I Thee Wed (15 page)

D
EFINE virtue? This was not a question that life had ever posed to Orion. He floundered somewhat. “What?”

Francesca blinked at him innocently. “It is you who are setting the rules. I am simply asking for clarification of the parameters.”

He blinked. “Well . . . ah . . .” Warning bells began to go off in the dim recesses of his mind—bells he suspected had been ringing in male minds since the dawn of time.

She stepped forward and took his hand in hers, lacing her small fingers into his. “Some people consider the touching of bare palms between a man and a maiden to impinge upon her virtue. Am I now compromised, because we took off our gloves? If so, then we might as well take off our clothes.”

Take your hand back. Take it back and step away and—

Her small cool hand felt remarkably good in his. He could not help but tighten his fingers around her softer ones. Her gaze rose to meet his.

“I do not think you irrevocably compromised because we
hold hands.” Was that his voice, gone husky and low?

The ancient male warning system threw up its hands and turned its back on him, leaving him to fight this battle on his own.

Good.

Francesca's eyes were wide and dark, so deep brown that he thought he might fall into her soul and never want to escape. She lifted their joined hands and moved in close, as if they were dancing. With another single step, she pressed her bosom to his chest.

“Some might say that waltzing so close as this would besmirch a young lady's reputation.” She inhaled deeply, and Orion could not help but match her breath for breath. The sweet orange-blossom scent of her surrounded him, invaded him, fogging his mind further.

She went on. “Am I no longer marriageable, Mr. Worthington, because we danced?”

He cleared his throat against the tightness in it. “I will not tell if you do not tell.”

Her smile flirted with the corners of her mouth, but her gaze remained deeply serious as she pressed her other palm to the front of his waistcoat, over his heart. After a breath, she began to slide her hand up his chest until he felt her warm palm pass his high collar and rest upon the back of his neck as her fingertips slipped into his hair. Shivers of hot and cold emanated from that small contact.

Then she went up on her tiptoes and slowly, carefully pressed her lips to his. The kiss was warm and soft and really quite chaste—but her lips lingered just a second too long. That tiny increment of time was long enough to tempt, to tease, to promise so much more.

When she went back down on her heels, his mouth tried to follow hers, just to cling for a little longer to the tender sweetness of her lips. She drew back. “There,” she said calmly, although her voice squeaked slightly and rosy color
flushed her cheeks, so he knew she was not completely unaffected. “I have kissed a man on the mouth. Am I not done for, in Society's eyes?”

He wanted to kiss her again.

He wanted to kiss her forever. And when forever was done, he wanted the rest of her, too.

She was still gazing at him. “Well?” she prompted. “Am I not most thoroughly sullied?”

“I . . . It isn't what I think that matters. It is what Society thinks.”

Her brows drew together in disbelief. “Pish and tosh. You don't care one fig what Society thinks, and you know it!”

That was true. He really didn't care—except for the opinion of the scientific community. He didn't think the upright members of the Royal Fraternity of Life Sciences would think highly of a member who went about despoiling virgins.

“I will not tell if you do not tell,” he had told her.

He wanted to brush her hair back from her face. What was the name for this compulsion? The cause?

The effect?

Without conscious command, his hand rose. He watched his fingers catch the wayward strand and gently stroke it behind her ear.

The effect was immediate. Her dark gaze snapped to capture his, and her breath caught. He felt the jolt that coursed through her as if an electrical current had bolted through him as well.

“Your eyes . . .” Was that his voice? “I go to sleep at night thinking about your eyes.”
God, you sound like a fool!

Amusement flashed in the sable brown of those eyes. “I fear it is some other part of your anatomy that I go to sleep thinking about.”

She was laughing at him again. He found he did not mind. She laughed as others breathed. Joy was her air.

I am such an idiot
.

“You make me feel like a fool,” he admitted out loud. “You
would not credit the nonsense that erupts in my mind when I think about you.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “If you tell me that I smell of alpine air, or that my skin feels like silk woven through ivory, I shall laugh in your face. That is simply a warning.”

