Outrageously Yours

by Allison Chase

  “It isn’t as if you need to salvage my reputation,” she went on. “No one will ever discover what happened between us yesterday. People believe me to be Ned Ivers, and Ned Ivers I shall remain until my task is completed.”

  Oh, she thought she had full control over her fate, did she? “And if you are with child?” he asked softly.

  As if they’d hit a particularly hard bump in the road, she reached up to grip the hand strap hanging above the door. “There is no reason to think such a thing.”

  “Isn’t there?” The speed with which she rejected the notion of carrying his child stole his breath . . . and plucked painfully at his heart. Neither you nor anyone. She left him with no doubt that those were not simply brave words but a stubborn, nonnegotiable avowal.

  This was not at all how he had rehearsed his proposal of marriage, nor how he’d envisioned her response. Where were the happy tears? The kisses? The joy that should have filled both their hearts?

  Feeling wretched and yet, God help him, undeniably relieved , he tugged at his neckcloth and met her gaze. “If you are with child, Ivy, then we must marry. Whether you wish it or no, we will have no choice.”

  They didn’t speak again until the carriage clambered onto Trinity Lane in the center of the city. She stared out the window at the passing shops. “I’d like to get out here, please.”

  “Aren’t you coming to my meeting with me? We’re to discuss our plans for the upcoming Royal Society consortium.”

  “Unless you truly need me, I’d like to check in at St. John’s to see if another letter has arrived from London.”

  Hardly likely. What she wanted was time away from him. So be it. “All right. I’ll drop you there.”

  “I’d prefer to walk.”

  “Alone?”

  She turned toward him and raised an eyebrow. “A man’s prerogative, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t like the idea of her making her way through the city’s streets and university byways unaccompanied. It wasn’t proper for a woman, but he supposed her attire would shield her from any undue attentions. When the carriage stopped, he resisted the impulse to help her down to the pavement.

  She placed her top hat on her head and gave her coat a dignified tug. “What time and where shall I meet you?”

  “I’ll collect you at St. John’s. You’ll be in Second Court?”

  She replied in the affirmative and set off, her flapping coattails affording him mocking views of her backside. With those images lingering in his mind’s eye, he pushed his way into Ben’s office a few minutes later. The others were already assembled, lounging in chairs pulled around the desk.

  The requisite tray of scones and sweet cakes sat at Ben’s elbow, as though he could never quite compensate for the deprivation he’d suffered as a child back in Glamorganshire. “Ah, Simon, you’re just in time.” He pushed the tray across the desk. “Fresh from the oven.”

  “I’ve eaten. Thank you.” Simon claimed the empty chair beside Errol’s and tossed his hat to the settee behind them. “Any word from or about my sister since yesterday?”

  Errol shook his head, while Colin mumbled a sullen, monosyllabic denial Simon found himself believing. Ben paused in his task of pouring tea and looked up with a puzzled frown.

  “What’s this about Gwendolyn?”

  “She’s gone missing from London. Left the palace without permission and . . . now no one knows where she’s gone.”

  “Good heavens, I do hope no harm has come to her.” Ben lifted the teapot again. “How did you discover her absence?”

  Simon was quick with his lie. “A mutual friend at the palace wrote to warn me.”

  His thick spectacles flashing sunlight from the window, Errol accepted the cup of tea Ben handed him. “Have you checked with Alistair?”

  “I certainly intend to and soon. I’ve also sent inquiries to Gwendolyn’s closest friends, though instinct tells me that if she doesn’t wish to be found, she’ll continue to elude me.”

  The mention of Alistair Granville’s name, however, had set his pulse racing. The consortium was to take place at Alistair’s home. If Gwendolyn intended presenting the stone to Simon—or one of his colleagues—she might do so during the gathering of scientists and Royal Society representatives. Such a dramatic gesture would be in keeping with her character.

  Ben hunched over his desk, fingers tented beneath his chin. “Speaking of the consortium, will your generator be ready in time?”

  “More than ready.” Simon shifted his chair a few inches to avoid the sun angling through the curtains. “And entirely at your disposal.”

