Now she had his attention. His gaze sharpened. “Five hundred guineas?”
“Yes. That’s the prize for the best presentation. If you take me there and help present my findings to the Society, you can keep it all. Five hundred guineas would be sufficient to keep you drunk and debauched in London until your birthday, I should hope?”
He nodded. “With a bit of judicious budgeting. I might have to hold off on new boots, but one must make some sacrifices.” He came to his feet, confronting her face-to-face. “Here’s the wrinkle, however. How could you be certain of winning the prize?”
“I’ll win. I could explain my findings to you in detail, but a great many polysyllabic words would be involved. I’m not sure you’re up to them just now. Suffice it to say, I’m certain.”
He gave her a searching look, and Minerva marshaled the strength to hold it. Level, confident, unblinking.
After a moment, his eyes warmed with an unfamiliar glimmer. Here was an emotion she’d never seen from him before.
She thought it might be . . . respect.
“Well,” he said. “Certainty becomes you.”
Her heart gave a queer flutter. It was the nicest thing he’d ever said to her. She thought it might be the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.
Certainty becomes you.
And suddenly, things were different. The ounce of wine she’d swallowed unfurled in her belly, warming and relaxing her. Melting away her awkwardness. She felt comfortable in her surroundings, and more than a little worldly. As though this were the most natural thing in the world, to be having a midnight conversation in a turret with a half-dressed rake.
She settled languidly into the armchair and raised her hands to her hair, finding and plucking loose her few remaining pins. With slow, dreamy motions, she finger-combed the wet locks and arranged them about her shoulders, the better to dry evenly.
He stood and watched her for a moment. Then he went to pour more wine.
A sensuous ribbon of claret swirled into the glass. “Mind, I’m not agreeing to this scheme. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But just for the sake of argument, how did you see this proceeding, exactly? One morning, we’d just up and leave for London together?”
“No, not London. The symposium is in Edinburgh.”
“Edinburgh.” Bottle met table with a clunk. “The Edinburgh in Scotland.”
She nodded.
“I thought you said this was the Royal Geological Society.”
“It is.” She waved the journal at him. “The Royal Geological Society of Scotland. Didn’t you know? Edinburgh’s where all the most interesting scholarship happens.”
Crossing back to her, he peered at the journal. “For God’s sake, this takes place less than a fortnight from now. Marietta, don’t you realize what a journey to Scotland entails? You’re talking about two weeks’ travel, at the minimum.”
“It’s four days from London on the mail coach. I’ve checked.”
“The mail coach? Pet, a viscount does not travel on the mail coach.” He shook his head, sitting across from her. “And how is your dear mother going to take this news, when she finds you’ve absconded to Scotland with a scandalous lord?”
“Oh, she’ll be thrilled. So long as one of her daughters marries you, she won’t be particular.” Minerva eased her feet from her wet, muddy boots and drew her legs up beneath her skirts, tucking her chilled heels under her backside. “It’s perfect, don’t you see? We’ll stage it as an elopement. My mother won’t raise any protest, and neither will Lord Rycliff. He’ll be only too happy to think you’re marrying at last. We’ll travel to Scotland, present my findings, collect the prize. Then we’ll tell everyone it simply didn’t work out.”
The more she explained her ideas, the easier the words sprang to her lips and the more excited she grew. This could work. It could really, truly work.
“So you’ll just return to Spindle Cove unmarried, after weeks of travel with me? Don’t you realize you’d be . . .”
“Ruined in good society? I know.” She looked into the roaring fire. “I’m willing to accept that fate. I had no desire for a society marriage, anyhow.” No hopes of one, to put it finely. She didn’t relish the thought of scandal and gossip. But could it really be so much worse to be cut off from fashionable society than to feel forever squeezed to its margins?
“But what of your sisters? They’ll be tainted by association.”
His remark gave her pause. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about this possibility. To the contrary, she’d considered it very carefully.