Her skin. His hand still lingered at her ear. He let the side of his thumb graze her cheek from her temple to her jaw. “Your skin feels like . . . you. Warm and full of life, delicate and vulnerable.”

She blinked. He saw her brow crease. “I don't think ‘delicate' applies,” she corrected him. “Have you not noted my figure? I am anything but insubstantial. My uncle thinks I am too fond of second helpings.”

God, how he wanted second helpings of her! “I stand corrected. My error, I fear, for I have never, not for one moment, taken note of the substantial nature of your figure.”

Her eyes widened. “Mr. Worthington, I hesitate to inform you—for I know you shall be as shocked as I—but I believe you just made a jest!”

Orion did not protest the ridiculous accusation. He was too busy tilting his head to watch his fingertips trace down behind her ear, following the exquisite skin of her neck to the hollow of her collarbone. “From the underlying skeletal structure, I believe that you are indeed quite delicately formed, Miss Penrose.”

She swallowed hard. “Er—”

He followed the shape of her clavicle out to her shoulder, his fingertips slipping the impractical little cap sleeve of her gown out of his way without hesitation. “You see here, the distance is long, compared to the diameter of the bone, which implies that your skeletal frame is indeed delicate. I daresay even on the fragile side.”

Her breath had quickened. “Oh . . . my.”

A sudden rattle at the door sent a wash of cold alarm through Orion. Fortunately, Francesca's reaction time was even faster than his own. In a swish of skirts and a yank on
his hand, she pulled them both behind the draperies that had been drawn over the moonlit windows. Orion blew out the candle in his hand on the way.

With her back pressed to his front, Orion could see easily over her head. Through the slight parting of the draperies, probably due to their hasty entry into the window embrasure, he could see the study clearly as Sir Geoffrey entered with a candlestick of his own in hand. The wavering light of his single flame cast unflattering shadows over the man's face.

When had Sir Geoffrey begun to look so old? Orion thought back to that morning, when his mentor had seemed suddenly frail on the stairs. It had not taken long for him to liven up again, so Orion had put it out of his mind.

Now, however, Orion could see the deep lines of age and something else—illness?—in Sir Geoffrey's noble features. The hand that held the candlestick shook with a constant tremor.

Sir Geoffrey seemed not to see the disarray on his desk. He moved directly to the cupboard standing behind it. With his free hand, he pulled his watch fob from his pocket. On the end, along with the medal of the Royal Fraternity of Life Sciences, dangled a tiny key.

The key fit into the lock on the cupboard after several tries. Sir Geoffrey's tremor seemed to be worsening by the minute.

When the cabinet doors were opened, Orion saw a tiny laboratory within. There was a beaker stand, along with several of the flame bowls, stacked and ready to use. A number of bottles and flasks filled the highest shelf, but their neatly printed labels were too small for Orion to read from this distance.

Francesca tugged on his coat sleeve. When their eyes met, he saw his own questions reflected in her gaze. A small divot appeared on her forehead. What was Sir Geoffrey doing? Why did he have a private laboratory? And what was in those jars?

Orion shook his head at Francesca. He had no answers.

Neither of them could see what Sir Geoffrey did with the contents of the cupboard. The man's imposing figure hid his activity.

Francesca tilted her head to see better through the slit in the draperies, and Orion suddenly became entirely aware of Francesca's body pressed to his. He ducked his head slightly until her untamed curls tickled his chin and cheek. Inhaling her deeply, he allowed the spicy, citrusy scent of her to take over his mind.

His thoughts slowed. The carefully defended machine of his concentration ceased the constant turning of its mental gears. All went quiet within him as he felt the heat of her curvaceous body melt into his skin. He rubbed his cheek slowly against the warm silk of her hair, and breathed, and wanted.

