Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (17 page)

Edward checked the timepiece again; half-past eight. Claire’s interruption, though a needful thing, threw him off schedule. He was late for the appointed meeting in the greenhouse with a certain woman of interest. He left the letters on the salver in the middle of his desk, trusting Rogers would know what to do. His feet took him through the house on a familiar path as dancing green eyes invaded his mind. Miss Montgomery was a tad saucy last night in the Gallery Room, a spark of fun, flirtatious in a way that appealed to him. He never understood the draw some men had to pouty, moody, demanding chits, but Miss Montgomery’s quiet, if sometimes bold, allure drew him like no other of her sex.

His grin widened as he pushed open the double drawing-room doors to let himself out onto the balustrade and down the steps through the small ornamental garden deep in winter’s sleep. His plain black broadcloth coat chased away some of the cold, damp air. The skies, heavy with clouds, filtered sunbeams here and there, turning morning dew into tiny crystals. Going around a large urn, he moved down the slope’s curving graveled path and gained a clear view of the greenhouse’s east side. Two hazy figures, Miss Montgomery and Huxtable, conversed at a workbench pushed up against the wall. As he pushed open the greenhouse door, he hoped she was every bit as good as her boast of last evening; he wouldn’t mince words if her work wasn’t up to snuff.

Gravel crunched underfoot, announcing his arrival. Huxtable pulled his ivory pipe from his mouth and held it close to his chest.

“Mornin’, I was just showin’ Miss Montgomery here yer journals and what not…things ye’ve been doin’ of late.” Huxtable beamed like a proud father. “Her drawin’ is a good idea. A mite better ’an anything ye’ve done, I’d say.” Huxtable leaned into the table and motioned him over with the pipe. “Take a look.”

Sheaves splayed the table; Miss Montgomery’s lead stick, honed to a fine point, scraped quick, efficient lines across foolscap. A few of his sketches sat alongside two new sketches of the same flower but far superior to his work. Many children of nobility suffered through tutoring sessions to develop the basics of sketching; he failed them miserably. Edward held up a drawing of petals, pistil, and stamen, and Huxtable crowded in beside him.

“Did that while I watched this past hour.” Huxtable’s chest puffed out as if he did the diagram himself.

“Uncanny.” He raised the sheaf to the light. “One might think he’s actually looking at botanical anatomy rather than a facsimile. The leaf looks like it lifts off the page.”

“Kind words, my lord.” Cool words came from behind a curtain of tendrils falling across her cheeks.

Miss Montgomery faced the work before her, not bothering to look at him face-to-face. Was he getting the brush-off? Her fingertips, already darkened from the lead stick, moved with rapid efficiency, forming lines and shades and miniscule shapes on a third, more complex illustration. Edward didn’t miss the quick daggers shot from the corner of her eye, though. Neither did Huxtable. The old man’s eyes rounded before beetling back and forth from Lydia to him. Edward’s jaw flexed and twitched. Warning signs flashed in his head: female histrionics ahead.

Huxtable coughed and muttered, “There’s seedlings that need tending.”

“Thank you, Hux.”

Huxtable worked the pipe at the corner of his mouth and patted Edward’s arm. Under his breath, Edward was sure Huxtable was warning, “Batten down the hatches, me boy.”

A thick brown shawl that had seen better days draped her rigid back. He studied the movements of her slim hand over the page, deciding to try again.

“Good morning, Miss Montgomery.”

She made a dismissive hum in return, not even looking his way. He’d try another approach.

“Your skill is amazing.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Her voice could freeze the windows, and this time she didn’t deign to give him a side glance.

Heaven
help
me
understand
the
moods
of
women.
He leaned a hip against the workbench and crossed his arms casually.

“I can’t help but wonder at your demeanor this morning. Is something amiss?”

Lydia faced him, starch stiff and green eyes flashing. Yes, something was definitely wrong. He hadn’t lost all his powers to read the impossible female species, not that this green-eyed fury before him took deep intellectual capability to comprehend.

“Of course not,
my
lord.
Whatever makes you think that,
my
lord
?” She inhaled and pressed soft lips into a hard, unforgiving line.

