A Study In Seduction

chapter Thirteen




Floreston Manor sat nestled among the hills of Devon, the grounds spreading out from the house like a vast green ocean. The ivy-covered brick-and-stone house appeared well suited to the landscape, as if the two were a married couple living out their years in peace and happiness. Spring blossoms perfumed the air.

Alexander breathed in the clean, fresh scent as he followed his father from the carriage onto the circular drive.

“Is the girl coming along? Jane?”

Alexander looked at Rushton in surprise. “No, she’s staying in London with her grandmother.”

The earl made a noise that sounded like displeasure.

“How do you know Jane?” Alexander asked.

“Met her when she came for a lesson with your brother. Pleasant girl. Bit interfering, but clever enough.”

“One might say the same of her sister.”

He and Rushton exchanged glances; then they both chuckled. A knot loosened at the base of Alexander’s neck as they walked toward the manor, where a line of staff stood waiting to greet them. The place was ready and gleaming for their arrival.

“Isn’t Lady Talia to have come as well?” the housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers, asked with a worried air.

“She’s arriving on a later train with Miss Kellaway, Sebastian, and Lord Castleford,” Alexander explained. “They’ll be here in time for supper.”

He preceded his father into the drawing room. They both stopped as a large portrait of Lady Rushton looked down at them from above the mantel. The image was one of cold beauty, the woman’s eyebrows arched, her mouth curved into a hard smile.

Rushton coughed. “Have Weavers remove that at once. Any others as well.”

Alexander went to convey the request to the butler. When he returned, his father was pouring two glasses of sherry at the sideboard.

“Not like her, is she?” Rushton asked without turning. “Miss Kellaway. Not like your mother.”

“God, no.” Alexander spoke before thinking. His mother had been beautiful in a cold, detached way, like a pane of stained glass against an empty wall. No warmth, no light, no illuminated colors shone through. In all his years, Alexander rarely had the sense there was more to his mother than her beauty and manners.

But with Lydia… he thought forever would not be long enough for him to discover the depths of her complexity, her inner life.

“Not like Chilton’s daughter either?” Rushton asked.

A humorless laugh stuck in Alexander’s throat. “No. She is not.”

A speculative gleam entered Rushton’s expression. That, combined with the line of questioning, caused a rustle of both anticipation and apprehension in Alexander.

“Sir Henry was a good man, if I recall,” Rushton continued.

“He was.”

“Owned no properties but was well regarded as a scholar. No scandals in the family, except for the mother…” Rushton’s voice trailed off as he shook his head. “Brackwell recalls her having been rather daft.”

At least she didn’t run off with another man.

“Mrs. Kellaway’s illness was a misfortune,” Alexander said. “Difficult for both her daughters.”

An image of Lydia and her sister came to Alexander’s mind—their almost identical smiles, the sharp intelligence in their eyes, their tangible affection. The way Jane seemed to absorb everything around her, filled with endless curiosity, whereas Lydia approached the world with caution, guarding herself against it.

Rushton reached for the decanter and refilled his glass. “What is she like?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Miss Kellaway. Not like your mother, you say. Not like Chilton’s chit. So what—or who—is she like?”

“She’s like… like no one I’ve ever met.”

Alexander didn’t even know how to explain Lydia to himself, let alone to his father. In the past weeks, she’d slipped far beneath his skin. He couldn’t stop thinking of her haunted blue eyes, the seething frustration in her kiss, the way she’d responded to him. His need to touch her was becoming a physical ache.

And the feelings she roused in him—a maddening combination of lust, tenderness, affection, fascination, a near-overwhelming protectiveness…

He flexed his fingers, resisting with effort the urge to stand and begin pacing.

“Do you find her interesting enough to sustain a marriage?” Rushton asked.

More than that. Alexander found her interesting enough to sustain him. He’d never imagined he would find a woman he could marry for reasons beyond what was expected of him. For reasons that were his alone.

And while he knew to his bones he wanted to make Lydia his wife, he wasn’t yet prepared to confess his intentions to his father.

“What makes you think I’ve got marriage in mind?” he asked.

Rushton laughed. To Alexander, it was a foreign sound, one he’d heard little throughout his life.

“I’m getting old, Northwood,” Rushton replied, “but I’m not a fool.”


