I Thee Wed (6 page)

To her horror, Mr. Worthington seemed to take her dismissive glance as some sort of invitation. He rose to his feet.

“I shall accompany you as well.”

Francesca stared at him. “You? Now? Are you quite sure you should? Do you not have something boiling over in the laboratory?”

Orion gazed down at Miss Penrose's disbelieving expression, trying not to echo it with his own surprise. He didn't remember standing. The only thing he recalled was the wave of possessiveness that had swept him when he saw Miss Penrose smile so affectionately at Langford—and when she'd spoken to him in Italian!

The word had rolled off her tongue like cream and cinnamon and had soaked into Orion's thoughts, bringing forcefully to mind images of golden-tinged breasts and hot rose-lipped kisses. And she had given that word to another man?

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Say the same to me
. Orion wanted to hear that rich, throaty language as only she could speak it.
Read the butcher's order, recite the periodic table—anything!

“It is a fine day, isn't it? Shall we all take a turn?”

It was with surprise that Orion heard Miss Judith Blayne's very appropriately modulated English voice. He had quite forgotten Judith was in the room.

Again.

When they all set out for a stroll through the Blayne House gardens, Orion sent one glance toward the sturdy, modern barnlike edifice of the laboratory. He felt the urge to disappear within.

Then he heard Francesca talking to—or rather, at—Asher Langford about someone called Herbert as she steered him toward the kitchen gardens behind the laboratory.

“Herbert is extraordinary, really. And so intelligent. I have never seen any other subject learn more quickly.”

Orion's eyes narrowed. Asher Langford was no cause for worry, but who was this Herbert fellow?

“Mr. Worthington, have you seen Papa's physic garden yet?” Miss Judith Blayne stood behind him, left there in the surge of jeal—er, curiosity he'd felt about “Herbert.”

Judith is the one you plan to marry, remember?

She stood in the gentle light of the cloudy day, looking like a romantic painting of the textbook English beauty. Her
perfection caught his eye, but her face and form did not disturb him. She seemed equally dispassionate about him, which was likely a good thing because, other than an academic knowledge of the female body and that single thwarted night at an exclusive brothel, he had no experience in pleasing a woman.

The notion of studying passion and pleasure with Miss Judith Blayne did not repel him, but neither did it lure him.

Judith continued to await his approach politely. “The physic garden is the culmination of fifty years' work, collecting medicinal plants from every corner of the world,” she stated evenly, sounding rather like a brochure. “It has become quite renowned for the variety within.”

He should be intrigued. He should be at least comfortably dutiful. It was Judith he should be trailing about the garden, fending off suitors and making himself pleasant for.

And yet even as he stood there, he felt the relentless pull to follow Francesca's scent, like a hunting dog barely leashed. The attraction was magnetic. He was iron to her polarity.

Bloody hell
.

With that silent curse, he turned his back on Francesca and Asher to accompany Judith to a different portion of the grounds.

His biology was becoming ever more inconvenient. There must be a solution. Every problem had a solution.

F
RANCESCA chafed to put an end to the morning calls, but after the walk, there was tea to be had and then more conversation. Mr. Worthington sat silent and aloof, and Francesca tried to entice more than three words sans stammer from poor Asher, but their brief companionship in the gardens had lapsed into Asher's gazing moonstruck at Judith once more.

At least she had managed to trick Asher Langford into helping her feed her specimens and clean up after them by telling Judith stories while they worked. She didn't feel too bad for it, since physical activity clearly calmed his nerves, and the stories were even somewhat true. That was one good use of this wasted hour.

At last, the ormolu clock on the mantel chimed the hour. As if summoned by the sweet silvery ring, Pennysmith appeared with the gentlemen's hats and gloves in hand.

Francesca made a gracious farewell to Asher and the probably inoffensive Sir Humphrey (although who really knew?). She managed a stiff nod to that supercilious ass, Nicholas
Witherspoon, although he didn't really bow to her as much as slump slightly in her general direction.

Her duties as Judith's chaperone concluded, she strolled sedately away from the foyer—at least, until she was out of sight. Then she picked up her skirts and bolted for the library.

Free at last!

*   *   *

A
TTIE
W
ORTHINGTON HAD
never worried too much about invitations as such. After all, she hadn't actually been forbidden to climb back up the tree, along the teetering branch, and into Orion's chamber window. Entering Blayne House by such a roundabout fashion might be considered unlawful entry, but Attie had long ago decided not to concern herself with semantics.

Orion was not in his room, nor had she expected him to be at this time of day. She had heard of Sir Geoffrey's astonishing laboratory. She longed to see it with her own eyes, but Sir Geoffrey sounded like one of those stuffy, unpleasant scholars who didn't understand that a superior mind could be encased in a skinny little girl's body.

Some people did not deserve to be called scientists.

