Outshine (House of Oak Book 5)

by Nichole Van

  Thankfully, Daniel had taken pains to help her understand that his flirtation was meant to be instructive—a helpful lesson in expected social behaviors.

  The flirtation itself had been . . . distressing.

  She would have expected it to feel exciting and daring and . . . confident.

  Why she had thought flirtation would be so many things that she herself was not . . . Fossi wasn’t sure.

  Your brilliance is a thing of beauty.

  Had that been more flirtation? The compliment had felt somehow . . . more than mere flirtation. But as she was so new to sincere compliments and flirtation, it was difficult to know.

  Regardless, that solitary sentence of his weighed on her thoughts. Her cheeks burned at the memory.

  Her sisters would chide her, claiming she was behaving fast and wanton. Her father would be properly horrified and threaten to disown her.

  Was that why she had left her family as she had? Disowning them first, in a way, before they could disown her?

  Would she have reached such a point of discontentment with her life and her family if Daniel hadn’t drawn her out? Or would she have remained quiet and passive in her familial role?

  It was an uncomfortable thought.

  Would she ever come to regret severing ties with her family?

  But regretting leaving them also meant she would regret working for—and by extension being around—Daniel. And she hated the thought of regretting anything about her time with him.

  Case in point—the note that had been delivered to her just before she crawled into bed:

  Please meet me in the library tomorrow morning right after breakfast.

  Her foolish heart pitter-pattered in anticipation.

  The man was her employer. Of course, he would want to meet with her; she was his to command.

  But the more time they spent together, the greater the chance she and Daniel could become friends, and who knew where that—

  Ugh!

  She needed to stop.

  Fossi dragged the covers over her head and nestled into her pillow.

  Firmly trying to banish all fantastical thoughts and dreams.

  With only marginal success.

  The library

  Kinningsley, Herefordshire

  Mid-morning on August 12, 1828

  “Will this be adequate for you as a work space, Miss Lovejoy?”

  Daniel watched as Fossi spun in a circle, eyes wide with wonder. Summer sunlight bounded through the room in gleeful glory.

  “Heavens. It’s lovely.”

  The idea had come to Daniel late the previous evening—Fossi needed a beautiful space in which to work her sums.

  This corner of Kinningsley’s library definitely qualified.

  Per Daniel’s orders, a large desk had been moved before one of the paned windows, perfectly situated to take advantage of the splendid view to the park lands beyond. But it wasn’t the greenery and riot of rosebushes out the window that drew his eye.

  No, it was Fossi herself, spinning round still dressed in her shabby gowns. The dancing sunlight caught the red highlights in her brown hair—which truly looked more chestnut than uninspired brown—and in turn brought out gold flecks in her forest eyes.

  She turned those eyes back to him now.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, shy but less withdrawn. She walked over to the desk, setting her own notebook down, running a hand along the large workbook, foolscap, ledger and cup of pencils he had prepared for her. “This is more than adequate.”

  He pulled the large ledger toward them, flipping it open and motioning for Fossi to look at it with him. There was one small anachronism that Daniel decided to employ.

  She studied the headed columns and labeled rows.

  “Goodness! What beauty is all this?” Delight lit her eyes and popped a small dimple in her left cheek.

  Huh.

  Was it only a few short days ago that he had considered her more plain than beautiful? Surely he must have been mistaken.

  Foster Lovejoy was decidedly lovely.

  Granted, her affinity for equations could also have colored his assessment. It took a special type of woman to react to numbers like they were a new dress design from Paris.

  He was utterly enchanted.

  “What is it?” Fossi asked, still studying the unique pages Daniel opened before her. “It looks like an expanded sort of ledger.”

  “I would call it a spreadsheet. It is a way for you to catalog your findings. I’ll have you enter the number of the equation in this column here, followed by your results here . . .”

  Daniel continued, outlining how he wanted her to meticulously track her results. There was no telling what would prove useful in the future.

  The more he spoke, the more excited Fossi became.

  “Oh my,” she finally breathed, voice breathless, “this is truly marvelous, my lord.” The woman nearly clasped her hands in glee.

  Daniel paused. Was she being sarcastic?

  “Are you quite all right, Miss Lovejoy?”

  “Yes, it’s just so very . . . exhilarating.”

  A beat.

  “You find spreadsheets . . . exhilarating?”

  “Of course. Don’t you? It is a thing of such beauty in its simplicity. It quite steals my breath.”

  Right.

  Still no sarcasm.

  A grin tugged at Daniel’s lips.

  This woman.

  “And here I had been hoping that I could be the one to steal your breath away.” Daniel pasted a look of deep regret on his face.

  Fossi froze in place.

  “Flirting, Miss Lovejoy.” He raised his eyebrows. “You had said you were interested in becoming more conversant.”

  She blushed, vibrant and brilliant.

  “I-I fear Lady Linwood underestimated my reserves when it comes to flirtation,” she stammered.

  “Simply consider it exponentially advanced charm.”

  “I am not sure I am up to the challenge.” She pressed her hands to her fiery cheeks. “Is it normal to find flirting so distressing?”

