Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (34 page)

“You must think me so very awful.”

Edward glanced out the window in time to catch John passing the kite’s handle over to Lydia. Her hair, most of it fallen loose from its pins, whipped about her head, but she accepted the proffered honor of kite-flier, and both followed the diamond shape high above.

“Embracing truth is a kind of freedom. Don’t you think?” He glanced back at his mother, who sniffed and dabbed a handkerchief to her face. “I understand the framework from which you’ve established your world, your environment.”

“Heavens.” She sniffed. “You sound like you’ve made me into one of your scientific studies.” She stared out the window, but not at the scene beyond, rather, he noticed she was checking her own reflection in the glass before facing him again. “You sounded just like your father right then, you know.”

Edward’s arms went lax, and he clasped his hands behind his back. “What do you mean?”

The countess dabbed her eyes and tipped her head in a doting way. “At first he was all science. Work at night. Sleep all day, since astronomy was his field. Dinner was transition time. The only time to see him. But yes, I soon changed that.” Her head raised a proud notch. “Someone had to make him aware of his responsibilities elsewhere, duties to the estate, and yes, to attend me. I make no apology for demanding such. No marriage would survive otherwise.”

Was his mother about to give him advice? Spread marital wisdom his way? He stiffened at the idea, but her eyes, older and sadder-looking, kept him quiet. Handkerchief clutched in one hand, the countess spread her arms wide.

“Take a look around you. Someone had to look to all this. You may denigrate my concerns, but you have an excellent place in this world. Growing up, those tutors of yours didn’t visit based solely on your brilliance, you know. Nothing here happened by accident. I helped build the Greenwich name in Society. Yes”—she arched her dark gold eyebrows, and her hands dropped to her sides—“the same Society you castigate so freely.”

The strange push and pull of truth tugged at him, weighing down like a gentle burden on his frame. His mother showed more depth in this single meeting than he could remember seeing in her in a long time, perhaps because he made his judgments and was never willing to look again. But time and circumstances changed people, wearing them down the same way water worked over stone.

With all sincerity, Edward tipped his head in a small salute. “Your talents have never been fully appreciated.”

Her lips wobbled as if another flood of tearful emotions was about to erupt. Both turned to the window, taking in the boy and Lydia enjoying the sunny, windy day. At that moment, Lydia turned and caught sight of them in the window. Fingers splayed wide, she smiled and waved her arm emphatically at them. Then she pointed at Edward, and beckoned him outside to join her. She exuded cheer, so full of life.

His mother sighed, a sound of relief and tiredness mingled together. “Life is a series of choices, great and small. Choose wisely.”

Edward waved back to Lydia. “I already have.”

***

Lydia waited awhile for Edward to show. When he didn’t, she handed the kite’s wooden handle back to John and walked briskly around to the back of the great house, expecting to find him somewhere inside. She trotted up the back steps, more than ready to get back to her long-neglected painting, when she heard her name on the wind.

“Miss, Miss Montgomery. This away,” Huxtable yelled to her, both hands cupped around his mouth. The gardener waved her over to the greenhouse. He cupped his hands and called out once more, followed by a frantic gesturing of his hands. “Come quick, miss!”

She sprinted full speed through the grass, down the hill to the greenhouse, imagining every sort of trouble. Her shoes pounded the ground. Chill wind snapped her cheeks. Lydia stopped short of the door, her heart thumping hard.

“What’s wrong? Is it Edward?” She rubbed her side where a cramp pinched from her sprint.

Huxtable gave himself a good-natured slap to the head. “Sorry I gave ye such a fright. Hisself is fine as usual.” He set his pipe between his thin lips and finished, “We didn’t want ye to miss this. Come quick.”

His gnarled hands held the door open for her, and once inside the balmy warmth, Lydia unclasped her cloak. Her wind-chapped hands went back to rubbing the nagging ache at her side. Huxtable moved down a central path through the middle of the greenhouse. His fast footsteps crunched on gravel, and she followed that noise into thicker greenery. Midway through the path, Huxtable turned and grinned around his twitching pipe. He jabbed his thumb at an open space off the path.

