I Thee Wed (25 page)

They were all “dear” or “sweet boy” when Iris was hard
at work. Apparently, Iris's thoughts could not hold art and her children's names in the same space.

In her defense, she did have rather a lot of children.

An aching regret stole over Orion. He was no child. This was no longer his home. It might never be again. At least he could keep it safe for all of them.

Attie wandered into the room. Orion recalled that it was always like that, just as Cabot had said. She was rather like a cat, never happy to stay still.

This time Attie gnawed on a carrot. The greens still hung from one end.

Bliss perked up slightly. “Attie, may I have a bite? I've been sitting for hours.”

Attie narrowed her eyes. Someone in the mad household had slacked when given the responsibility of making sure Attie knew how to share. “I am open to negotiations,” she told Bliss.

Bliss's benign smile never wavered. “I know where you go on Thursday mornings.”

Attie handed over the carrot at once and scuttled away. The whole thing, minus the bite she now chewed as she gazed innocently over her mother's shoulder at the painting.

Orion rather thought he knew, too. “Attie visits me at my work,” Cabot had told him. He said nothing.

How could he admonish his little sister, when he'd abandoned her and all of them so easily just a week before?

As if sensing his restraint, Attie turned her head to stare curiously at Orion. “You're sad. You don't get sad.” She peered at him more closely. “Did you muck things up with Francesca?” Her vivid green eyes widened until she looked like a startled elf. “You did muck it up! I can tell! What happened? Did you let the male rabbits mix with the females?”

Something like that.
Orion bit back the words, but he must have let his turmoil show, for suddenly Bliss and even Iris stared at him with dismay.

O
RION flinched from the combined power of the blue and green feminine gazes.

Oh, little sister, I have done so much worse than that.
Orion gazed regretfully at Attie, knowing there was no point in trying to hide his pain from one as watchful as his youngest sibling. “I am to wed Judith. Sir Geoffrey is announcing the engagement tonight.” With one hand, he reached out and rescued Iris's tea from her hand just as she was about to absently clean her brush in it.

“That's all wrong.” Attie scowled. “Francesca is the one I picked. Judith isn't what you think she is.”

From the hallway outside the parlor, Orion could hear his father intoning lines to poor, harassed Miranda.

“And the watchman says, ‘If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him?'”

A quote from
Much Ado About Nothing
, act three, scene three. Orion could not help himself. He and his siblings had been quizzed cheerfully but relentlessly.

Archie had been a stage actor in his youth. Even after so
many years, Orion found himself arrested by the intensity in his father's voice as he played the rough-voiced watchman.

Archie went on in the fruity, assuming tones of Dogberry as the constable answered the watchman. “‘The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is.'”

Orion went very still.

Sir Pilfery.

Let him show himself what he is
.

A heated wash of anger and knife-edged clarity swept over him. What the hell was he thinking on?

He was a Worthington. Worthingtons didn't get duped. Worthingtons committed the duping!

Apparently, Attie still had her observant eye on him, for she smiled, an evil twist of her childish lips. “Orion's not sad anymore,” she told her mother.

“That's nice, dear,” Iris said vaguely.

Although there was nothing amusing about his situation, Orion wanted to laugh out loud. It was true. He was a mad Worthington after all!

And there was nothing madder in the world than a Worthington bent on vengeance!

Orion returned Attie's evil little smile. “Gather up the clan, will you, Attie? I have a little revenge to plot.”

And where did one go to research mayhem and chaos? Why, to the experts, of course!

*   *   *

W
ITH HER BACK
pressed to the large double doors of the laboratory, Francesca gazed with surprise at the image before her. Judith stood in the laboratory, wrapped in a vast canvas apron that entirely concealed her perfect figure, with even her slender wrists disappearing into rugged work gloves.

Truly, Judith was the last person Francesca wanted to see.

Well, perhaps the second-to-last . . .

With effort, Francesca repressed her anguish when all she
really wished to do was to sob uncontrollably. “I'm fine,” she choked out past the pain wedged in her throat. Except that she knew she looked anything but fine. She amended the lie. “Perhaps I am feeling a—a bit under the weather.”

Judith did not seem inclined to pry further. She simply nodded and continued scrubbing at the marble-topped laboratory table with a heavy brush. Francesca watched for a moment, still awash in the agony of Orion's betrayal.

Then awareness pierced the fog around her swirling thoughts. Her eyes narrowed as she peered at her cousin.