“Quit ‘my lording’ me.” He braced a hand on the table. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Her frosty tone could drip icicles. He stepped back, bemused, shaking his head. “Incredible.”

The sensual, playful creature of last night was gone, replaced by an ice-cold miss. He took a breath of forbearance and tried again.

“Miss Montgomery, are you one of those females who expects a man to read your mind?”

“You ask that based on your
vast
experience with women?”

“What?” His head snapped back as if she’d slapped him.

Her fingers rubbed the lead stick, sending smudges higher across her thumb and index finger.

“Perhaps I should ask: What do you want,
Lord
Eddie
?”

He flinched from her acid tongue. “Is reason and logic in a dress too much to ask for?”

Last night the familiar moniker of his childhood would have been music to his ears. This morning, between her sarcasm and mercurial shifts, the childhood pet name on her lips irritated. He shook his head, baffled. No, he wanted to shake her.

“You’re such an arse.” The words came low and wavering as she turned back to the table and sketched.

“Brilliant. We’ve reached a new low—juvenile name-calling.” Edward set his hands low on his hips. “I’ve work to do.”

He turned and walked away with thoughts to check the tile stove, anything to keep his distance. Confusion and disappointment clouded his thinking. At least her work was excellent thus far. She could stay. He’d give her some time to stew and try again in an hour—

Thunk!

A small object pinged off the back of his head and dropped to the ground. His hand rubbed the offended spot, a minor tap to his pate, as he turned around and discovered a small lead chunk at his feet. When he looked up, Miss Montgomery sat very tall and indignant on her stool.

“What’s Miss Mayhew to you?” she blurted. “Is she your mistress?”

The words reverberated through the greenhouse.

Edward picked up the lead writing piece that surprisingly had remained intact, shaking his head. “You threw this at my head.”

Bemused, he walked to the workbench. He rolled the piece over his palm and held it out, as if to provide evidence. The way she braced the wood, he was certain she’d toss that bench at him if she could. Miss Montgomery was like an exotic, foreign specimen with this unexpected flare of hers.

“Miss Montgomery, are you given to fits of hysteria?” he asked, more amazed than angry with the wish to get to the bottom of this puzzle.

Her gaze, shuttered and withdrawn, dropped to the gray shard and back to him.

“No.” Miss Montgomery took a deep breath and settled her hands in her lap. “No, I’m rather a calm sort with most people.” Her firm chin wobbled right then, and she near burst like fireworks again when she said, “But, I won’t tolerate living with your mistress under the same roof. Miss Mayhew must go. Or I will.”

He barked a disbelieving laugh. “You’re in no position to make ultimatums in my home. And Miss Mayhew has never been nor will she ever be my mistress.”

She charged ahead, apparently not registering what he’d said. “Oh, I know some nobility keep odd, secretive arrangements, but this goes beyond the pale.” If possible, Miss Montgomery sat up even taller.

“Did you hear me?” He fisted both hands to his waist, pushing back his coat. “Miss Mayhew is
not
my mistress.”

“Don’t you mean
Claire
?” she snapped.

His eyes narrowed. “I repeat, she’s not my mistress. I’ve never had one. Never saw the point.”

Miss Mayhew studied his face as if she could read more behind his words. Her mouth pressed to a firm line, and Edward spoke to her with open hands.

“I’m not complex when it comes to people.” He spread his arms wide, and his astonishment at the unusual morning grew. “If I already had a woman under my roof, as you put it, why would I seek out a stranger at the Blue Cockerel?”

Miss Montgomery looked away, and her eyebrows pressed together. He guessed her mind digested that fact. Edward’s hands dropped to his sides, and the beginnings of triumph over this ridiculous morning grew, but he cautioned himself not to gloat. Logic alone could clear the air.

“Makes sense,” she said under her breath, then faced him, licking her lips. “But this morning, I thought…”

“This morning?” His eyes narrowed with keen intensity.

The footsteps outside his study. He closed the distance between them and tossed the lead stick onto the bench. He admonished himself to act with caution as he stared back at the green-eyed termagant accusing him…
him
! But threads of control snapped, one after the other.

“That was you I heard in the hallway. Now we can add eavesdropping to your talents.”

