal more than fact-finding. You and Lord Drayton were practically at each other’s throats.”

  He said nothing as they passed the gates of Christ’s College. From beneath the Beaufort coat of arms, Lady Margaret’s statue seemed to follow their progress with a moue of disapproval. To their left, the bells of St. Andrew the Great rang out the half hour, a note simultaneously echoed from the university’s numerous colleges across the city. A few steps past the church, Simon turned west onto Market Street.

  Ivy tugged the brim of her own top hat lower against the wind. “I suppose we’ll attend the ten o’clock.”

  “The ten o’clock what?”

  “Service. It is Sunday, you realize.”

  “Is it?” Simon picked up the pace, forcing Ivy to hasten to keep up and nearly sending her tripping over her feet again. “I have another stop to make. If you wish, you may attend the service at St. Mary’s, or turn around and go back to St. Andrew’s.”

  “You won’t come?”

  He halted and turned so abruptly she nearly ran into him. “I have not attended church in more than a year. A year and a half, to be exact.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t need any further explanation. “If your next stop is about your sister, then I had better accompany you.”

  “As you like.” He resumed walking. “Only this time do a better job of holding your tongue.”

  “I have a right to ask necessary questions.”

  “At the price of giving yourself away? Do you realize what would happen should anyone discover the truth of who, or shall I say what, you are?”

  “Of course I do. Simon . . . I do wish you’d slow down.” When he didn’t, she sprinted to resume her place at his side. “Why does Lord Drayton infuriate you?”