O
RION opened his palm over her shoulder even as he slid his other hand around her waist in order to turn her body slightly perpendicular to his own. Her warm skin filled his hand so enjoyably that he continued down her arm until the sleeve would push no farther without drawing down her bodice as well.

Ah.

Yes. Indeed.

His other hand tightened involuntarily upon her waist as he wrapped his fingers around the little sleeve and pulled quite relentlessly. The bodice of her gown peeled away in a very satisfactory fashion, revealing a low-cut chemise of supremely fine lawn. Her golden-tinged skin glowed through the tissue-thin fabric. Her erect nipple might as well have been entirely revealed, for the chemise was defeated entirely by the fullness of her breast and the excited rigidity of that delightful point.

Fully aware that he was being entirely improper, Orion chanced a look at Francesca's expression. He wanted her, but
he would never distress her with his desire if it was unwelcome.

Her eyes were closed, her full, insanely long lashes at rest upon her creamy cheeks. Her full pink lips were parted softly, as if she'd been interrupted before she could speak. As he gazed down at something rarely seen—a still Francesca!—she allowed her head to fall back slowly in capitulation.

He might not be terribly experienced, but no man had yet been born who did not recognize sexual surrender when he saw it!

Yet he did not immediately rejoin his quest after her breast. For a single long moment, he merely drank in the new and different beauty of her quiescence. How lovely she was, in every way. From the rich luster of her wild dark curls to the rather unexpected sprinkle of freckles upon her nose, she answered every notion he held of desirable femininity—even those he'd never known he had. How could he predict the effect of a teasing grin upon his attention? Or the way her slightly lilted accents would musically please his ear? Or that her scampering energy would lift and regenerate his spirits?

And this. This breathless surrender in his arms? He felt as though something new shone in the world, something that cast brighter lights and darker shadows. New definition sharpened his vision; new heat entered his blood. The way she felt against him—so pliant, so giving, so . . . trusting.

A chill spiral wound through him. She trusted him.

She ought not to. He was not at all convinced that he was a terribly honorable sort of person. He tended more toward the pragmatic approach, and to hell with rules or expectations.

That was as it should be. A scientist who would not sacrifice whatever necessary in the pursuit of knowledge was a poseur and a dilettante.

Yet he found himself sliding that ineffective little sleeve back up her arm, covering that enticing breast, hiding that unbearably delicious nipple behind the sturdy weave of propriety and honor after all.

When he turned her toward him, supporting her relaxed neck with his hand, she blinked her eyes open in confusion. Her dark gaze was confused.

“Why did you stop?” she whispered. “Did you not like what you saw? I happen to know that I have superior breasts. All the women in my family do.”

Orion found himself oddly without words. What should he say? Don't trust me? Don't want me the way that I want you?

Stay away?

He didn't want to say those things. So instead, he slid his hand from where it wrapped about the warm skin of her neck, regretfully enjoying the silk of her hair against his skin, and dropped it to his side.

“Is it my unruly hair?”

Orion opened his mouth to respond to her absurd insecurity just as they heard Sir Geoffrey exit the small laboratory and lock its doors. They went still and silent, watching from behind the draperies as the elderly man shuffled across the room. Orion noticed how, though his mentor's hands no longer shook, his face had gone slack and his posture had loosened, almost as if he were inebriated.

Once the study door was shut and locked, Orion and Francesca found themselves pressed together, faces inches apart, with a new awkwardness between them. Her lovely brown eyes searched his face, but Orion had no answer to give. He gently separated himself from her and opened the drapes.

“I don't understand,” Francesca said, her voice unsteady.

God, how he wanted her. He wanted her so badly, he ached. But the heat of the moment had passed, and there he was, making the honorable choice. It was for Francesca's benefit, was it not?

“Francesca, you are lovely. But this is not proper behavior for a lady. I feel it is my duty to protect you from a poor decision.”

She laughed at him. “You care nothing of propriety and you know it! You kneel at the altar of science, not Society!”

