As the two half brothers approached, she studied Thornstock, looking for signs that he’d changed since they’d first met. Unfortunately, he hadn’t. His form was still as pleasingly fit as it had been in his youth, and his dark chestnut hair not only had no gray, but its short-cropped Titus style suited him better than his wild, untamed look from before. If she were a typical female, the very sight of him approaching with that icy look in his eyes would make her swoon.
But she was not, and it did not. By the time Thornstock and Greycourt had reached them, she had braced herself for an argument. She half expected to hear that Thornstock had talked his brother out of engaging her, and that her trip to Carymont was no more. So help her, if he had done so—
“Miss Norley,” Thornstock said, “would you do me the honor of standing up with me for this set?”
He really meant to go through with their dance? Very well, she’d do her best not to let the arrogant, nosy fellow cow her.
She stared him down. “Certainly, Your Grace.”
He surprised her by smiling. It threw her off guard, since she’d intended to be as cool to him as he’d been angry at her.
Then he offered her his arm, and a new sort of emotion hit her. Fear. She had exaggerated how far her dancing master had gone in improving her ability to dance, and the thought of having Thornstock see her bumbling about terrified her.
“Follow his lead, and you’ll be fine,” Beatrice whispered in her ear.
Olivia cast the duchess a grateful glance as Thornstock took her off to the floor. Fortunately, the dance was familiar, and the steps were ones she’d practiced often. She could almost enjoy the music.
Almost. Because his smile had vanished. The whole time they were doing the steps, he was staring intently at her. Glowering, really.
He stepped closer in the dance, his presence suddenly oppressive. She fancied she could feel the anger emanating from him, which was absurd. No experiment had ever proven that people could project their feelings into the air. Yet she would swear she felt palpable waves of bad temper coming from him.
She ignored the unsettling sensation. “Why are you so angry?”
“You know why.”
“Because I refused your offer of marriage years ago?”
“Certainly not! Damn you, I am not the one at fault here.”
They parted once more, and her heart began to clamor. How was she at fault? For that matter, what was she at fault for?
When they danced down the center of the two lines of other dancers, she was painfully conscious of his hand in the small of her back steadying her, of his other hand coming across to grip one of hers.
Beatrice had been right about one thing—Thornstock led very well. But this position was rather intimate. How could he hold her hand so tightly, yet still be angry at her? Feeling a need to understand him, she said, “I didn’t realize the Duke of Greycourt was your brother, you know, when I agreed to his request.”
Thornstock cast her a sidelong look. “Would it have made a difference?”
“Not really. But it seems to have angered you that he has engaged me to . . . er . . . perform these chemical tests.”
“I have good reason to be angry. You are not—” He broke off, apparently noticing that people were trying to overhear their conversation. He lowered his voice. “The woman I thought you were at first.”
“That’s not my fault. I was always ever myself. I cannot help it if you perceived that differently.”
He pinned her with his crystalline gaze. “I remember you telling me you weren’t a good dancer. But clearly that was a lie, given how beautifully you’re following my lead.”
She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased he approved of her dancing or annoyed that he thought nine years had passed without a single change in her. “My stepmother made me take more dancing lessons than I wanted. This is the result.”
“I gather that you hated them,” he drawled. “The lessons, I mean.”
She shrugged. “I did them only to please my parents. Chemistry was my primary interest then, and it’s my primary interest now.”
“Hmph,” he muttered, sounding unconvinced. They took their positions next to each other, waiting while the remaining couples danced their way down the middle. “And why are you so interested in this particular chemical endeavor? Surely you aren’t doing it out of the kindness of your heart.”
“No, indeed. Science and hearts have naught to do with each other.”
That seemed to startle him into smiling. “I’m sure there are those who would disagree.”
“Are there? How peculiar. All that matters in science are the results of experiments. That’s why I prefer it. Facts don’t lie. An experiment either proves something or it does not.”
He lowered his voice. “And you mean to prove the existence of arsenic in . . . er . . .”
“Yes. It has been used by villains for centuries. I wish to put an end to that by developing a better test to detect it. If my method proves to work as planned, then others can find out for certain when their loved ones are murdered by poison.”
A nearby dancer gasped, and Thornstock glared at the woman. Then he said in a lowered voice, “I’m afraid that murder isn’t a suitable topic for the ballroom. We should not speak of your . . . er . . . aims until we are done with the set and can be more private.”
She nodded. But she would have preferred to continue talking about her experiments. Or anything, really. Because when he’d spoken of being “private” it had sent electricity through her blood. And when she wasn’t talking, she became too aware of His Grace’s capable hand in hers or on her waist or turning her toward him in the dance.
It wasn’t particularly warm in the room with all the doors open toward the garden, but her cheeks still felt hot. Every step they took together made her stomach do that same somersault as on the night he’d kissed her. She didn’t understand it. He knew nothing about science and cared nothing for her personally. So why did he have this effect on her?
His sister-in-law hadn’t lied about how adept a dancer he was. Olivia didn’t want to admire him for it, but she did. Through her many lessons, she’d learned how much work went into looking so effortless on the floor.
