A Study In Seduction

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A Passion for Pleasure

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For O.P., who is always right.

My deepest gratitude goes to Kimberly Witherspoon of InkWell Management for her persistence and belief, and to William Callahan and Nathaniel Jacks for their consistent support. I’m indebted to my excellent editor, Selina McLemore, whose perceptive insights have greatly strengthened this book and my writing. I am so grateful to Franzeca Drouin and Eloisa James, fairy godmothers who make me want to be both a better writer and a better person. F., I will treasure March 28, 2009, as the start of a wonderful friendship. Thank you to my book club and also my critique partners, Bobbi, Rachel, and Melody, with whom I have my best discussions about books and writing. Much love to my husband, Will, and our children, and to my father, who always believed, even if he’d never admit to it.

I relied on a number of sources while researching the mathematical elements of this book, and the following studies form the basis of Lydia’s theories about the correlation between love and mathematics. Clio Cresswell,
Mathematics and Sex
(Crow’s Nest, Australia: Allen and Unwin, 2003); Sergio Rinaldi, “Laura and Petrarch: An Intriguing Case of Cyclical Love Dynamics,”
SIAM Journal on Applied Mathematics
, 58: 4 (1988), pp. 1205–1221; and “Love Dynamics: The Case of Linear Couples,”
Applied Mathematics and Computation
, 95: 2–3 (1988), pp. 181–192; S. H. Strogatz, “Love Affairs and Differential Equations,”
Mathematics Magazine
, 61(1): 35 (1988). Thank you, brilliant mathematicians, for thinking in ways I never could.

E
very square matrix is a root of its own characteristic polynomial
.

Lydia Kellaway clutched the notebook to her chest as the cab rattled away, the clatter of horses’ hooves echoing against the fortress of impressive town houses lining Mount Street. Gaslights burned through the midnight dark, casting puddles of light onto the cobblestones.

Lydia took a breath, anxiety and fear twisting through her. She looked up at town house number twelve, the dark façade perforated with light-filled windows. A man stood silhouetted behind one window on the first floor, his form straight, tall, and so still that he appeared fixed in that moment.

Beneath the glow of a streetlamp, Lydia opened her
notebook and leafed through pages scribbled with notes, equations, and diagrams.

She’d written his name at the top of a blank page, then followed it with a numbered list of points, all related to the gossip and suppositions surrounding his family.

As she reviewed her notes, the back of her neck prickled with the strange feeling that she was being watched. She snapped the notebook closed and shook her head. Chiding herself for being unnerved by the shadows, she climbed the steps.

She reached for the bell just as the door flew open. A woman dressed in a vivid green silk gown stormed out, nearly colliding with Lydia on the front step.

“Oh!” The woman reeled backward, her eyes widening. In the sudden light spilling out from the foyer, Lydia saw that her eyes were red and swollen, her face streaked with tears.

Lydia stammered, “I’m… I’m sorry, I—”

The woman shook her head, her lips pressing together as she pushed past Lydia and hurried down the steps.

A curse echoed through the open door as a dark-haired man strode across the foyer, tension shimmering around him. “Talia!”

He didn’t cast Lydia a glance as he followed the woman down the steps. “Blast it, Talia, wait for the carriage!”

The woman turned her head to glare at the man and tossed a retort over her shoulder. Lydia couldn’t discern the words, but the cutting tone was enough to make her pursuer stop in his tracks. He cursed again, then went back to the house and shouted for the footman. Within seconds, the servant raced down the street after the woman.

“John!” The tall man turned to shout for a second servant. “Ready the carriage now and see Lady Talia home!”

He stalked up the steps and brushed past Lydia. He seemed about to slam the door in her face, but then he stopped and turned to stare at her. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

Lydia couldn’t speak past the shock.

Alexander Hall, Viscount Northwood. She knew it was him, knew in her bones that this was the man she sought, though she had not laid eyes on him before now.

Despite the hour and his anger, his clothing was precise, unwrinkled. His black trousers bore creases as sharp as a blade, and shiny gilt buttons fastened his silk waistcoat over a snowy white shirt.