It sounded silly even to his own ears. It wasn't that he was especially defiant of convention—he simply didn't see that it should apply to him. Rules were for people who could not or would not think for themselves.

He slid the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting her there. This beautiful, exotic creature was throwing herself at him, begging him to deliver a good and proper despoiling . . . and he was going to refuse her.

I can't believe I'm going to refuse her
.

He could tell himself it was the honorable choice, but he knew better. The cost was too high. His future career aside, the logical man he had so carefully cultivated could not allow himself to be swayed by anything so irrational, so impetuous. He was
not
one of those impulsive, unrestrained Worthingtons!

This woman was everything he'd fought so hard to escape. She drew him like a force of nature, but he panicked at the whirling chaos of his desire for her.

It had nothing to do with honor. He was motivated by bald-faced fear, and he wasn't strong enough to battle it back.

He eased away from Francesca one step, then two. It was by far the hardest thing he'd ever done. When safely out of reach of her warm hands and sweet lips and full, inviting body, he bobbed an awkward bow. “As flattering as I find your offer, Miss Penrose, I fear I—I require time to ponder your proposal.”

Francesca couldn't believe it. He truly meant to walk away? From her place behind the draperies, she watched the handsome Orion Worthington turn his back on her and disappear into the dark hallway.

She raised her hand to her hair.
It is this damned English damp. I know it is! I must look like Medusa!

*   *   *

“N
O
, I
'LL TAKE
care of any little mess,” Judith informed Pennysmith smoothly. “You know how particular Sir Geoffrey is about his laboratory.”

Pennysmith nodded with his usual minimal respect and turned away. Judith knew that the man was thinking he'd be delighted to point at Judith, were there any later protests of disorder.

Pennysmith was a bit of an ass.

Just to prove that there was nothing in the laboratory worth worrying about, Judith made sure she was seen walking to the outbuilding in the morning sunlight with nothing but a handful of cleaning cloths.
Yes, that's right. I'm simply heading out for a little meditative dusting and sorting.

Once inside the lab, she locked the door behind her.

She'd taken a deep breath before entering. Now, holding it, she picked up her skirts and ran to open every window in the lab. By the time she'd finished, the acrid air was clearing enough that she felt able to face the chaos.

It was as if an ape and an elephant had fought for their lives in the middle of the laboratory. Shattered glass crunched beneath her feet. The acid had sprayed over a large area. Luckily, most of what it had struck had been the stone floor and the marble tabletops. The acid would have eaten through wood with no problem. The stone was merely scarred and pitted, although in some areas quite deeply.

It looked to be a very long night of sanding and scraping the tables and floor.

For the merest moment, Judith allowed her shoulders to sag in weary defeat. There was no one to see her eyes close upon incipient tears. There was no one to hear the long sigh she let slip through her lips.

After approximately thirty seconds of such self-indulgence, Judith straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “No time to sit in a corner and cry,” she murmured to herself.

She could have enlisted the help of the staff, but none of them would dare keep a secret from their master. Life in Blayne House would become even more unbearable if Sir Geoffrey ever realized the full truth of what the children had done to his laboratory.

Sweeping up the millions of tiny shards of glass was the easy part.

In a cupboard tucked back behind the shelves of chemicals, Judith kept her true cleaning things. This was hardly the first time she'd had to erase a disaster. Thankfully, Papa rarely worked in the laboratory himself anymore. He'd never said a word to her, but she knew he no longer felt truly able.

Usually, his laboratory assistants were more tidy—but nothing had truly been tidy since Cousin Francesca had arrived.

As Judith tied a voluminous canvas apron over her gown and gathered up the scrubbing sand and brushes for the stone surfaces, she allowed herself a moment of uncharitable resentment toward Francesca. Before her lively cousin had arrived, Judith had managed to firmly lock away the spirited girl she had once been. There had been no time for frivolity since Mama passed.