  Ben’s mouth dropped open. “Entirely?”

  Beside him, Errol gave the floor a thump with his cane. “Exceedingly generous of you, my boy.”

  Colin’s blond hair fell across his brow as he tilted his head pensively. “This either means your mysterious project has failed, or it has yielded results you weren’t expecting, which has thrown you off-kilter.”

  Errol frowned over his spectacles. “What difference does it make why Simon is making the gesture?”

  Colin’s gaze never shifted from Simon. “It’s merely an observation.”

  “A correct one.” Simon shrugged as if the matter were of little consequence. “Besides, I’ve decided you were right about pooling resources. In one way or another, each of you has contributed to the building of my generator. Errol’s formulations on the velocity and magnitude of vector forces and Ben’s trials with mechanical conversion of energy both played significant roles in my progress.”

  Colin emitted a sardonic chuckle. “Nothing from me?”

  “Actually, Colin, your theories of particle redistribution through electrolysis have proved most valuable.”

  “Huh.” The man’s eyebrows surged in surprise.

  Ben poured a second cup of tea for each of them. “You do realize that your generator itself might win you a Copley Medal.”

  “He doesn’t care about the Copley Medal.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in Colin’s tone.

  “I don’t,” Simon agreed, and pinned him with a glare. “However, if the Royal Society wishes to grant me the honor based on my generator alone, the prize money will immediately be transferred to the university’s School of Natural Philosophies, Physics Department.”

  Crumbs shot across the desk as the scone Ben had just plucked from the tray crumbled between his fingers. “I was only jesting when I proposed you do that.”

  Simon smiled. “Nonetheless.”

  Ben and Errol let out harmonious whoops, and Errol whacked the floor again with his cane. “If you win, we all win,” he said brightly.

  Colin shook his head at them and smirked. “That’s assuming someone outside our group doesn’t take the prize.”

  “Bah.” Errol licked cake crumbs from his fingers.

  After draining their tea, the men dispersed, Colin and Errol to the chemistry laboratory they often shared, Ben to a meeting with university trustees. Boarding his carriage, Simon directed his driver to St. John’s College.

  As they entered through the gates, he swore aloud as he realized he’d left his hat behind in Ben’s office.

  Ivy rapped her knuckles on the open door of Jasper Lowbry’s suite of rooms.

  His back to her, he sat at his writing table, head in his hands, face perched over the open book in front of him. As if she had woken him from a light doze, he jolted at the sound of her voice.

  She removed her hat and stepped over the threshold. “Am I interrupting?”

  “Ivers!” The book flapped closed and a sheaf of papers fluttered to the floor as Jasper shoved back his chair. Heedless of the mess he’d created, he trod on the spilled notes and made his way to her. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. What brings you back? Don’t tell me the Mad Marquess has sacked you?”

  “No, not yet anyway.” Ivy’s teeth almost rattled from the force of Jasper’s handshake. Yet what a gratifying relief to know that this young man’s friendship came with n
o strings attached—no demands, obligations, guilt.

  He released her and pulled back. “Something in your tone tells me you aren’t entirely joking. Have you run afoul of the old bloke?”

  “He’s hardly old and . . . well ...”

  “Come and tell me all about it.” Jasper seized her shoulder and hauled her to the settee.

  There was little Ivy could divulge about yesterday’s revelations or today’s events, but the notion of confiding in someone proved too tempting to resist. At home, she would have tugged Holly into the bedroom they shared and told her everything . . . or almost everything. Or, if she found herself in a true scrape, she would have confessed every detail, however shocking, to Laurel and yielded to her elder sister’s judgment.

  But she had no sisters here, only a mad scientist who by turns inspired her, exasperated her, and aroused her passions. And she had Jasper and the others of their little set, an unruly, high-spirited band who had become her unlikely brothers.

  Ivy had always longed for a brother. . . .

  “Something did happen yesterday—”

  “Wait. Hold that thought.” Jasper sprang up from the sofa. He poured two brandies and returned to the settee. “Here.”

  “A bit early for this, isn’t it?”