Still, if everyone was occupied during the day, Attie saw no reason not to explore her brother's new home at her leisure. Orion's chamber was nothing special, in her opinion. The furniture might be unscarred and gleaming, but it was all the usual sort. The room contained a bed, a dresser, a writing desk, and a chamber pot, just like any bedchamber in her own house. And at Worthington House, such a vast room would have also contained a lively assortment of artwork, literature, cooking utensils, rusting farm implements, and other fascinating whatnots. This room was just . . . empty.

The bed, however, was marvelous for jumping.

After she exhausted her interest in that juvenile activity, Attie gently forgave herself for being a child (since it was a temporary condition and one soon cured) and set out to
explore the rest of the house. She found herself in a long, boring hallway that ended in a gracefully curving set of stairs leading down, and then there was another long, boring hallway with nothing on it but doors. Attie enjoyed opening doors to places she was not supposed to enter, so that was entertaining for a while. There was a drawing room, very ladylike and posh. Her sister Elektra would've liked it very much. The next door contained a very similar drawing room, only this one had more masculine touches and a rather nice card table.

Attie approved of gambling in general, especially when people underestimated the abilities of a thirteen-year-old girl. Iris often told her that a lady had few advantages in the world, and the ones she had ought to be used wisely. Attie took that to mean that her ability to count the cards in any game should be used to her advantage.

However, no game was going on at the moment, and there was nothing of interest in any of the next rooms. There was a sort of study, but it was unexciting and anonymous. Another door led to a dining room that was too small to accommodate her fondness for skipping and running. The room after that was intriguingly locked.

Attie pondered the wisdom of picking that lock. It wasn't so much
whether
she should pick the lock as it was
when
she should pick the lock. She decided to put it off for later and felt quite virtuous for doing so, as if she had decided to eat her vegetables before eating her dessert.

The next doorway, however, led to a place that made her forget all about her tendencies toward crime.

It was the much-vaunted Blayne library. And such a library! The enormous room was two stories high, and as wide as three posh parlors put together. Attie wasn't one for neatness, tidiness, or organization of any kind, except when it came to the cataloging of books. She'd sometimes wondered what it would be like to know precisely where to find a certain book anytime she wanted, and not have to search through piles, thinking that perhaps it'd been on the steps, or perhaps
it had been in the upstairs hallway, or perhaps it had been in another place altogether.

There was no such worry in this library. It was a room full of gleaming, well-dusted, neatly cataloged books. The leather-clad and gold-stamped spines glowed with all the colors of the rainbow. The shelves rose all the way to the ceiling, with a walkway along the top and an ornate spiral staircase, as well as a curlicue-adorned brass ladder that would slide on rails from one side of the door where she stood apparently all the way around the vast room and back the other side of the door. In the center of the room, arranged on the diagonal, there were more shelves, much higher than her head, polished oak shelves that one could lose oneself in, every single one filled with marvelous, wonderful books. There were more books in this library than she'd ever seen in one spot in her entire life. Which she was fairly certain made this heaven on Earth.

How could she ever bring herself to leave? Then again, with her skills, she could venture here anytime she liked.

There was enough room around the central stacks to dance, and even though Attie spent most of her time being rather surly, and uncooperative, and very little inclined to do anything that most people would consider girlish, she did love to dance. She danced around and around, whirling in a giant circle claiming the room and casting a delightful spell of ownership, albeit secret and unbeknownst to the true owners, of every single volume in the most beautiful room in the world.

“You are a lovely dancer,” came a voice from above her head. Attie went still, then dropped into a feral crouch, her head whipping back and forth as her gaze searched the upper story of the library.

She heard a rustle of fabric and a step. Then, from out of the shadows of the upper tier of the library, she saw a form come to the railing. Attie recalled the slight Latin lilt from the “dancer” comment. It was that girl, the other girl, the one who wasn't Miss Judith Blayne.

Suddenly, Attie thought perhaps she knew why Orion, her dear, logical, coldhearted brother, had been so distracted yesterday.

The girl was quite pretty, with her dark hair, dark eyes, and pleasing mouth. She had a bosom that even Elektra would have envied, although Elektra wouldn't have dusted the house in that dress. However, many people were pretty. That in itself did not make them special.

The girl grinning down at her in a conspiratorial fashion had another, less definable quality. She had a clever, discerning gaze that carried amusement, disappointment, and wonder in equal portions. It was a thing that Attie had seen before only in her own family. Although she had to grudgingly admit that her married siblings, Callie, Cas, and Ellie, had found spouses with a little bit of that quality.

But this girl was something altogether different.

Attie remained where she was, but abruptly dropped her defenses and took a seat on the floor, disregarding her dress. She doubted there was a dust mote running free in this house anywhere, and she wasn't inclined to worry much about her clothing in the first place. She crossed her legs tailor-fashion and leaned back on her hands to gaze at the girl above her, her head tilted as she considered the girl like a new breed of insect.

Francesca tried not to laugh at the funny creature below her. She had not appreciated laughter when she was that age. So she leaned her hands on the finely wrought iron railing of the library and looked down upon the child beneath her very seriously.

