Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (15 page)

Lord Greenwich’s rueful smile said she made the correct assessment.

“I was ready to punch someone, anyone, for that sitting…a colossal waste of time to my young mind. I had better things to do.” He shrugged. “My father promised to take me worm hunting after that first tedious sitting, so I was appeased.”

“Worm hunting? Incredible.” She laughed again. “The very idea, your father, the great and revered Earl of Greenwich worm hunting…I can’t imagine it.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, warming to the topic. “My father knew all the best places for worming and toad hunting, too, for that matter.”

The open joy in his face as he perused the portrait took her breath away. She stared at him, couldn’t move. The topic of his family was not a closed issue after all. Lord Greenwich as an intense, arrogant man was threateningly handsome, but this peeled-back layer of happiness showed an altogether different kind of entrancing.

Smiling at the portrait, he lowered the candelabrum. “You know, I’m Greenwich Park’s foremost expert on worming—” He turned to her and stilled.

His visage morphed from cheerful childhood recollection to saturnine intensity. The moment’s levity slipped away, and they were a man and woman alone in a quiet place. Skin-tingling awareness melted her senses, as much as his smoldering stare that could burn holes through her dress. Her lashes shuttered, and she blinked. She had to look away.

“But that’s for another time,” he said. “Perhaps now you can share your three ideas.”

His voice, liquid male and smooth, invited intimacy. The earl set the candelabrum on the floor, and when he stood up, Lydia slid her arm through his and pulled him close, as drawn to his warmth as she suspected he was to hers.

“Let’s take a turn about the room, shall we?”

He said nothing but glanced down at her hand touching the same forearm she’d touched earlier in the day. They strolled along in silence with only the steady resonance of their footsteps sounding.

She loved surprising him. Serve the man right to keep him off-kilter. The balance of knowledge swayed too much on his side, and no woman ever served herself well by letting a man always have the upper hand. She savored his clean smell as their quiet footsteps meandered over the parquet.

The Earl of Greenwich was quite unlike any other nobleman with whom she’d ever crossed paths: intelligent, handsome in appearance—the scars aside—and not given to the ridiculous notion that his birth gave him superiority over others or every right to live an idle life of useless debauchery and dissolution. Beside her was a man of purpose.

Lydia recognized a hazardous wish growing within, the wish to make this man want her in every way. This could be a slippery slope, if she weren’t careful. She laid her other hand atop the earl’s arm in a comfortable grasp and closed the gap between them, the gesture cozy and familiar as their hips touched and their legs sometimes brushed against each other.

“You gave me much to consider this afternoon with your mandate, my lord. But truly, all I needed was that warm bath, and the ideas came quickly.”

“Go on.” Lord Greenwich’s pace matched hers.

“My first offering: I act as your valet. Your clothes are piled everywhere in your room, so I asked Miss Lumley about that. She confirmed my worst fears: you care for yourself without aid of a valet. I shouldn’t be surprised, since you’re very private, but”—her index finger traced a loosening edge of gold trim at the wrist of his jacket sleeve—“your wardrobe’s badly in need of attention. I’m good with a needle and the blade.” At this last word, her gaze slid to the small cut on his chin.

His fingers skimmed the scabbed-over nick from his morning shave, but Lord Greenwich shook his head. “Not good enough. If I wanted a valet, I’d hire one.” He angled his head at her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “However, I could use some assistance with bathing. Someone to scrub my back, perhaps?”

Lydia playfully slapped his shoulder. She loved the humorous brigand.

“You care not even a whiff for fashion, my lord?”

“Not a bit. Growing up, my brother eventually accepted—with resignation—our mother’s mandates on attire. Later he came to embrace them with relish. As for me, I despise anything I’m
supposed
to do. Hence, you see a bare minimum of lace on the lad in the portrait back there.” His head tipped at the massive painting dominating the wall. “Lace scratches my chin, bothers my neck, and gets in the way of my hands. When I was a boy, the seams and lace at my wrists were muddied and torn before the day was done. No amount of my mother’s threats could make me place boyish curiosity on the shelf in favor of decorum. My father finally intervened and banished lace from my wardrobe.” He favored her with a mischievous smirk. “And then there was peace.”