The music finally ended, and he took her hand so they could promenade away. “Shall I show you my sister’s new garden? Gwyn is inordinately proud of it.”
Olivia could only nod. She knew he wanted to speak to her privately, and she wanted to be done with it. She would explain her reasons for taking on Greycourt’s task, and then Thornstock would give his approval.
She wasn’t entirely sure if Greycourt needed his half brother’s approval, but if laying out her plans put an end to Thornstock’s objections, it would help her achieve her goal.
Now if only she could stop her heart from thundering in her chest around him.
* * *
Thorn led Miss Norley into the refreshments room, which was mostly empty now that another set had begun. He waited until no one was watching, then swiftly guided her through the door and down the stone steps into the garden.
As soon as they’d found a quiet spot near a fountain, he turned to her. “So tell me, Miss Norley, why are you doing this?”
“Coming out into the garden with you? You gave me little choice.”
Was she deliberately being obtuse? “That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he said irritably.
“Oh! You’re asking why I agreed to test the remains of your half brother’s father for arsenic.”
“Exactly. I know you’re not being paid for it.”
“Your brother offered me payment, but I have managed to learn a few of the unspoken rules of society through the years, and one is that a woman of rank may not work for money. So of course I refused to take any for my efforts. My parents wouldn’t approve.”
He fought a smile. “But they approve of what you’re doing?”
“Well, no. If they knew of it, they probably wouldn’t. Papa would blame Mama for not looking after me b
etter, and Mama would simply be appalled. She prefers I live the life of a pampered lady of rank.” She sighed. “I find that sort of life boring.”
He couldn’t blame her—the older he got, the duller he found circulating through polite society himself. Wait, why was he sympathizing with her? “In other words, you don’t always follow the rules, unspoken or otherwise.”
“Now you’re baiting me.” She looked away, studying the water of the fountain as if to determine what made it shimmer in the moonlight. “You know perfectly well I broke the rules rather spectacularly when we first met. I generally try to follow them. I just don’t always succeed.”
Her reference to their night at the Devonshires’ ball sent him right back to that dimly lit library and the feel of her feminine curves, the taste of her mouth, and the smell of frangipani and jasmine that seemed to follow her everywhere—an exotic fragrance for a decidedly unexotic woman. He wondered if she still tasted as luscious, if her skin was still as silky.
He ached to touch her and find out.
The thought made him stifle an oath. Clearly she wanted him to remember their kiss. That was her way of getting him off the subject. But he wouldn’t let her distract him.
“So you’re not taking money for these experiments,” he said coldly. “You’re just doing them to enliven your boring life? Or perhaps you have no intention of performing them at all. Doing experiments on a corpse doesn’t sound like the sort of pastime a young lady enjoys. So perhaps you merely mean to spend a week or two away from home, having a lovely time at a wealthy duke’s expense.”
For a moment she gaped at him. Then a scowl marred her smooth brow. “You really are the most annoying fellow I have ever met.”
When she turned, as if to march back into the ballroom, he caught her by the arm. “You’re not leaving until you explain your real reason for doing this.”
“First of all,” she said as she snatched her arm free, “not that it’s any of your concern, but I will not be experimenting on the corpse. As the local magistrate, your brother will be overseeing the exhumation of his father’s remains, and I have given him a list of what parts will be useful for testing.”
That took him aback. It implied a certain amount of planning that he wouldn’t have guessed she would involve herself in.
“Secondly, I am doing this to gain better credentials. This set of experiments will establish me as a chemist of renown, since none have succeeded in using the existing tests for arsenic on a long-buried body.”
That raised a different concern. “So you intend to publish your findings.”
“A chemist is only as good as his—or her—publications, and I have only one to my name.” She tipped up her chin, sending moonlight flowing over her golden hair. “Of course I intend to publish the results. Why wouldn’t I? Other chemists do.”
“Other chemists aren’t testing the remains of a duke of the realm.” He swore under his breath. “Does my brother know of your plans to publish?”
“If he doesn’t, he’s not very bright. Why else would I take on the task?”
“But you haven’t explicitly told him.”
Her lips tightened. “No. I assumed there was no need.”
“He might feel differently.” Catching her by the shoulder, he turned her to face him. “Here’s another unspoken rule of society for you. Dukes don’t dabble in anything scandalous. And nothing is more scandalous than murder. My brother isn’t going to want his private affairs talked about in the press simply because you wish to enhance your standing as a chemist.”
She stared at him unblinking. “But his father’s murderer can’t be brought to justice without a trial, and nothing is more public than that.”
The chit was clever. He’d give her that. “Still, your test can’t prove who poisoned Grey’s father—just that it was done. We don’t want to tip our hand to the murderer until we’ve actually found the villain. That means you might have to keep quiet about your results for some time. Are you willing to do so?”
Looking wary, she searched his face. “If that’s what it takes to gain justice for your brother’s father, I am perfectly willing . . . for a while, anyway. It benefits me to have my name linked to the case eventually. That is how Valentin Rose’s methods became known, after all. So it behooves me to wait until after a trial before I publish.”