After a moment, the girl spoke up. “How long have you lived here?”

“Nearly six months now. How long have you been here?”

“I came yesterday. My brother tied me up and packed me in his trunk. It took me all night to get out. I'm considering calling the magistrate and pressing charges.”

Francesca had once been a bored, clever child. She remembered very well the urge to fabricate entertaining stories.

“I was tied up in a trunk once,” she said. “Of course, I don't have a brother, so I had to depend on a giant to do the job.”

The little girl sat up straight and folded her hands neatly in her lap. “You're a very good liar.” Her voice held a tinge of admiration.

Francesca felt a ridiculous spurt of pride at such praise. A grown woman should not, probably, engage in a contest of creative lies with a child. However, the conversation had so far for her proved to be one of the most interesting she'd had since entering this house.

She wondered if the child would allow her to come down without running away. There was only one way to find out. “Will you allow me to come down without your running away?”

The little girl seemed to accept Francesca's olive branch of frankness.

She nodded. “I won't run away if you won't.”

Francesca tried not to smile. Orion Worthington's little sister, as she must be, was proving to be nearly as interesting as her brother.

As she picked up her skirts and climbed nimbly down the spiral stairs, she continued her story. “It all started when the giant chased me from the kitchen with a wooden spoon.” That was actually true. “I was trying to add herbs to a lovely Bolognese sauce when the giant caught me in the act. He picked up a spoon the size of a club that whistled through the air as he swept it over his head.” Still truth. She gained the first floor and grinned at the child. “So I jumped into the trunk to hide from him. He wrapped it with the twine he uses on the goose feet and tried to bury me in the kitchen garden. I escaped, using the herbs to make myself sneeze so hard that the trunk bounced out of the hole and broke open directly.”

“Not bad.” The girl pursed her lips and nodded. “The bit about the sauce is good. I don't know if I believe you about the giant.”

Francesca snorted. “Go down to the kitchens and have a look for yourself.” She approached the seated girl and stuck out her hand. “I am—”

The child ignored her hand. “Francesca Penrose, the daughter of Sir Geoffrey's half brother, Francis Penrose.” The girl finished the sentence for her. “You're nothing like Miss Judith Blayne. You are dark where she is fair, and you were born in Italy.”

“My friends call me Chessa.” Francesca dropped her hand and shrugged slightly. “My mother's family is Italian. You are Orion Worthington's sister. Are you a constellation as well?”

“Atalanta. Just a minor Greek half deity. We are all named for some myth. But Rion and I are both hunters.”

Atalanta the Huntress, reluctant to lose her freedom to marriage, would marry only a man who could win a race against her. She outran all her suitors until one clever fellow distracted her by throwing golden apples in her path. Francesca, who sympathized greatly with the mythological woman who saw no point in marriage, nodded.

And “we all”? How many Worthington siblings were there? Unlike many people who dearly loved talking, Francesca was also an excellent listener. If she was careful, what could she learn about Blayne House's newest occupant? “I see. Your brother hunts for knowledge. What do you hunt for?”

The child narrowed her eyes at Francesca. “I hunt the people who try to ruin my family.”

Francesca clapped her hands together. “Excellent!”

Atalanta stared at her. “Most people don't say that to me.”

Francesca snorted. “I am not most people. I would do anything for my family.” She sighed. “Even for my rather awful uncle, although I'm sure he would not say the same for me.” She tilted her head. “Is someone trying to ruin your family?”

Atalanta nodded. “Your family. Sir Geoffrey lured my brother away from home with promises of fame and fortune
and a boring wife. I can't believe Rion fell for it. He shouldn't care about any of that. Worthingtons generally don't, you know.” Her scowl deepened. She looked so ferocious that Francesca knew she could only be fighting back tears. “I can't believe he left m—us.”

It seemed the child was not in favor of the probable union of Mr. Worthington and Judith. Francesca couldn't much blame her, for she flinched at the notion herself. Probably because Judith didn't seem particularly thrilled. Francesca's instinctive objection was only a very natural concern for her cousin's happiness, of course.

Francesca put any other possibility out of her mind. Firmly. With a boot to its bottom.

Then she grinned at the adorably homicidal little Miss Atalanta Worthington. “I'm famished. The giant has gone to market to personally choose more boring, bland food for Sir Geoffrey. Shall we brave the kitchens for teacakes and biscuits? I know they are delicious, for I baked them myself!”

Atalanta eyed her warily as she rose to her feet. “Is he really a giant?”

“Oh yes,” Francesca assured her airily as they headed for the kitchens for a bit of well-timed pilfering. “You can tell by the size of his spoon.”

A strangled sound came from the child, and Francesca realized it was a rusty laugh, like something rarely used. Come to think of it, she had not heard Mr. Worthington laugh at all, had she?

Would his laughter be full and warm? Or low and deep?