by Nichole Van
Jasmine angled her head.
“I think I understand, my dear.” She reached out and patted Fossi’s hand. “Marianne, perhaps we should scale back to just two flounces per dress?”
Oh. That wasn’t what Fossi meant at all—
“Please no flounces or ruffles,” she pleaded. “I wish to look distinguished and elegant, not frippery-laden.”
A beat.
And then Jasmine smiled. Bright and delighted.
“I actually agree. Elegant it is.” She raked her gaze up and down Fossi. “Though you do realize that elegant means even more silk, correct?”
Fossi swallowed and closed her eyes, fighting the urge to slowly beat her head against the stone fireplace mantel.
As the afternoon wore on, Fossi became more inured to the entire process and found she really did have opinions about fashion in the end.
Jasmine and Marianne chattered the entire time and talked fondly of Lord Whitmoor—or rather, Daniel.
It jolted Fossi every time his given name dropped from their lips.
Daniel said he will be coming . . .
Did Daniel mention that too?
As Daniel, he seemed so . . . normal. Approachable. Human.
Not the powerful persona of Lord Whitmoor at all, but simply a man among friends.
The flesh-and-blood resident of his granite fortress.
Fossi found herself thinking of him the same way—Daniel. Knocking the king from his throne, as it were.
As they talked of Daniel, Fossi realized that the families—Ashtons, Knights and Linwoods—were all related via marriage.
“It is quite easy to understand, I think.” Jasmine said with a grin when Fossi asked. “I am married to Lord Linwood whose younger sister, Marianne”—here she held a hand out to her friend—“is married to Arthur Knight of nearby Haldon Manor. Arthur’s brother, James, married Emme Wilde, who in addition to being a dear friend of mine, has a brother, Marc Wilde, who is married to Daniel’s older sister, Kit. So we’re basically just one big happy family as all our children are cousins of some sort or another.”
“That is true,” Marianne said. “Even Georgiana is tangled in our web.”
“Georgiana?” Fossi asked.
“The younger sister of Arthur and James. She is married to Sebastian Carew, Lord Stratton, and resides in Warwickshire.”
Fossi’s head spun. She would have to make a chart of their relationships later on in her notebook.
Her mind fixated on Kit, the sister who had raised Daniel. The person that Fossi’s theorems were supposed to somehow help.
“Does Lord Whitmoor’s sister live nearby?” Fossi asked, lifting an arm so Madame Beauford could pin another panel of fabric.
Jasmine and Marianne exchanged a glance, as if silently debating how to answer the question.
That was . . . interesting.
“Marc is American,” Jasmine finally replied, “so they live in the United States. Daniel hasn’t seen Kit in nearly two years.”
“Oh.” That answer seemed oddly . . . deflating.
How could Fossi’s mathematics possibly help a woman who lived thousands of miles away? And why the hesitation when discussing where Kit lived?
It made no sense. Had Lord Whitmoor—Daniel—lied to her to protect some other secret? But if that were the case, why did he bring it up at all?
And just when she thought she was starting to unravel him, everything knotted into a tangled ball again.
What were all these secrets Daniel kept?
“That will look lovely on you, Foster.” Marianne gestured toward the blue gown Madame Beauford had tentatively pinned around her.
Fossi stared at her reflection, the icy-blue silk falling in gentle folds to the ground, the color catching previously unseen highlights in her hair.
The look would not be . . . unsatisfactory.
Jasmine giggled behind her. “I can just see it now. Foster in shimmery water silk sitting down to dinner. An army captain in dashing regimentals looks her way. She says something coy. He responds with open flirtation. She offers a witty rejoinder. He laughs in delight—”
“Oh, please stop!” Fossi pressed palms to her flushed face, meeting Jasmine’s gaze in the mirror. Did the woman not think before she spoke? “Please. Dress me like a peacock, if you wish, but I shall never learn how to flirt.”
A pause.
Jasmine pursed her lips, a blush touching her own cheeks, and then gave a helpless laugh.
“Well, why ever not?” Jasmine sounded genuinely puzzled. “Every person should know how to flirt. If you feel unequal to the challenge, Foster, we should find you a tutor. In fact, Daniel is a most excellent flirt, perhaps he could—”
“Lord Whitmoor mentioned that he had been married?” Fossi blurted out, desperate to change the subject. “His wife passed on?”
Her words landed with all the skill of a poorly aimed arrow.
Jasmine’s expression instantly morphed from casual to strained, and Marianne suddenly found a pattern impossibly interesting.
“Yes,” Jasmine said after a too long hesitation. “Daniel was married. Alice passed away about five years ago. A hereditary wasting illness, I believe the doctors said.” Jasmine sat back, crossing her arms. “Though it is not as if Alice—”
“Jasmine.” Quelling censure in Marianne’s tone as she darted a quick glance at Fossi.
Neither lady said anything more on the subject.
Silence.
Madame Beauford moved fabric this way and that. Birds chirped outside the open window.
“Ah,” Fossi managed to reply as it seemed the ladies were waiting for her to say something.
The topic was clearly taboo.