“No matter how long that takes?”
She cocked her head. “Well, obviously not if it goes on for years. Someone else might discover the same methods I have, and that person’s publication will become the most important by virtue of being first. I did take this on to gain credentials; I can’t risk having someone else chronicle the experiments before me.”
That made sense but was hardly the point. Would Grey really want the world to hear about his father’s murder if there was no way of proving who did it? Somehow Thorn doubted that.
And Miss Norley had it in her power to force Grey’s hand. Thorn’s bargain with Lady Norley might have held, but he hadn’t made any such bargain with Miss Norley. Assuming that the young woman knew the same gossip as her stepmother, Thorn would have to handle her with kid gloves. While Grey wouldn’t care if the reputation of Thorn’s father was damaged, he would care about protecting their mother from hearing about it. So Miss Norley could end up forcing all of Lydia’s children to dance to her tune.
There was another matter to consider, too. “What if you don’t find arsenic? What if Grey is wrong, and his father did die of an ague?”
Her frown told him she was hoping for a different outcome. “Then I’ll have to find another way to prove that my methods could withstand the rigors of a trial.”
He shook his head. “I must confess, I’m shocked to meet a woman so interested in chemistry that she’s willing to do experiments on the dead to prove her hypotheses. I’m a man, and even I have no interest in such a thing.”
She shrugged. “You’re not a man of science. Or so I’ve heard.”
That caught him by surprise. Again. “What else have you heard about me?”
Her eyes widened. “I . . . um . . . well . . .”
“Miss Norley,” he said, surprised by her unexpectedly feminine response, “there’s no need for embarrassment. I am well aware of my reputation.”
“Then you don’t need me to tell you what it is,” she said matter-of-factly.
He couldn’t help but laugh. The woman was like no other female he’d ever met. “Indulge my curiosity. I never know how much young, unmarried ladies are told about me.” He took a stab in the dark. “Though I’m sure your stepmother didn’t mince words on the subject.”
“No, she did not,” she said dryly. “She rarely does.”
Ah, so the young woman had learned about his reputation from her stepmother. He stepped closer. Would Miss Norley also admit that her stepmother had told her the gossip about his father? Had Lady Norley even done so? On the chance that she had not, he refused to tell Miss Norley himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t question her.
“What exactly did your stepmother say about me?” he asked.
“That you were a ne’er-do-well.”
“A duke can’t be a ne’er-do-well, my dear, especially not one as wealthy as I.”
The lady didn’t look impressed. “Mama said you spend your evenings with . . . loose women rather than with respectable people.”
“I don’t deny it. Like you, I sometimes find the life of a person of rank rather dull.”
“Yes, but I fill my hours doing something useful.”
He chuckled. “So do I. Loose women need entertainment, too. Not to mention, money. I provide them with both. Isn’t that useful of me?”
She shook her head, clearly fighting a smile. “You are hopeless, Your Grace.”
“So they tell me. And there’s no need to keep calling me ‘Your Grace.’ Everyone calls me Thorn. You might as well, too.” He wished it weren’t too dark to see if she was blushing. He pushed further. “And I shall call you Olivia.”
“That’s rather forward of you, isn’t it?”
“My sister-in-law is calling you Olivia. Why can’t I?”
He waited for her to make the standard argument that a woman could call another woman by her Christian name when a man could not.
Instead, she eyed him askance. “Fine. But not when Mama is around. Or any of your family.”
“Very well. It will be our little secret.” He tucked one of her errant curls behind her ear, pleased when the intimacy elicited a shaky breath from her. He wasn’t sure of her motives with this chemistry business, but clearly she was still attracted to him. “And speaking of your ‘Mama,’ I daresay she’s frustrated that you won’t oblige her by looking for a husband.”
Olivia thrust out her chin. “She and Papa insisted upon my having a debut. I did. No one offered for me. So I refused to repeat the process.”
“No one offered for you? I seem to recall a certain duke offering for you, and being refused.”
“That was different.” Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “You didn’t mean it. When you kissed me you were just having your usual sort of fun. Until Mama forced you into making an offer, you had no intention of actually marrying me.”
“My ‘usual sort of ’—Wait, you knew your stepmother was forcing me?”
“Of course I knew. You made it painfully obvious.”
That didn’t mean she knew about the blackmail. And he certainly didn’t intend to tell her. The less people knew about it, the better.
Then the rest of her statement registered. “I didn’t realize I was obvious.”
Her face was hard as stone. “Well, you were. And I didn’t want a husband who had to be dragged to the altar.”
“I didn’t want a wife whom I’d known only an hour.”
“That’s fair.” She folded her hands behind her back. “But that doesn’t explain why you got so angry when I refused you. I only did what we both wanted.”
When she put it that way, he sounded mean spirited. Or was that how she wanted him to feel? “Are you saying that if I’d spouted some compliments and begged for your hand, you would have accepted me?”
She frowned. “Er . . . probably not.”
Who Wants to Marry a Duke Page 5