Judith had reddened eyes, and her lips were pressed together in flat lines of distress.

Francesca, who had never been able to shut her mouth when it was most called for, leaned forward suddenly. “You are upset about the engagement?”

Judith reared her head back like a startled horse. Francesca caught a glimpse of pallid cheeks with twin red splotches of anger before her cousin quickly turned away. “I don't know what you mean.”

Francesca walked slowly around the table before she approached Judith. Her cousin ignored her. Judith ripped off the work gloves and tossed them aside. Still refusing to acknowledge Francesca, she pulled a polishing cloth from where it hung from her apron, snapped it out, and began polishing an empty beaker from the shelf before her.

With wonder, Francesca saw that cool, serene Judith's hands were shaking.

“Why?” Francesca whispered. “Why would you want to be betrothed to a man you don't love?”

Judith flinched. Then she went on polishing with great industry. “I have no idea what you speak of. Mr. Worthington is an acceptable match. His family is a bit . . . eccentric, but surprisingly well connected.”

“You don't love him.” Francesca's own pain swirled with pity, even though she really wished to resent Judith. “He doesn't love you.”

“Emotional illusions are of no importance.” Judith obviously sought to sound serene, and she almost managed to attain her usual distant tone, until her voice cracked on the last word.

“I love him,” Francesca said softly. Unlike Judith, she saw no point in hiding the pain in her voice.

Judith went still. Her fingers tightened on the neck of the glass beaker she had polished to a pristine clarity. “I know.” She gazed straight ahead, not looking at Francesca at all. “I saw the two of you kissing on the duke's terrace.”

The glass in the moonlight, water beading on the sides of the cut crystal . . . “I thought it might have been you,” Francesca said.

Judith never took her gaze from the shelf of glass before her. “I hate you sometimes, you know.” Her voice was flat and as brittle as the glass in her hands.

It was Francesca's turn to flinch. “Because I kissed the man you are supposed to wed?”
Kissed and touched and so much more.

Judith made a small cracked noise that Francesca belatedly realized was a laugh. “No.” She put the flask back on the shelf and selected another to polish. “You don't appreciate the freedom you have. You traipse from one continent to another as if you are simply crossing the street. I have to beg permission to visit the milliner—and only if I have first completed a lengthy catalog of chores.”

Francesca opened her mouth to say something—she had no idea what—but Judith continued. “I am a servant in my own house! Worse than that, as servants are paid!” Her words came faster and faster as she went on. “I am twenty-six years old. I have been my father's servant since I was a schoolgirl. For nearly a decade I have labored for him, assisted his work, run his household—” Her voice began to rise as she continued. “Chosen his cigars, cleaned his laboratory, prepared his tea, covered for him, lied for him, stole—no.”

She halted her tirade abruptly, and her chest rose and fell
rapidly. Francesca waited, almost afraid to move or say anything, for Judith seemed strangely fragile in this state, as if she might shatter. It was painful to see. She looked away.

Crash!

Francesca started, thinking Judith had dropped a beaker.

Crash!

Judith was methodically flinging beakers at the wall. Francesca, who approved of emotional release on a regular basis, stepped out of the line of fire.

Judith inhaled deeply
. Crash!
“I am a serf about to be sold to a new master.”
Crash!
“I don't even
like
science!”
Crash!
“And no one will ever—
ever!—
kiss me the way that Orion Worthington kissed you last night!”

Francesca had been waiting for this opening for months. “What about Asher Langford?”

Judith ran the back of her wrist over her damp eyes and blinked at Francesca. “Asher? But . . .
Asher
?”

Francesca raised a brow. “If ever a man would be happy to assist you in your quest to be kissed brainless, it is Asher Langford. That poor man adores you. As far as I can tell, he always has.”

Judith suddenly became aware that her hair was awry. Her fingers fussed with it, pinning it back up with shaky imprecision. “Asher? But he is merely a friend. After all, we've played together since we were children.” Judith glanced at the angle of the watery afternoon sunlight through the window. “Oh, I have so much to do before the Royal Fraternity presentation tonight!” She began to tug at the ties of the voluminous apron. “And Asher will be there!”

Then, with growing wonder, she said, “Do you truly think Asher . . . loves me?”

Love. Francesca's heart sank and her mood with it. What did she know about love? “I couldn't say. Why don't you ask him?” It occurred to her that she had just told Orion's imminent fiancée to go kiss another man.

Serves him right
.

“And what will you do, Chessa? Will you join us tonight at the presentation?”