By the end of the afternoon, Fossi was exhausted both physically and emotionally. The cobbler had been summoned, and Jasmine’s own French maid dispatched to trim and style Fossi’s hair.
Madame Beauford left after promising the first of the dresses would be delivered in several days.
As usual when dealing with Daniel Ashton, Fossi was left with more questions than answers.
Alice.
The woman had a name.
Her death had . . . altered Daniel, it seemed. And he kept a box that he wept over.
Fossi had scores of follow-up questions she longed to ask.
Were they hopelessly in love? Was she sunshine to his night? How had he managed to survive her loss?
Why did others not wish to speak of it?
She was coming to see him as a labyrinth of a man. A convoluted maze so full of twists and turns, she wondered if anyone could discover his true center. Granted, that meant he had to allow someone within his outer perimeter.
Someday though . . . perhaps someday she would understand.
And, hopefully, the answers were ones she could in good conscience live with until she finished the task he had hired her to do.
In the end, however, it wasn’t thoughts of Alice that chased her to sleep that night.
It was Jasmine’s earlier observation.
Daniel is a most excellent flirt, perhaps he could—
Perhaps Daniel could . . . what?
Chapter 12
Daniel’s study
Kinningsley, Herefordshire
August 11, 1828
I will ensure you receive a copy of these.” Daniel took the papers from Fossi, one-by-one, as she signed them.
They were together again in his small study next to the stairs. She sat before his desk, while he had claimed a chair at her side. This space had been his office when working as Linwood’s man of affairs, and Timothy had kept the room for him even after Daniel left his service nearly a decade ago.
Fossi’s contract had been amended and now firmly signed. He stacked the papers together, setting them to the side of the desk.
Fossi seemed . . . subdued this morning. It was more than the sad state of her clothing and quiet primness of her mouth.
Something was eating at her.
And
why that simple fact pulled at him . . . he refused to examine.
She flashed him a wan smile and braced her hands on the desktop. “Are we to start on equations today, my lord?”
From their brief acquaintance, Daniel understood that Miss Lovejoy hid herself deep inside a shell. Their relationship was not such that he could call her out for her moods. Not yet, in any case.
Though . . . funny that his mind assumed they would reach a point where he could do such a thing.
So instead of questioning her, he replied. “Yes. Let us get started.”
Reaching across, he opened a workbook, displaying a page of equations he had prepared.
She gasped.
The numbers were complex; ideas poured from them. Not that Fossi would know exactly what the numbers meant. But as any good mathematician, she could easily tell at a glance that treasures were hidden within.
She leaned forward, staring with earnest intent, doldrums abandoned.
Huh. Forget bonnets and dresses for Foster Lovejoy. Cheer her up with a complex equation or two.
“You are a man of secrets indeed, my lord.” She continued to study the page, eyes devouring the sums. “This is fascinating.”
He settled back into his chair beside her and spent the next hour outlining what she needed to do.
“Basically, you wish me to run this equation”—she pointed to the largest number set—“over and over, moving through numerical iterations as I go, correct?” she asked.
“Precisely.”
“The idea is eventually to land on values and a structure that cause these two equations”—here she pointed at another value set—“to match, or at the very least, coalesce.”
“Exactly.”
They continued on.
She asked questions. He answered them.
Foster Lovejoy was astonishingly intelligent.
Like . . . freakishly, frighteningly smart.
He had intellectually known that—the mind behind Fourier’s Nemesis had to be brilliant—but it was something else entirely to be faced with it.
She was a nerdy engineer’s dream date. Her nimble mind quickly grasped complex wave oscillation theory and instantly moved into innovation and creativity.
Damn. He had forgotten how attractive intelligence could be.
Which most likely explained why he found himself studying her as they talked, the animation in her face, the spark in her eyes.
It was astonishing the difference a simple hairstyle could make. Fossi still wore one of her old dresses (the new ones would begin to arrive later in the week, apparently) but the softer styling of her hair accentuated the elegant loveliness of her face. Clean and pure in its simplicity.
Her skin glowed in the morning light. A comparison to pearls would be perhaps a bit beyond the mark, though—he contemplated for a moment—perhaps not by much. There was truly a graceful courtliness about her.
It was only as their discussion drew to a close that the epiphany hit:
Daniel genuinely wanted to earn this woman’s friendship.
She was insightful and clever in a way few people—men or women—ever were. He intuited that her internal life was rich and varied. That once she gave her loyalty, it would be for life.
And he suddenly wanted that loyalty with a longing that surprised him.
How could he want to know her so soon? Such behavior was . . . atypical.
After several hours discussion, they had laid the groundwork for her employment with him.
“I sent a missive to my solicitor yesterday, detailing our contract.” He swept a hand over the documents still resting on the desktop as he stood in preparation to leave. “He will be in contact with you within the week to assist in settling your new funds.”
It was vitally important to him, he had decided, that she have access to funds almost immediately. She had spent so much of her life without. He wanted her to find some pleasure in having plenty. And he ignored the little pang of guilt that told him he wasn’t being entirely honest with himself.
“Thank you, my lord. That is excellent news.” Fossi stood as well, stretching slightly.
“Have you decided what you will do with your newfound wealth?” he asked.