“It’s hardly eavesdropping with the door wide open. The two of you made no attempt to curb your voices.” Her eyes shot daggers at him again. “And what was that necklace all about? I saw it.”

“Did you?” he said in a soft voice.

In that split second, thought and reason gave way to action, as patience, his last fragile thread, broke. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her from the stool. “You’re coming with me. There’s something you need to see.”

Eleven

Love ceases to be a pleasure, when it ceases to be a secret.

—Aphra Behn

Of all the types of men, brooding recluses proved to be the most difficult to understand, and she decided, the most difficult to manage.

Had she come to that conclusion when her skirts billowed like a flag behind her as they raced across the lawn, up cold stone steps to move swiftly across the balustrade? Or did that come to her when they charged past a flirtatious footman and downstairs maid caught amidst a hallway dawdle? Of course, his lordship didn’t care that their mouths froze midsentence at the spectacle of a man and woman speeding down the hallway.

“Carry on as you were,” he barked at the stunned pair, while Lydia’s arm was stretched behind him from dragging her along.

Trotting to stay in tempo with Lord Greenwich’s angry strides over the marble floors, Lydia resolved that he would understand one thing: she’d never tolerate a dalliance. Her chest heaved from exertion and rising indignation, and her heels clacked, barely keeping pace with him. Something else nettled her, a rampant, foreign idea building inside her—the right to demand fidelity.

Why?

She couldn’t answer that. Everything blurred quite literally. But as she followed the broad, determined shoulders that headed who knew where, his lordship needed to know one thing: Miss Mayhew
must
go. Forget that minor reasoning he did in the greenhouse. Not all of life was based on logic and fact.

Then, of all places, the earl stopped just short of the art-gallery doors and let her go. He faced Lydia, and his scarred jaw twitched and flexed when he spoke.

“I will
never
force Miss Mayhew to leave Greenwich Park.” He shoved the doors in a grand flourish. “This is her home.”

“Then you don’t need me,” she huffed.

His lordship’s eyebrows lowered in a heavy line over topaz-brown eyes, eyes that sparked with a strange light that she couldn’t fathom. “In some odd way, I find I do. Though I question my sanity in coming to that conclusion.”

Bewilderment mingled with rapid huffs of breath from their sprint. How could he say something like that? That he needed her? Or was it simply her womb? Lydia tried to collect herself after their mad dash from the greenhouse. She glanced around the gallery.

“You drag me from the greenhouse to look at art
again
?”

“This way.”

He clamped a vise grip at her elbow, and they marched through the room with the earl intent on some distant point. Greenwich ancestors stared down at her, some forbidding and some comical in their antiquated attire. Lord Greenwich’s scowl was as severe as the black coat he wore. Lydia’s skirts fluttered, and her shoes clattered loudly, echoing off the ornate plastered ceiling as she tried to keep up with him. His long stride ate up the distance. What was he trying to do here?

“I assure you, my lord, this matter will not go away with the appeasement of—”

The earl glared at her, and that severe look won him a moment of silence. He moved ahead, his fingers digging five fierce points into her arm, when he abruptly stopped. She collided with him, her face brushing his sleeve.

“My lord,” she said, sputtering.

He stemmed her oncoming tide of feminine indignation with a commanding move, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her flush to him. With her back to his chest, his hands kept her in place. They faced a smaller portrait, about the size of a tea tray, near the corner of the room. She’d missed this one last night: an assertive, handsome young man with a brass sextant fisted against his thigh.

“Your brother,” she said, stating the obvious.

“Yes, my brother, the one born to wear the mantle as Earl of Greenwich. Perfect and unscarred.” He gave the facts, but tender pain, like a fresh wound, limned his voice. “On his way to Sweden, his ship was attacked by a Rus ship. He died in his bed of wounds from the assault. Miss Mayhew nursed him and witnessed his last breath.”

Lord Edward’s hands warmed her shoulders, gripping with the kind of firmness that brooked no movement. She peeked over her shoulder at his stony features.

“I don’t understand.” She shook her head and stared at the strong, handsome features before her, a darker, bolder mirror of the man behind her.