  “My dear Ivers, it is never too early for brandy.” With a hand beneath her elbow, he coaxed the snifter to her mouth. Ivy sipped judiciously. “Good,” he said. “Now, out with it. How did you incur the wrath of the Mad Marquess?”

  “He isn’t angry with me. He’s grown fearful for my welfare and is threatening to bar me from the laboratory.”

  Jasper’s eyes went wide. “Blasted hell. Why?”

  “You just said the correct word: blast. One of his experiments . . . Oh, how do I put it? It went rather awry yesterday, and now I suppose he’s afraid of blowing me to kingdom come.” Not to mention his other concerns on her behalf, which had prompted him to blurt that awkward proposal when any fool could see that marrying her was the very last thing he wished to do.

  She wondered . . . if he had couched his offer in different words, spoken of love and devotion and his desire to spend the rest of his days at her side, would she have relented, forsworn her notions of independence and thrown herself into his arms? Sadness swept through her, for it was a question that would never be answered.

  Jasper gave a low whistle. “That must have been one devil of an experiment.” After a pause, he said, “Don’t suppose you can give a hint as to—”

  “You know I cannot.”

  He nodded and swirled his brandy. “Still, no laboratory is without its dangers. We all know that, and he had to have known it, too, when he took you on. So what changed?”

  It was yet one more question Ivy couldn’t answer, though the twinges between her thighs persisted in reminding her that if she hadn’t succumbed to her feelings for Simon, her position as his assistant might not now be jeopardized.

  “Well, now more than ever, you simply must find a way to convince him to let you stay.” Jasper clinked his glass against hers.

  “What do you mean, now more than ever?”

  His hazel eyes flashed with excitement. “I’ve got news. Just this morning I learned that I am to be Dean Rivers’s assistant at the upcoming consortium to be held at Sir Alistair Granville’s home.”

  “Oh, Jasper, how exciting!” Ivy’s free hand closed around Jasper’s arm in an altogether female gesture. She immediately released him, but not before an awkward silence fell.

  After an instant, Jasper blinked and his good-natured grin returned. “So you see, Ned, you simply must be there. You’ve no choice but to stake your claim at the marquess’s side.”

  His words struck an ironic chord inside her. “I’ll try my best.”

  “Lowbry?” From outside, a call echoed against the building fronts and intruded upon the quiet room. “Lowbry? I say, you up there, old man?”

  “That’ll be Ascot.” Jasper rose and went to lean out the window. “Cease your caterwauling, I’ll be down directly.” Turning back into the room, he explained, “Preston and I have a supervision to attend. Spencer Yates is meeting us there. The two of them will be at the consortium, too, though only to observe and act as notetakers for Mr. Quincy and the Earl of Drayton. Are you acquainted with them?”

  “I should say so, since they are colleagues of Lord Harrow.” Ivy came to her feet and retrieved her hat. “I won’t make you late. Lord Harrow will be coming to collect me soon anyway.”

  “Remember. Stand firm. Don’t let the old boy brush you off.”

  Ivy didn’t respond, didn’t say that it might already be too late.

  Outside, Preston Ascot paced up and down the leaf-strewn courtyard. Spotting Ivy and Jasper exiting the building, he came to an abrupt halt. “Ivers?”

  Before Ivy could respond, the young man burst out laughing and charged, his coattails flying as his pocked features bore down on her. He caught her with both arms around her middle, the force lifting her feet from the pathway. Her hat bounced off her head and dried leaves crunched as her back struck the grass. The remaining breath whooshed out of her as Ascot collapsed with the whole of his considerable weight on top of her. Stars danced before her eyes.

  Jasper’s laughter bounced off the building front and skipped across the quadrangle. “Preston, get off the poor lad before you crush the life out of him.”

  From somewhere beyond the heap Ivy and Preston Ascot had become, footsteps pounded toward them. A pair of gloved hands closed over Preston’s shoulders. Ivy glimpsed black hair and the fierce glare of a familiar scowl.