“Here.” He wheezed a quick chuckle and touched his cap before disappearing.

Edward stood amidst juvenile butterflies floating about, and some spread brand-new wings, damp and sluggish, as they clung to stick-thin branches. Their pastel colors fluttered against vibrant green leaves. One landed on his shoulder, and another flitted closer to his forearm, where it settled on his wrist. With care, he raised his wrist for her closer inspection of the pale green butterfly.

“May I introduce
Callophrys
rubi
, or green hairstreak, if you prefer the King’s English,” he said, and right then a pale blue butterfly with a smattering of black dots found sanctuary on his arm. “And here is
Celastrina
argiolus
, sweetly known as holly blue.”

“They’re so pretty.”

“Stand still, and they’ll come to you. Dozens of them newly emerged from their chrysalides,” he whispered in his cultured voice as he rattled off the strange word.

She chuckled low at his scientific talk. She stretched out her arms, and one green hairstreak flitted in front of her nose to flutter, drop, and settle on her arm. “When you say chrysalee…or whatever, you mean their cocoon?” she asked, matching his whisper. “They’ve just hatched?”

Another type, bold orange, with eye spots on its wings, landed on her arm. Edward’s warm breath touched her forehead.

“That orange one is the peacock,
Inachis
Io
. And yes, hatched, emerged, whichever you prefer.”

The closeness of their confined space and the lovely insects drifting into flight above their heads made a dreamlike haze. A bird chirped a song and flew overhead, its wings flapping the loudest sound in their peaceful paradise. A single green hairstreak lingered on Edward’s arm. The body was fuzzy and white. The wings changed from a subtle pale green to a richer light blue-green shade closer to the body.

“I should like to paint this one, if I can remember all the subtle colors and textures. So lovely.”

“This one reminds me of your eyes on certain days,” he murmured close to her ear. “And I would like that butterfly painting to remind me of your eyes.”

When
you’re gone.

She pulled away, couldn’t help it really from the unspoken words that hung between them. That vertical line pronounced itself between Edward’s eyes.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” He spoke in normal tones. The butterflies abandoned him.

“Why not?” She concentrated on the one butterfly, a beautiful jewel, on her arm. “You’re not one to avoid facts.”

The tender butterfly left its perch on her forearm. She followed the halo of young butterflies over their heads. Sun shot through greenery. Everywhere new flowers flared in a profusion of pinks and yellows, exotic oranges, scarlets and reds. Birds chirped their songs so busy at building nests. Outside, English weather gave its last winter shout with bone-chilling gusts. Inside? Paradise, and Edward was its architect. He set his hand on her elbow, guiding her to another path.

“Amazing. I’m mesmerized by color and sound,” she said, whisper-soft, still taken by the brilliant kaleidoscope before her. Your greenhouse looks more alive than ever.”

“Spring. It has that effect on species of all stripes. But if you want to paint the butterflies, better hurry. Those three you just saw will not stay. They like to venture to other places.”

“Sounds like you,” she said.

Their footsteps crunched a slow cadence on gravel. Edward’s hand slipped lower to her waist.

“I know, but I’m not gone yet.”

Gone was the intractable scientist, determined to explore the outer world’s scientific treasures. Edward sounded…different. She looked askance at him and found a randy grin on his face. It might have been the effect of their small slice of Eden, or it could’ve been the age-old rhythm of man and woman, but Lydia’s body hummed to his tune.

“I haven’t checked the calendar, Edward, but we’re nearly at the end of your month-long edict, aren’t we?”

“Next week is the end of the waiting period.”

He led her past the Chinese pear tree to her workbench. All was in order, if a little bare from her recent neglect. The undercurrent hummed between them, a silent reminder of what would pass between them. Edward’s eyes smoldered darker than usual. She’d become used to the sparks that flew between them. Comfortable in his domain, Edward leaned his backside on the workbench and braced his hands on the wood.

“Do you feel ready?”

“It’s what we agreed from the beginning. Nothing’s changed, has it?” Lydia planted her bottom on the high stool, facing him. “I suppose I need lots more lessons in comportment.”