“A bit recalcitrant,” she said in good cheer, but her smile faded.

If their conversation were a stream, the waters turned turbulent as Lord Greenwich frowned.

“At odds with my mother more times than I care to admit…and my father, tolerant and understanding until his authority was needed to render an edict.”

“Then he was not only a man to be admired in public, but privately as well.”

“Yes, I loved my father. His loss was”—Lord Greenwich trailed off, and he stared ahead—“more than I can explain.”

Lydia chewed her lip. More questions wanted to spring off her tongue, but wisdom held back that tide.

“Don’t get me wrong. I…
love
…my mother,” he said, but his hesitation over that singular declaration was more like one trying to ascertain the missing ingredient in a dish of middling appeal. “But she’s…”

He let his words disperse, finishing with a bland shrug. Lydia let the silent gap stay between them, and then his lordship narrowed his eyes at some vague point in the room.

“More the point, she pressed for whatever gave the best appearance of things, what
she
thought was best for you, instead of letting one act as one saw fit. My mother tried to force malleable young girls down my throat”—he touched his scar and finished dryly—“in previous days. She decided their biddable nature worked as counterbalance to mine. You know, opposites attract.”

“And?”

“That works best with magnetic force fields, not always with human nature. The girls were duller than dishwater.” His eyes rolled with mock agony.

“How terrible for you as a young man.” She gave him a coy smile and patted his arm in playful sympathy. “To have Society’s loveliest young women vying for your attentions.”

He snorted at that. “More like get in my way. But we digress. I don’t need a valet, Miss Montgomery. What’s my second choice?”

They strolled quietly, passing portraits of blank-faced family members from other eras, each defined by modes of fashion and hairstyles of other times. Her shoulder grazed his arm, a bare rustle of wool against velvet. Candlelight bounced off gilt frames and mirrors. For the first time in distant memory, contentment flooded her. The evening, however unique from others, counted as excellent. She didn’t want this to end.

Lord Greenwich tipped his head. “Woolgathering?”

“No, my lord, simply afraid I may disappoint you. You have such high expectations.” She turned her mouth in a playful moue. “My second offering: I will assist you in your greenhouse. In Wickersham I was rather handy in the garden. I grew lemongrass to make my own soap. I could make some for you as well.”

Lord Greenwich stared ahead as he appeared to consider the notion, but shook his head in the negative.

“Your talents are legendary, I’m sure, but I must refuse the offer.” His voice slowed, dropping an octave. “I’m very selective about who touches my varietals.”

Lydia licked her lips, her mouth quirking over that playful innuendo. His eyebrows snapped together from that simple movement with her mouth. The dangerous brigand was back, and his gaze traced her face, eyes to mouth, catching a moment on her lips and back again to her eyes.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

The refusal was deflating. He must’ve known that, because he offered his brand of reassurance.

“To be fair, the flora in my greenhouse requires very explicit and unique attention. They’re like demanding, high-strung ladies from foreign courts, except they’re blessedly quiet.”

Her head tipped back with laughter. “I shall remember not to talk too much, my lord,” she said, squeezing his forearm. “But I’ve failed to appease on two of my three atonements. I’m close to a perilous end.”

He shook his head, and his face pulled in a melodramatic frown. “I expected better from you.”

“No, you expected something of a sensual nature.”

Lydia said the coy words, hoping to throw him off guard with directness. The simple fact: her confidence melted under the heat of appealing male fixation. Lord Greenwich, when not focused on his work, turned into something of a dangerous flirt with his subtle humor and dark eyes—not the jovial type of man a woman could easily maneuver with a smile. His body tensed beside her when she dared name what lurked between them; yet his lordship’s steps were steady.

“I could be tempted.”

“About that…an idea to be sure, but there
is
your waiting period, my lord.” Her fingers tapped the lapel of his coat. They stopped, and her hand slid from his arm, a whisper of skin to velvet the only noise in the room. “We can’t tempt fate, now can we?”

“Thank you for the reminder.” He looked away, sounding as grouchy as a baited bear.