His dark eyes flashed over Lydia. That look—keen, assessing,
close—
caused her breath to tangle in her throat.

“Well?” he demanded.

Every square matrix is a root of its own characteristic polynomial
.

The locket. Jane. The locket.

“Lord Northwood?” she said.

“I asked who you are.”

His rough baritone voice settled deep in her bones. She tilted her head to meet his hooded gaze. Shadows mapped the pronounced Slavic angles of his face, the sloping cheekbones, the clean-shaven line of his jaw.

“My name is Lydia Kellaway,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. She glanced at the street, where the footman had stopped Lady Talia at the corner. A carriage rattled from the side of the house and approached. “Is she all right?”

“My sister is fine,” Lord Northwood snapped, “aside from being the most obstinate, frustrating creature who ever walked the earth.”

“Is that a family trait?” Lydia spoke before thinking, which was so contrary to her usual manner that her face heated with embarrassment. Not wise to insult the man from whom she needed something.

She almost heard Northwood’s teeth grind together as his jaw clenched with irritation.

He followed her gaze to where the footman and coach driver had convinced Lady Talia to enter the carriage. The footman gave Lord Northwood a wave of victory before climbing onto the bench beside the driver. The carriage rattled away.

Some of the anger seemed to drain from Northwood, which bolstered Lydia’s courage. Although she had no contingency plan for how to handle arriving in the middle of a family quarrel, she couldn’t possibly leave now.

Her spine straightened with determination as she faced the viscount. “Lord Northwood, I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but I must speak with you. It’s about a locket you purchased.”

“A what?”

“A locket. A pendant attached to a chain, worn as a necklace.”

He frowned. “You’ve come to my home at this hour to inquire about a
necklace
?”

“It’s terribly important.” She gripped the doorjamb so he couldn’t close the door and leave her standing on the step. “Please, may I come in?”

He stared at her for a minute, then rubbed a hand across his chin.

“Kellaway.” A crease formed between his brows. “Kin to Sir Henry Kellaway?”

Lydia gave a quick nod. “He was my father. He passed
away several months ago.” Grief, heavy with the weight of the past, pressed down on her heart.

“My sympathies,” Lord Northwood said, his frown easing somewhat as he glanced over her black mourning dress.

“Thank you. How did you know him?”

“We were both involved with the Crystal Palace exhibition in fifty-one.” He stood looking at her for a moment, his gaze so protracted she could almost see his thoughts shifting. Then he moved aside and held the door open.

She stepped into the foyer, conscious of the fact that he did not allow her more space to pass, even as her shoulder brushed against his arm. The light contact made her jerk away, her chest constricting.

“What makes you think I have this necklace you seek?” he asked.

“I don’t think you have it, Lord Northwood. I know you do. You purchased it from Mr. Havers’s shop less than a week ago, along with a Russian icon.” Her chin lifted. “It was a locket my grandmother pawned.”

Pushing himself away from the doorjamb, Lord Northwood stepped forward. Lydia started before realizing he intended to take her cloak. She pushed the hood off her head and fumbled with the clasp.

He stood behind her, close enough that she could sense the warmth of his body, close enough that her next breath might have been the very air he exhaled.

“Come to the drawing room, Miss Kellaway. You’d best explain yourself.”

Lydia followed him into the room and sat on the sofa, making a conscious effort not to twist the notebook between her fingers. Lord Northwood lowered himself
into the chair across from her. A stoic footman served tea before departing and closing the door behind him.

Lord Northwood took a swallow of tea, then put the cup on the table and leaned back in his chair. His long body unfolded with the movement, his legs stretching out in front of him. Although his outward bearing was casual, a tautness coiled through him. He reminded Lydia of a bird of prey elongating its wings, feathers ruffling, poised for flight.

“Well?” he asked.

“I found the ticket in my grandmother’s desk.” She leafed through the pages of her book before finding a small slip of paper. “I hadn’t known she’d pawned any of my mother’s jewelry.”

His hand brushed hers as he took the pawn ticket, the hard ridges of his fingers discernible even through the protection of her glove. She jerked away, curling her hand into a fist at her side.