She gave him a cheeky grin, but couldn’t shake jittery nervousness. She rubbed her fingers, chilled at the tips from gloveless kite flying. Edward’s eyes, his face, everything was too intense. Did he know somehow what she’d done? The letters?

“I was going to take you worming today, but that’s not the most romantic outing a man can offer a woman, is it?” He studied her with keen eyes.

“You are if anything, a surprising man. Worming…” She laughed. “I was hoping to paint, really. I haven’t had the chance at all this week. The countess has been relentless, demanding all my time.”

His gaze flitted to her workbench. “Yes, I see your pile of illustrations hasn’t increased. What about your promise to help me? Your recompense for snooping in my room?” His eyes turned fierce for a playful second of mock judgment.

That incident seemed like it happened years ago. She fidgeted, making a study of her hands on her knees. She squeezed her eyes shut, about to blurt out the full truth of what she did, when Edward tossed what must have been his own theory to her hesitancy.

“Lydia, what’s wrong? Is this about what I said over by the butterflies?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know.

She shook her head. She had to give him something. “The fact is I burned the illustrations—”

“What?” He sprang off the bench.

“It was an accident. I was cleaning my desk and tossed good pages in the fire with my mistakes. But don’t worry, the originals are here.” She turned and picked up a pile of his first-draft diagrams and illustrations, a pile about an inch thick.

He grabbed them from her and shuffled through them, clearly needing reassurance that the originals were sound. He set the stack down and rubbed the back of his neck.

“These are for my treatise on the
Agathosma
betulina.
How far along are you on the pamphlet?”

“Up in my room and almost done.” She touched his arm. “You know I’m fast. I can get them all done quickly enough.”

“Good, because I wanted to publish the pamphlet before I left, rather than leave the work hanging.” He tapped two fingers to the bench. “I need you here every day without interruption.”

With him standing so close and irked, she wasn’t put off by his bristling irritation. She found him quite appealing this way. A smile flirted across her lips.

“I could say the same about you, my lord.” She let her voice drop, a lure for him to flirt back with her.

“Ah, Lydia.” But there was no bite to him.

She leaned closer, liking the smell of his soap.

His knuckles grazed her cheek, her lips, and she captured his warm hand and kissed his knuckles. She’d burned those copies in a thin hope to slow him down, but that was a weak gamble on her part. He knew how quickly she worked.

The other, bolder effort was what truly scared her. The letters. His seal. Her stomach fluttered unpleasantly when that deception came to mind. Instead, she shoved it away, ignoring it. Part of her wanted to explode and tell him, and part of her was scared what would happen. She held his hand to her cheek and shut her eyes, not able to bear the honesty that always shone from his.

He brushed back strands of hair that fell about her face. The way he touched her, she could be a fragile treasure that he adored and would keep forever.

“And so the red-hooded hoyden of Wickersham tames the Greenwich beast.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead, her hairline, and skimmed her temple. “Or the phantom…not sure which name I like most today.”

“Jest if you must,” she said, letting her lips brush his cheek. “But people hold misconceptions about you because you fail to show your face in public. No one will ever know the truth.”

He pulled away, but not with anger. He stood too close for that, and for the first time, something like consideration for that argument reflected in his eyes. What was it about intimacy that tore down barriers? The good people of Greenwich Park had laid out their arguments in the same vein to him these past three years, since he was first scarred. She knew as much, since all and sundry told her, as did Edward. He looked at her with a satisfied smile.

“You know the truth about me.” And he kissed her lips, a feathered touch. “That’s good enough for me.” He pulled away again, and his gold-tipped lashes hovered over his topaz-brown eyes. “You really don’t see my scars when you look at me, do you?”

That startled her. She reached up and stroked the cheek, knotted and shiny. Her fingers skimmed lower to his shirt’s neckline, where dark-edged scars showed. Lydia’s hand slipped just inside the linen fabric to explore enticing flesh.

“I see a great deal, but not scars.” Her voice was low and throaty.

The scandalous idea of sketching him without his shirt on made her blush, but he didn’t notice. She held that secret idea to herself as Huxtable came up the path, two buckets swinging at his sides. The gardener plunked the buckets on Edward’s workbench.