They stood close. The air crackled between them. Lord Greenwich’s nostrils flared as if scenting her, and the candelabra behind him gave a golden glow to his neatly combed queue. A faint shadow of dark facial hair, the day’s growth, covered one side of his face, while the other was shiny scars and marred skin.

“Your first two atonements are child’s play, Miss Montgomery. You have your final chance to impress me.”

Or?

She wouldn’t bother to ask what would happen if she failed to impress. Diverting tension thrummed between them, awareness so taut they could be touching. Lydia inhaled deeply, and his black-brown gaze dropped to the thrust of her breasts properly trussed in stays.

“I will sketch for you, plant diagrams and such.” She exhaled once the words were out and squared her shoulders.

She would be taken seriously, not simply as a diversion for a man particular about the female company he keeps, but as a woman with talent and a soul hungering for more than the tiny morsels life doled out to her in piecemeal fashion.

Lord Greenwich’s eyes widened. Idea number three stunned him silent. With her third offer, Lydia stood on the rim of a new precipice, headed to something big, bigger than anything she’d ever done. She clasped her hands at waist height, squeezing them tight to abate her fingers’ faint tremors, and in what she hoped was persuasive solicitation.

“I noticed your journal drawings, both in the greenhouse and in the reading area of your room.”

One imperious eyebrow rose at the mention of her earlier intrusion on his lordly space.

Her head dipped a fraction. “I know…I was
completely
in the wrong to go in your room and rifle through your personal effects.” She licked her lips and raised her head, “But I’m sorry, my lord. Your sketches are deplorable. Your handwriting’s even worse.”

She must have struck a chord: gone was the flirtatious brigand. Lord Greenwich appeared to embrace the truth of his artistic shortcomings rather than be offended by her noting them. He stayed stone silent, with the slightest cant of his head, though not as one vexed by her critical comments, more like she’d shed light on a new and interesting theorem. Lydia’s clenched hands touched her chin.

“Oh, I know you can hire a secretary to transcribe your work, but you’ll have a harder time conveying your ideas without excellent images and diagrams.” Lydia splayed her fingers high on her chest. “I’d wager that I sketch, paint, and draw better than most people of your acquaintance.”

His brows rose at the boast. “Quite confident in your abilities.”

“Aren’t you confident in yours?” Her hands slid to her sides as she gave him a level stare. “Truly, I offer this without excessive pride when I say that I’m a good artist,
a
very
good
artist
, and can help with that part of your scientific papers. An excellent picture conveys a wealth of information; a poor one only confuses.”

“Intriguing.” Lord Greenwich rubbed his chin. “I must say, you’ve managed the impossible. Your third offer not only astounds me but has some merit.”

“Consider it the most basic partnership, easily ended by either of us when no longer convenient. I might add that I work quickly…quite fast at my sketches. You’ll not have to worry about me slowing down your progress.”

Lydia held her breath under his scrutiny. Did she hold her head higher? For she was sure he was assessing her as a colleague, an equal. The revelation gratified her to no end. Gone was the man who’d made the unusual bargain at a ramshackle inn—Was that only last night?—and in his place was a scientist, a peer in the realm of talent. His lordship tolerated nothing less than the best from himself and would demand the same of her. That alone exhilarated her.

“I’m intrigued. Definitely. I won’t present my papers to the Royal Society in person, but have been contemplating sending a folio of my latest findings for distribution. Excellent pictures, clear diagrams are a must.” His eyes glittered in an unusual way, as if he was trying to read deeper into her person. “I admit some of my past sketches have caused confusion, as you put it.”

“Then you accept my offer?” Her voice was on the perilous line of faltering.

She held her breath, waiting. His scarred face, calculating, severe, and uniquely handsome, was something to behold as the mental measurement of his decision came.

“Yes.” Lord Greenwich’s sharp inhale punctuated the decision. “Be in the greenhouse by eight o’clock, Miss Montgomery. I’ll brook no tardiness.”

Her whole body relaxed as she breathed out slowly. There was one more obstacle, her secret wish, to clear with him, but now was the time to outline that singular stipulation.