  “Simon, don’t!” she cried out as he hauled Preston’s sturdy frame off her as if he were made of straw. The youth’s coarse features registered shock as he was tossed roughly to the ground onto his back. His assailant leaned close, seized a handful of his coat, and drew back a fist.

  “No!” Blinking, Ivy sprang up and grabbed Simon’s sleeve. “Lord Harrow, no! I’m quite all right, sir. It was all in fun. No harm meant....”

  At first it seemed he didn’t hear her. His arm strained to be loose, to complete the intended blow. It was only by summoning all her strength that Ivy was able to hold on. Then his resistance began to ebb. He looked up at her, his pale eyes filled with anxious concern, with confusion, too.

  “I’m fine,” she said. Actually, a sharp pain stabbed her lower back, but she wasn’t about to mention it.

  On the ground at their feet, a befuddled Preston sputtered. “It’s . . . a wrestling move....”

  Simon released him and straightened. As Preston pushed unsteadily to a sitting position, Simon offered him a hand up, which the young man warily accepted after a brief hesitation.

  Leaves swishing around his feet, Jasper made his way over to them. He slapped Preston’s back. “We haven’t seen this much excitement since old Ivers here left us.” He handed Ivy her hat and nodded sheepishly at Simon. “Lord Harrow, sir.”

  Simon ruefully returned the greeting. Turning back to Preston, he ran both hands over the boy’s lapels, causing Preston to flinch back a little. “My apologies, lad. I thought a fight had broken out, and Ned here being my assistant, I couldn’t allow him to be injured.”

  “I . . . understand, milord.” Frowning, Preston rubbed at his broad side. “We, er, really should be going, Lowbry, or we’ll be late.”

  As if to affirm the claim, a window across the courtyard slid open and another familiar face peered down at them. “Lowbry and Ascot, you’ve got exactly thirty seconds to get your arses up here or Mr. Markham says he’ll lock the door on you.” Spencer Yates’s spectacles flashed a sunlit warning down at them. A ribbon of smoke from a cheroot curled about his face.

  “Right. Our calculus don can’t abide tardiness.” Jasper gave Ivy’s hand a firm shake. “I hope you’ll stop by again soon, Ivers, but if not, we’ll see you at the consortium.”

  “Oh?” The curt syllable came from Simon.

  “Yes,” Ivy told him, “Messrs. Lowbry, Ascot,
and Yates”—she pointed up at the reedy young man staring down at them and holding out his pocket watch—“will all be at Windgate Priory. Jasper will be assisting your colleague Benjamin Rivers. Just as I will be assisting you. Sir.”

  She waited for him to concur, but he only stood silently brooding, still peeved, no doubt, at her refusal to accept his proposal of marriage. She supposed she should have been grateful, delighted . . . amenable. To what? A halfhearted offer to make her an honest woman, prompted by good intentions but not by love. He’d behaved admirably, yet beneath his protestations that they do the proper thing, his palpable relief had assured her that she had been correct in declining his offer.

  Preston mumbled a final apology, and the two men set off across the quadrangle. Ivy chose a direction at random and began walking.

  “Where is the carriage?”

  “Outside the gates.” Simon pointed in the opposite direction and she pivoted to change course. “Ned, wait.”

  Feeling confused and out of sorts, and wishing matters with Simon had not grown so deuced complicated, she kept going, picking up speed as she strode through the passage into First Court.

  “Ned.”

  In front of the steps of St. John’s Chapel, she stopped and spun about. “Oh, it’s Ned again, it is?”

  “Of course it’s Ned.” Darting a gaze around him, Simon lowered his voice. Students and dons, some in scholarly robes, others in day attire, strode along the paths or sat with open books on tree-shaded benches; no one seemed to be paying them any attention. “You know it must be Ned whenever we are in public,” he said with hushed emphasis.

  Rebellion flashed in her eyes. “What difference if I am to be sacked and sent from Harrowood?”

  “I have decided no such thing.”

  She took off again at a brisk pace. “Then what have you decided, other than to vent your frustrations on innocent university students?”

  “I’m sorry about that.” He caught up to her and set a hand on her shoulder. “But that lout might have broken your neck or—”