by Anne Renwick
Yet it was a husband she needed, not an illicit affair with her mentor.
Unless she intended to have first one, then the other.
That thought made him bristle. The rules clearly stated that there were to be no romantic liaisons between male professors and female students. They were not permitted to openly court. But the statute was vague about marriage.
Marriage.
Thornton tripped over his words, losing his train of thought for a moment and stringing together unrelated words to resemble a sentence until he recalled the point he’d been about to make. Of course, he would one day be forced to wed in order to produce an heir, but his responsibilities to the Crown, the school, his laboratory were all-consuming. He had no actual desire to take a wife.
Did he?
He turned back to the board and began to sketch. “So, with regard to the tactile experience, the phenomenology of impulse resists quantification.” He spun back to the audience, jabbing a finger in the air as if he made a key point. “What if it could be linked to a specific application of pressure and electrical current?”
Amanda lifted a hand, the back of her gloveless fingers pressing against her mouth as if holding back a laugh—and he knew she knew he was making this all up. Did she realize she was the reason behind the words that popped to mind?
Tactile. Impulse. Pressure. Current.
For he felt all those in her presence. Even in the laboratory when he watched her nimble fingers make fine adjustments to the clockwork spider, wondering how those same fingers would feel moving over the fine hairs and nerve endings of human skin.
His skin.
He turned away. Now was not the time for such imaginings. He shoved the annoying thoughts and feelings into a corner of his mind for future examination and walled them off through sheer force of will and finished his lecture.
“A word, Lady Amanda,” he said, as the other students shuffled from the room, concern over solving the assigned electrochemistry problem clear on their faces and in their subdued voices.
She took her time gathering her things, stepping down to stand before the podium. From the intent look on her face, he thought it wise to keep the piece of furniture between them. “Yes, Lord Thornton?” She leaned forward. Ruffles shifted. He kept his gaze carefully on her face.
“Do you think it wise to abstain from laboratory work on Sundays?”
Her back stiffened. “Jealousy does not become you, Lord Thornton. You made your lack of intent clear.”
“Jealousy has nothing to do with it,” he lied. “You. Are. Needed. In the laboratory.”
She climbed up one step, then turned around, bringing her eyes level with his own. “But not desired?”
He glared at her, exasperated. There was no way to reply to such a question.
“I have very specific social requirements laid out before me by none other than my father, the Duke of Avesbury. Since it seems you report to him, perhaps you’d like to address this issue directly? You might manage to chase away Simon, but then my social obligations will only increase as someone will have to replace him.” A coy tip of the head. “So unless you know of any volunteers?”
He stayed silent. Increase? Was her father forcing her to husband hunt? That might explain the duke’s strange comment at the ball. Thornton was socially eligible for her hand. Nevertheless, he had no plans to take a wife.
“I thought not,” she said, and began to turn away.
He didn’t want her to leave. “The chemists, they say the formula is useless. That there’s no such thing as amatiflora.”
Like sunlight through a magnifying lens, all her attention focused on him with burning intensity. “Perhaps it is the gypsy name for the flower.”
It was his turn to shrug. “Perhaps it is a weed.”
Her lips parted on a gasp. Then closed, pursing at the perceived insult.
“Lady Emily has been asked, of course, but is able to shed no further light on the plant.”
“Then it seems we must wait until spring.”
His hands gripped the side of the podium. “We don’t have the luxury of time.”
“It’s not as if we were going to hand over the formula and the ingredients to the eye doctor.” Her voice softened, wordlessly acknowledging his personal situation. “There must be other avenues to pursue. Do your chemists have any suggestions on how to recreate the effects?”
“None,” he answered.
“Well, then. It would seem we have reached an impasse,” she said. “On many fronts.”
He crossed his arms. “So it does.”
Chapter Twenty
TAKING TEA IN the parlor with Mother and Olivia on Sunday afternoons was always a trial. It was especially painful today.