  “Once one moves past the novice stage, flirtation is a delightful game.” He chuckled. “We shall have to acclimate you by degrees.”

  Another pause.

  “I am not sure if I should thank you or be terrified.”

  “I assure you, my flirting abilities rarely inspire horror.”

  That startled a laugh out of her. Giddy and decidedly breathless.

  “Flirtation is quite simple,” he continued. “One merely indicates through either body language or words—often both simultaneously—a playful interest in a member of the opposite gender. Flirting should always communicate a desire to further the acquaintance of the other person. Shall I give an example?”

  “Please.”

  “Very well.” He pushed away from the desk and walked into the center of the room. “Let us say that we have just happened upon each other and you make a comment about the agreeable weather.”

  Daniel gestured, indicating that Fossi should make such a comment.

  She blushed again and said, “The weather is quite lovely today.”

  Daniel met her gaze and then allowed a small smile to touch his lips, his eyes warming. “Indeed, Miss Lovejoy, it is a delightfully lovely day at present.”

  Everything about his gaze and tone, however, stated that he found her lovely.

  She smiled, a breathless laugh escaping. Eyes sparkling with life.

  Daniel quite forgot to breathe himself—the teacher, again, being schooled by his student.

  She clapped.

  “That was impressively good,” she said. “Your words and behavior were utterly proper, but the tone in which you said them communicated a different message. Bravo, my lord.”

  “Daniel,” was his reply.

  “Pardon?”

  “Please, call me Daniel. We will be working together after all.”

  She blinked and abruptly took a step back, flinching as if
his words were cold water flicked upon her.

  First her eyes shuttered, then her shoulders slumped. Bit by bit, light by light, Fossi extinguished. It was like watching someone close up a house for the night. Every last bit of that lovely excitement and energy doused.

  Daniel watched the transformation with something akin to horror.

  No! Come back!

  She dropped her head and gazed at her hands, twisting her fingers in her habitual way.

  “That would hardly be seemly, my lord.” Her voice quiet, achingly polite and proper.

  “I would consider it an honor, Miss Lovejoy.”

  “I am an unmarried woman of no station. Flirtation, or exponentially advanced charm as you called it, is fine if sanctioned by Lady Linwood and couched in terms of furthering my social education.” Her tone was agitated now. But at least she raised her eyes to his. “However, to call you by your first name . . . it would imply a degree of intimacy—”

  “A woman who agrees to enter my employ as my personal mathematician is hardly one who stands on societal ceremony.”

  “Perhaps, but I still must live within that society.”

  “Will you at least consider the idea? When we are in private, just you and I? I will be Daniel and you will be Fossi?” His gaze plead with hers.

  A long pause.

  “Very well,” she whispered. “When we are alone, just you and I . . . we can be Fossi and . . . Daniel.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Daniel extended his hand.

  She pursed her lips and then settled her much smaller palm against his. Though dainty, her grip was firm as she shook his hand.

  “Deal.”

  Kinningsley, Herefordshire

  August 19, 1828

  Fossi had many opportunities to ponder cause and effect over the following week.

  Action. Reaction.

  Lord Whitmoor and herself.

  Or rather, Fossi and Daniel, as they were now to be to each other.

  Calling him by his Christian name . . . as his other friends did . . .

  Fossi tried not to dwell too much on what it meant.

  Of course, her emotions were a pendulum.

  When Daniel smiled and sought her out, his words were a buoyant lifeline of hope and solidarity.

  When he retreated to his study or took a long walk with his mysterious box, his words became a painful millstone, dragging her down.

  Action. Reaction.

  Every evening she would join Daniel and Lord and Lady Linwood for dinner, as if she were part of their little group instead of a decided outsider. After dinner, she would sing and they would listen.

  She reminded herself at minimum twenty times a day that Daniel was Lord Whitmoor—the man whose name was synonymous, quite literally, with secrets and espionage.

  Every day, she worked her equations in one book and charted her results in another, laboring to find harmony between two different theorems that she did not fully understand.

  The reaction of all that action was a persistent nagging frustration.

  Why was she working these equations? What was their purpose? Why pay a king’s ransom for her abilities?

  Why, why, why did the dratted man have to be so secretive?

  Fortunately, her progress (or lack of it) did not seem to perturb Daniel.

  And then the first wave of her new clothing arrived.

  The housekeeper informed her of the fact as several footmen passed by, carrying parcels to Fossi’s room.

  Following them, Fossi carefully unwrapped each package, admiring the fabrics and stitching with Sally, the friendly upstairs maid who waited upon her now.

  “Cor, Miss Lovejoy,” Sally sighed over a silk evening gown, deep green with moderately puffed sleeves slashed with gold. “You’ll be a dream in this, you will.”

  Fossi fought an odd mix of excitement, mortification and nervousness.

  The gown was beautiful.

  “Shall we get you dressed for dinner then?” Sally practically bounced across to Fossi’s dressing table.

  Fossi could only nod.

  An hour later, she stared at herself in the mirror.

  The dress was a work of art.