She stared at her cousin a moment, noting the sincere concern in Judith's voice. “I will meet everyone there later. First, I need to pack my things. Tomorrow, I'm going home.”

*   *   *

M
R.
B
UTTON'S SHIMMERING
ball gown was spread across Francesca's bed, yards of golden silk neatly arranged in gentle folds. Surrounding the dress were all the matching accessories from the night she enjoyed her first—and last—dance with Orion Worthington. The dancing slippers were placed just below the lacy hem, the hair ribbons and pearls above the bodice, and the reticule adjacent to the skirts. Francesca sat on the mattress, caressing the garment with the fingers of one hand, as if offering comfort to an ill friend.

Or, perhaps she was attempting to comfort herself.

The ball gown had been worn by a dreamy young girl, a fool who preferred fantasy and magical thinking to reality. And though the dress might still adhere perfectly to Francesca's shape, she knew it no longer fit her.

“I will have no need for you in Italy,” she whispered to the dress. Francesca laced a string of pearls through her fingers. “Yet Judith will appreciate you. Of that I am certain.”

Francesca stood from the bed, glancing down once more to make sure the dress was angled to the best advantage. She imagined how Judith would go searching for her late that night after the announcement of her and Orion's engagement. Judith would knock on the door to Francesca's bedchamber, only to find her gone. The dress would be spread out, an offering of affection from one cousin to another.

It saddened her that Judith was only now revealing her true nature, too late to have an impact on their friendship. Francesca suspected they would have become quite close, perhaps like sisters.

The book!

She turned to her dressing table and retrieved the bound volume of botanical paintings by Calliope, Lady Porter, Orion's sister. As much as Francesca had adored the lifelike illustrations,
Wildflowers of the Cotswolds
was a gift from Orion to Judith, and the volume was not Francesca's to keep. She placed the book at an angle on top of the silken skirts, thinking that she would prefer to leave a note, but what would she say? Francesca had fallen deeply in love with Orion and had done her best to derail Judith's engagement to him. She did not have the words to smooth such an offense.

Francesca tidied her hair with a sigh and turned to the half-completed task at hand. She was packing her iron-bound sea chest with everything she had brought to England. Francesca would leave just two things: her notes on the rabbits of Blayne House—if Attie wished to continue Francesca's research—and the garden seeds she brought from Bologna to populate the Blaynes' kitchen garden. She realized that her Lamarckism research might never be brought to fruition, but her San Marzano
pomodori
could live on year after year. She supposed if anything symbolized her contribution to England, her tomatoes would.

A brisk knock on the door startled her. She closed the trunk lid. “Yes?”

“The carriage has arrived, miss.” It was Eva. “It's nearly time to leave for the presentation. Do you need help dressing, miss?”

Reaching for the latch, Francesca made sure the door was locked, then slowly lowered her forehead to the polished interior of its wood. It felt cool on her hot skin. “No, Eva. I fell asleep and I'm not ready. I know Sir Geoffrey will not want to wait, so please tell him I shall come along later.”

“Yes, miss.”

As Francesca listened for Eva's footsteps to disappear down the hallway, she suddenly had to clutch at her abdomen and stifle the sob that threatened to emerge.

How
could
he? How could Orion feel such passion for her
one minute, then turn his back on her to pursue marriage to someone else, someone he did not love? What kind of man had so little honor?

She hurt. She hurt so terribly. And the only person she wished to ask for counsel, the only person with whom she wished to share her agonies, was the one who hurt her.

As a scientist, Francesca knew the pain of lost love would not kill her, but her heart was not convinced.

It was all her own doing, of course, and she took responsibility for it. She had laid a trap for Orion, a trap of food and breasts and wine, and he had tried to turn her away. She would not let him. She marched in with her picnic basket and her
panna cotta
and crawled into his lap and told him she loved him. Orion was not a liar. Francesca would never accuse him thus. He told her he planned to marry Judith, yet what did she do? She pressed on! She attempted to change his mind!

The truth was as simple as it was painful—Orion Worthington cared for his career more than love, more than Francesca. It was something she would never understand, now that she'd felt true love for herself. Could she possibly stay at Blayne House and sit across from Mr. and Mrs. Worthington at the dining table? Of course not!

Her only choice was to return to Bologna and carve out a life and a field of study for herself. She would manage. She always managed. But it was sure to be a colorless future compared to the one she had created in her imagination just last night—a life of love and passion, ideas, food, waltzing, and kisses on terraces.