“I don’t want to live in Cumbria,” Olivia whined to Mother. “It’s too far from London.”
“The manor has a lovely view of the lake,” Mother replied, placidly continuing to ply her needle, forming Prince Albert’s distinctive nose. Another needlepoint portrait pillow. It was all the rage. Queen Victoria, Mother’s most recent project bolstered Ned. Amanda found it disturbing that so many familiar faces looked back at her from every available sitting surface. On the other hand, it kept Mother occupied.
“But a pencil factory?” Olivia moaned.
“Yes,” Ned quipped with a roll of his eyes. “How lowering to have that in one’s dowry.”
Pencil.
One should be in her fingers now, working equations that would further refine the neurachnid’s movements. Amanda might not be able to work in the laboratory today, but that didn’t mean the gears in her mind weren’t turning, examining and reexamining the plans they’d made to connect the gold threads to the diffuse nuclei of the brain.
Where was the promised missive from Emily containing her research notes? It had been several days. Thornton wouldn’t admit it, but she’d seen it in his eyes. The inability of the chemists, of the botanists, to identify the amatiflora, had punctured his hopes, not only for her project, but for his leg.
If he was using Somnic, he’d run out of alternatives. It was an effective, but harsh drug, often leaving its users worse off than when they’d started. She wished she knew how long Thornton had been reliant on the drug, how long he had until its effectiveness wore off. He might have months, or weeks, or merely days.
She stared at Ned and frowned. Time was not on his side either. He was quiet and distracted, his infrequent comments more biting than humorous. He seemed smaller somehow, as if he’d started to sink into himself. Dark circles emphasized the pallor of his skin beneath vacant eyes that would not meet hers.
Georgina’s wedding contract negotiations must be going well.
Unlike Olivia’s. Which had been under discussion for the better part of the last hour. Carlton would not agree to exchanging a larger estate in Cumbria for a smaller one in Essex. It had something to do with the Scottish border and pencils, but Amanda had long since stopped listening.
Enough.
She slid a hand behind the throw pillow and under the seat cushion, pulling free the small notebook she kept hidden for emergencies. Given her state of mind, this qualified. Careful to keep the notebook buried in the folds and ruffles of her skirt, she flipped to a blank page and began to sketch out her predictions.
From the chair beside her, Ned snickered.
“Do not mock me.” In truth, she was relieved he’d even noticed. “Tea is a form of torture. The technicalities of Olivia’s marriage are tedious, and as there are no other conversational topics to distract me…” She gave him a significant look.
“Sorry. I’m… preoccupied.” He sighed. “What do you wish to discuss?”
She closed the notebook and lifted her tea cup. “Have you had a chance to punch that new Babbage card I requested?”
“No.” He looked away.
“Olivia,” she said, raising her voice. Time to make a point. If Ned wouldn’t help her, she would find someone else who would. “Have you made
any progress with that Babbage card I asked you about?”
Her sister’s face paled. “I’m… working on it,” she answered, glancing at Mother. “The technicalities are something I’ve not considered before.”
Mother’s lips pursed. “Proper young ladies don’t punch Babbage cards. They don’t program steambots, no matter how badly they desire a new and intricate hairstyle to impress their friends.” Mother looked up from her pillow to throw Amanda a pointed stare. “Please don’t make such requests of your sister. Place an order with our modiste. The stylist will punch you a card.”
“Perhaps you can help me place that order later, Olivia?”
“Of course,” her sister replied, color returning to her face now that she was certain Amanda wouldn’t boldly inquire about the peroneal nerve over tea. “We’ll discuss the details tonight.”
Mother quickly turned the discussion to the number of tiers required to hold sufficient confections at the wedding breakfast.
Ned leaned forward, speaking under his breath. “You asked her?”
Amanda shrugged. “You won’t help.”
He huffed. “I’m still contemplating the adjustments and their relevance to my situation.” An eyebrow went up.