  The mossy green fabric shimmered in the candlelight and cinched tight to her small waist before flaring over her hips.

  Drat, Jasmine.

  The silk did feel lovely against her skin.

  Most significantly, the gown made the most delightful swishing sound when she walked.

  Sally had styled her hair in a sophisticated sweep atop her head with several loose curls resting beside her face. The look was more mature than that of a debutante but certainly not matronly either.

  “You look so lovely, Miss Lovejoy. They’ll scarcely recognize you.” Sally smiled at her in the mirror.

  Fossi barely recognized herself. The woman staring at her from the mirror appeared . . . confident. Refined. Elegant.

  A true lady.

  She was unsure how to feel about the transformation. Was this person genuinely her? Or was this merely a false mask for a different environment?

  And what did it matter if it was? At the end of the day, she would still be odd Foster Lovejoy.

  Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Well . . . except dressed in velvety silk.

  These clothes would be her uniform while she was here. She could continue to feel unequal to the task of wearing them. Or, she could rise to the challenge and accept them.

  Notching her chin higher, Fossi gave a strained smile.

  Acceptance, it was.

  Daniel strode from his small study. He had just finished changing for dinner and had stopped to look over several missives which had arrived via the evening post.

  As he emerged, a noise from the staircase to his left caught his attention. He glanced up at the pretty young lady descending the stairs and then back at the letter in his hand.

  Ah, Aurelie must be joining them for dinner this evening. Jasmine probably felt the girl was old enough to begin practicing dining in company—

  It took a moment before the jolting frisson of recognition swept down his spine.

  His head rocketed up with whiplash force, staring at the woman on the stairs.

  Good heavens!

  He was quite sure his jaw literally dropped. Or would have, if shock hadn’t rendered him entirely motionless.

  Yes. The figure on the stairs was decidedly not Aurelie.

  It was Fossi.

  But not the Fossi he knew.

  She wore a mossy green silk gown, expertly cut and hugging surprising curves, showcasing a naturally small waist. Hair prettily framed her chin, highlighting the graceful lines of her face. The whole effect was elegant and refined, matching Fossi’s own reserved temperament.

  Daniel felt like he was witnessing a . . . metamorphosis. Fossi emerging from her cocoon.

  Or was the metamorphosis his own?

  She descended in a soft rustle of skirts, stopping a stair above him, nearly eye-level, a tentative smile on her face.

  Daniel bowed, low and proper.

  Fossi curtsied.

  “Miss Lovejoy,” Daniel managed to get out, “might I be the first to compliment you on your attire this evening?”

  Her smile expanded, touching her eyes with warmth.

  A beat.

  “You may, my lord,” she replied, shooting him a coy glance through her eyelashes.

  Daniel paused. And then smiled, wide and delighted.

  “Did you just flirt with me, Miss Lovejoy?”

  Fossi blushed.

  “Did I?” she asked.

  “I do believe you did. You are a quick study, I must say.” He nodded and offered her his arm. “And you do look lovely this evening.”

  Kinningsley, Herefordshire

  August 22, 1828

  Despite Daniel’s gratifying reaction to her new clothing, Fossi was still unsure what to think of her new employer and his penchant for secrets.

  The numbers she worked on da
y in and day out were fascinating, each iteration spitting out different values that she carefully charted. Fossi had never had the luxury of devoting most of her day to sums. Hours would pass without her raising her head and, initially, she worked late into the evenings after dinner.

  Daniel quickly put a stop to that, insisting she took regular breaks.

  “I prefer those in my employ to not drop over from exhaustion,” he said when she protested.

  Of course, the breaks gave her too much time to think about Daniel, the odd equations and what secrets they all held. She was convinced Daniel knew what the variables represented, but he consistently dodged her questions about the matter.

  She suspected that g stood for gravity and m stood for mass. But if that were the case, what did c mean?

  And given the complexity of the equations, what was Daniel investigating and why? How was this helping Kit in America?

  Pondering it led to more frustrating questions, not answers.

  So she turned her mind to investigating what she could about him.

  Namely . . . his wife, Alice.

  Who was Alice? What kind of woman would capture the heart of a man like Daniel Ashton? Enough that he still grieved so thoroughly five years on?

  And so Fossi, being a woman of methodology, set her mind to discovery.

  “I can’t rightly say I know who Lady Alice was, ma’am.” Sally said when asked. “Whitmoor House is some distance from Kinningsley, and I’ve only been in service for less than a year.”

  Mmmm.

  “But you say Lady Alice? Not Lady Whitmoor?” Fossi pressed her.

  “Well, that’s how Mr. Jones refers to her. Lady Alice, he says.”

  “Mr. Jones . . . the butler?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  In retrospect, Fossi realized that if Lady Alice had died five years ago, she would never have been Lady Whitmoor, as Daniel had been elevated to the peerage only recently.

  Which meant for Lady Alice to be called Lady Alice, her father had to be a duke, a marquess or an earl.

  Heavens.

  A woman of impeccable bloodline then.

  Why Fossi found that information dispiriting, she chose not to examine.

  She managed to ask Mr. Jones about it two days later.