“Pardon?” Her eyes shifted to meet his. Pools of liquid chocolate.
“Your twenty thousand pounds. Have you decided what you will do with it?”
A pause.
She blinked. And then blinked again.
What joy would Foster Lovejoy find in riches?
He could practically see the gears of her mind considering and weighing her reply.
“May I suggest truth?” he continued.
“My lord?” More confused, wide eyes.
“You were sorting through answers, trying to decide if you should state the truth of what you intend with your funds, or if polite deflection were the better option.”
“I-I am not quite—” She stopped and smoothed her skirts. She looked to the wall behind him, studying something there.
Looking for courage, he supposed.
He was happy to help her along.
“Polite deflection—though by its very definition polite—is rarely as interesting as truth,” he said. “Particularly, as I imagine, your truth would be, Miss Lovejoy.”
It was a sudden bold statement.
Again . . . unlike him.
But nonetheless true. He wanted to know how that brilliant mind of hers worked.
A long silence.
He hadn’t a clue what her reply would be.
And for a man who had spent the last decade acquiring an advanced degree in Body Language of the Human Race, the anticipation and mystery were novel sensations.
Frowning, she brought her gaze back to his and angled her head, looking slightly like a curious bird.
“Do you mock me, my lord?”
Daniel nearly winced.
Heavens! That’s where her thoughts landed?
“Why would I ridicule you?” His words hung in the hush.
She began to shrug and then caught herself, stilling her shoulders before finishing such an ill-bred motion. A habitual action, he realized.
She frowned instead.
A thinker, Miss Lovejoy. Thank goodness.
“There is no logical reason for you to ridicule me, my lord,” she said after a moment’s contemplation, “but I do not suppose mockery has much in common with logic. Your compliment merely struck me as . . . unexpected.”
Ah.
His intense curiosity had caught him off-guard, too.
Daniel suppressed a small smile. “I fear I engaged in some slight flirtation, Miss Lovejoy. A rather ill-advised attempt to be charming, perhaps. Forgive me.”
Though curious that his interest in her would manifest itself as flirtation.
Her mouth formed a surprised ‘O.’
She did not, however, smile or blush. Which seemed . . . uncharacteristic.
“Did Lady Linwood urge you to flirt with me?” she asked.
What?
Now the bewilderment was all his.
Of course, Fossi Lovejoy would instantly turn the tables on him.
“Why ever should Jasmine have asked such a thing of me?”
But . . . now that he considered it, he wouldn’t be opposed to flirting with Foster Lovejoy. With her quick mind, it would be delightful. When had he last thought to flirt with a woman?
Her eyes narrowed. “Do spies receive training in that, too?”
He blinked. “Flirtation?”
“No.” She made an exasperated noise. “Replying to a question by posing yet another question. ’Tis a non-answer that smacks of evasion and secrecy, my lord.”
Oh.
True that.
He would know.
“My apologies.” He bowed slightly. “Sincerely though, what did Jasmine say?”
Her eyes narrowed further, landing firmly in Annoyed School Marm territory.
Oh. Right.
Daniel scrubbed a hand ac
ross his face. Shook his head. “Please pardon me. Some habits are . . . ingrained.”
Silence for a moment.
Her shoulders relaxed.
“Lady Linwood spoke of flirtation, and she thought it might be good for me to perhaps learn,” Fossi said. “As you can tell, I do not have sufficient experience with flirtation to recognize when it is directed at myself. I am sure she spoke of it to you.”
“She did not.”
Fossi’s gaze said she did not quite believe him.
He didn’t press her to believe him. If she thought his flirtation to be at Jasmine’s behest, well, that was probably for the best.
“To be honest, I find the subject confusing. It is not clear or precise at all.” Fossi pursed her mouth. “For example, I can quite easily identify flirtation when listening in on a conversation. But when in the midst of it myself . . .”
Her voice trailed off, a blush finally flooding her cheeks.
Tenderness swept Daniel.
Fossi repeatedly brought the emotion out in him. Why? Was it because she was unlike any woman he had met in . . . forever?
She looked down, fascinated by her hands twisted before her.
No one should be so doubting of their own allures.
Yes. Jasmine’s instincts had been correct in this.
Foster Lovejoy deserved a little flirtation in her life.
“I find it curious that you are so surprised by any charm or flirtation sent your way,” he said. “Surely gentlemen have drowned you in compliments on occasion?”
A pause.
She swiveled her head away.
“I . . . I-I have always been far too odd, my lord. Flirtation is a language I never learned.”
“Are you interested in becoming conversant?” He had to ask the question.
He was suddenly breathless for her answer.
Another beat.
“I don’t know.” She lifted her head. “Is it commonplace for an employer to flirt with an underling?”
Daniel mentally flinched.
Wow. Talk about a direct hit.
The answer, according to Daniel’s more modern point of view, was an emphatic No.
No, it was not proper for an employer to flirt with an employee. All the more reason to let her think Jasmine had requested it of him.
“Perhaps not,” he admitted, color now touching his own cheeks, “but it is time-honored social banter between men and women. And if Jasmine suggested it . . .”