Judith had once loved to draw and paint and read silly novels, like most girls. That seemed a hundred years ago. Now her life was lived for Papa, who was an exacting taskmaster. Her duties as his housekeeper and hostess and laboratory assistant and general minion required Judith's fullest attention.

And now the pitted tabletop did as well. Judith put on a pair of leather gloves and set about restoring the high polish with sand and a sanding stone. The gritty work took strength and stamina. There was no point in wasting another moment on what might have been.

*   *   *

W
HENEVER
O
RION REACHED
an impasse in his scientific pursuits and was torn as to which way to turn, it simply meant
he did not have enough information to make a decision. Additional research was required. So it was with the Francesca dilemma. After spending the entire day in silent debate with himself—while he was supposed to be moving on to the next stage of the experiment—he had decided enough was enough.

Dithering was foreign to his nature, and he had had his fill. Besides, if he stepped back and informed himself further, he would not be acting impulsively, would he? He had clearly reached the limit of his knowledge of the science of coitus and needed additional information before he proceeded. And where did one go to research romantic liaisons? Why, to an expert, of course!

His restlessness compelled him to walk, rather than call forth Sir Geoffrey's driver. There was no reason for his mentor to know of this business.

It was an uninviting evening. A chill rose from the direction of the Thames, and the London streets already grew dusky, in spite of the long days of early summer.

Not that there was anything particularly outré about his destination. Just a visit to an old friend.

In deciding upon the best course of action regarding the distracting Miss Francesca Penrose, Orion didn't want to involve his family, but there was someone who would not judge such an unconventional solution—family friend and gown designer Lementeur, fondly known as Mr. Button. Button had a long history of putting lovers together. Iris said it was because he favored making wedding gowns over any other sort.

There was no sign above Lementeur's establishment, no address or advertising needed. If one didn't know where he was, one couldn't afford him, anyway.

Once he was past the ornately carved door, Lementeur's boutique seemed far too quiet. Not that the unearthly Cabot had been a noisy sort—he had always just been there, as Button's guardian, companion, and creative sounding board.

Orion found Button holed up in his tiny cluttered office.
He looked rather small, sitting tailor-fashion in the center of the floor, surrounded by more mess than seemed usual.

By the look of things, a golden bomb had exploded. Shimmering gold silk fabric was heaped here and there, ethereal gold chiffon ribbon unspooled across Button's lap, while over one shoulder dangled strings of pearls with a secretive golden flush.

The mess reminded Orion rather startlingly of Francesca, of the shimmer of summer sunlight in her brown eyes and the kiss of Mediterranean glow upon her skin.

“What ho, Button?”

Button looked up and blinked at Orion. For a moment his shadowed gaze looked confused, as if he had been a hundred miles away. Then his weary face crinkled in a welcoming smile.

Just as quickly, he frowned, squinting at Orion's brown coat. “Why are you wearing that old thing? What happened to the marvelous blue one I made up for your new position at Blayne House?”

It had been a very nice surcoat, but then, Button always saw to it that the Worthingtons made a dashing sight despite their impoverishment. He called it advertising. Archie and Iris seemed to consider it a perfectly fair arrangement, although their children did not know precisely why.

Orion made a slight face. “Two words. ‘Acid' and ‘Attie.'” He turned his head to one side and tugged his loosely tied cravat down a bit to show the minor burns on his neck. “We made it out alive. Your coat saved me, as you can see.”

Button blinked. “Then it died an honorable death.” He let out a sigh. “You Worthingtons do run through your garments.” However, the twinkle in his eyes belied his criticism. “Lives lived livelier, I suppose.”

Orion didn't bother denying that he was anything like the rest of his clan. Not when he was here to beg advice on something decidedly against the grain of Society. “I have a problem.” He took a deep breath. “I want a woman.”

Button listened to Orion's case, both for and against an affair with Miss Penrose. His pale blue eyes were wide but entirely without condemnation.