“The muscle attachment problem has been solved,” she said, her words clipped in irritation. “The new neurachnid will be able to weave a number of nerve patterns but not without the proper Babbage cards.” It was true. Though her ability to invest significant time on Ned’s specific issues were hampered for the moment. “Remember, it is a complete rebuild. The theft consumed three months of effort.”
Ned looked away, a shadow falling across his face. Perhaps thinking that in another three months, Georgina would be another’s wife.
She continued, “Despite current appearances, outside of studies and… certain social obligations, I am devoting every available hour to perfecting the neurachnid.”
“I’m aware of the bargain you struck with Father.” Ned rolled his eyes. “Can you do no better than Sommersby?”
She drew back as if slapped.
“What about Bloxham? Didn’t he offer for you a good two months past? If you’d only accepted, by now you’d have no social obligations. Plenty of time to devote to the neurachnid.”
“You selfish twit.” Amanda leaned forward on her chair, narrowing her eyes and lowering her voice so only he could hear and spoke words she hoped would shock him. “Yes, he offered. Because of my advanced age, he offered to keep me tied to the bedposts and well ridden until I produced his heir.”
Ned’s face flamed.
“Having only you in mind, I declined. With the time constraints imposed by Father, I reasoned Mr. Sommersby, a man of medicine, would be more inclined to allow me to continue my research after a wedding.”
“I didn’t…”
Her brother’s apology, if there was to be one, was interrupted by the arrival of RT. His wheels clattered across the floor toward her. On the flat surface of his head rested a silver salver bearing a single calling card.
Simon. At last.
“I’m afraid I must go,” she said to the room at large, rising. “Duty calls. Mr. Sommersby awaits.” She met her brother’s eyes. “I will try not to inconvenience you with too long a courtship. Or,” she glanced at Olivia, “a protracted negotiation.” With a deep breath, Amanda forced a pleasant smile onto her face before stepping from the room. She did not dislike Simon. He was… adequate.
Her arrival in the front hall was heralded by the sounds of a strident shouts.
“I said, put me down!”
A small boy wearing torn and patched trousers, a scarlet waistcoat, and an oddly misshapen hat dangled from Simon’s outstretched arm. The boy’s skinny legs and arms were churning furiously. In one clenched fist, the boy held a thick packet of crumpled papers.
The first sign her day was improving.
Simon looked up, his face tight. “Look what I caught slipping in through the front door behind me. Your butler didn’t even notice his presence.”
Indeed, Steam Mary stood idling by the door, holding Amanda’s hat and cloak, oblivious to the chaos. Their butler, Burton, was rolling away having left the front door wide open to the public.
“It’s quite all right. You may put him down. He’s merely a delivery boy.”
“He’s a gypsy.”
“But still a delivery boy.” She smiled her assurances at Simon. One had to make allowances for such a widespread prejudice. She could disabuse him of his misconceptions at a later time.
Simon lowered the boy to his feet, and he bounded to her side, sliding a dark glance behind him at Simon, who glowered back with suspicion.
“I’m to deliver this directly into the hands of Lady Amanda Ravensdale.”
“That would be me.”
He held up the folded, sealed packet and bowed with a flourish.
“Thank you, young man.” Amanda stuffed the letter inside her reticule and pulled the drawstrings tight. “Now I must pay you for your troubles.
“Steam Mary,” she called. The maid rolled over to her. “Please take this young man to the kitchens.” She turned to the boy. “Will you accept payment in apple tarts?”
The boy gave her a gap-toothed grin and nodded.
Steam Mary puffed off down the hall, and the boy trotted behind her.
~~~
She fluttered her lashes and tipped her head with a smile like Olivia was wont to do in Carlton’s presence.
It did not have the desired effect.
Simon frowned as she took his proffered arm. “Does it not worry you to have a gypsy running free about your home?”
“Not in the slightest.” Perhaps now was as good as any to introduce the concept of having one in the family. “Growing up in the countryside, I spent quite a lot of time with them. Most of my clockwork skills originated under the tutelage of an old clockwork tinker.” Simon was still frowning. “My brother’s as well. He used to call us his apprentices. If not for that old gypsy, there would be no London Steam Orchestra.”
“Ah, I see now,” he said, his voice haughty. “A refinement and elevation of tinker technology.”
It was Amanda’s turn to frown. She didn’t think of it that way at all.
She tucked her hand around his elbow and allowed him to lead her from the house. Outside, the sun shone brightly. Such a day was rare.
“May I inquire as to what model butler you have?” Simon asked, handing her into the phaeton runabout. “He could barely speak. His gears ground and his joints screeched, and all he did was drop my card onto a kind of… table.”
“Burton is an old family favorite. Father is quite attached,” Amanda replied politely as Simon settled beside her. She couldn’t afford to alienate him. So she invoked the duke, a sure way to trump any argument.
“I see,” Simon grumbled.
Amanda pressed her hand to his arm and leaned in close, attempting to lighten his mood. “Besides, RT—the table—seems quite fond of you, delivering your card directly to my side.”
His free hand caught up hers, and his brow unfurrowed. “I’ve been anticipating our drive all day. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
“Of course, Simon.” But the look in his eyes as he squeezed her hand tightly—as though she might suddenly slip away—gave warning. “Oh! Are those twin compound steam engines for the drive wheel?” Amanda exclaimed, pulling her hand free. She reached for the steering handle and uttered words designed to prick the pride of any man. “May I steer?”
Her suitor was suitably distracted. Grasping the handle, he stammered excuses and began—without drawing breath—to point out and manipulate the various gadgets and improvements that had inspired the purchase of this particular model while Amanda made appropriate noises of appreciation.
Then, as the engine chugged to life and lurched into motion with a puff of smoke, Simon crammed his hat down upon his golden curls and grinned at her
with bright blue eyes and two straight rows of white teeth, inviting an answering smile.
She did her best, but therein lay the problem, did it not? Rather than a whole, Simon forever appeared to her as a collection of items on the list of husbandly requirements. Handsome? Check. Intelligent? Check. Kind and thoughtful? She thought of the gypsy boy. Simon only thought of her safety. Check. Dependable. Check.
Soon they were deep in the throngs, amidst all the other ton out to see and be seen. The latest models of steam carriages were everywhere, polished and painted to showroom perfection, their engines clicking and clacking and chugging along, forced by the crowd to throttle back to a crawl. From time to time, a gentleman passed by riding a clockwork horse. But none lurched to the right on the sixteenth step.
She’d felt Thornton tense just before each lurch and knew his leg pained him, diminishing the initial thrill of having his arms wrapped about her as he held the reins. She suppressed a sigh and glanced at Simon, determined to focus on the man she was with. It was possible her future sat beside her.
Why, then, did her stomach churn?
Overhead, colorful balloons floated in the clear sky above Hyde Park as groups of young people went up to take in the view. Up high, away from chaperones, they could flirt with the dangers of the sky, though carefully tethered below. Enormous, oblong silver balloons of transport dirigibles hovered in the distance as backdrop. All serene and calm. No airship pirates ever threatened London airspace.
What did it say about her that she’d rather be in the windowless room of a laboratory than outside on such a crisp, fall day?
She tried reducing Thornton to a list. Handsome. Unruly curls. Unreadable sapphire eyes. Wide lips. A strong chin. A deep, rumbling and entrancing voice.
But there was much more to admire.
Brilliant. He was the most intelligent man she’d met. Brave. She thought of the confidence with which he’d launched into action at Black’s side. Loyal. He’d stood by Lady Huntley even when her husband proved a traitor. Kind. He’d brought Henri into his circle. Fair. He respected her work, acknowledged its uniqueness and treated her as a colleague, not a convenience. Direct. She knew where she stood.