When she arrived at Floreston Manor with Talia, Sebastian, and Lord Castleford, Lydia was enraptured by the beauty of the estate and the countryside. The bright, flower-filled house and fresh air seemed to wash away the grime and noise of London. Lydia thought it might even lessen the shadows clinging to her heart.

As she stood on the terrace looking over the vast grounds, she decided that for the next three days she would enjoy herself. She wanted to walk along the riverbank, pick flowers, breathe the sweet-smelling air, feel the sun warming her face.

“Lydia!” Talia called. “Have you seen your room? Come along, I’ll show you. Sam has already brought up your things. It’s the nicest room in the house, really.”

With a lighter heart, Lydia followed the younger woman inside. Being back at Floreston Manor also brightened Talia’s entire demeanor, and she rushed around issuing orders, ensuring her guests were well situated, and conferring with the housekeeper about the weekend’s menus.

The men had the good sense to stay out of the way—Rushton disappeared into the garden, Castleford went off to check on the stables, and Sebastian took the buggy into the village.

After Talia declined her offer of assistance, Lydia sat on the sofa in the upstairs study, her head down as she wrote in her notebook.

“Why are you always carrying that thing?” Northwood asked.

“Because if I don’t write down my ideas as they come to me, I fear they’ll come out my ears.” Lydia looked up and smiled as he stepped into the room.

Not returning her smile, he gestured to the book. “What is it this time?”

“Wha—Oh. One of the papers I’m working on relates to the dimensions of the roots of equations. When we were on the train, I had the idea that the theorem might be simplified by the extrication of a lemma.” She studied her book. “That is, if the lemma were to give all the values of r… it could represent the dimensions of the roots.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know. And that’s rather gratifying.” Lydia closed the book. “Though I suppose it’s impolite to work when I’ve been invited here as a guest. The manor is lovely, my lord. Thank you again for the invitation.”

He was still frowning at her. Apparently the travel hadn’t done his temper any good.

“Why are you in such an ill humor?” she asked. “Will a walk in the garden lighten your mood?”

She rose to pass him and, as she did, he turned to her so suddenly that Lydia took a step backward and came up against the wall. Before she could move aside, he put his hands on either side of her, trapping her between the wall and his body.

Lydia gasped, her gaze flying to the study door, which stood half open.

“No one is near,” Northwood murmured.

He shifted his hips against her, making her pulse stutter. “Still, you… you must release me.”

“Make me laugh, and I will.” His lips touched her temple.

“What?”

“Make me laugh, lighten my humor, and I’ll release you.”

Make him laugh? Despite her remark, she wasn’t exactly a fountain of hilarity.

Lydia searched her brain for an amusing anecdote. She could think of theorems and proofs with no effort at all—surely some witticism or conundrum would spring to the surface.

“I’m waiting.” Northwood shifted against her again, his knee beginning to push between hers. Lydia flushed, curving her hands around his forearms as she fought the urge to allow him access, to press herself against the hard length of his thigh.

“At what time was Adam married?” she blurted.

“Adam who?”

“Adam. The first man. Adam.”

“Oh.” Northwood lifted a brow. “At what time was he married?”

“Upon his wedding Eve.” She gave him a weak smile.

Not a spark of amusement flashed in his eyes. He shook his head. His knee pressed with more insistence, causing her legs to part. Air wafted up beneath her skirt and petticoats. She shuddered.

“What…” Her breath caught. Her mind whirled. “What… er… what is the proper length of a lady’s skirt?”

“What?”

“A little above two feet.”

“Hmm. Not funny. Not true, either.” His hands fisted in the folds of her skirt, his eyes darkening. “The proper length is well above her knees, as far as I’m concerned.”

Oh good heavens. He was drawing her skirt up, and her petticoats along with it. The material of his trousers brushed against her calves, his knee sliding upward between her thighs. Heat bloomed through her, a tightness centering in her sex and making her want to writhe against him.

She swallowed. Some faint but still rational part of her mind reminded her anyone could walk into the study.

“What…” She squirmed, trying to avoid the insistent caress of his leg. “What is that which can be right but never wrong?”

“An angle,” he replied. His lips skimmed her forehead. Her skin tingled.

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Me.”

He laughed. His eyes creased at the corners, his teeth flashing white in the pale light of the sun coming through the windows. The deep laugh rumbled through his chest, causing a shiver of pleasure to ripple over her.

“You… you ought to release me now.” Lydia tried to bring her legs together, tried to quell the intense arousal that this man could spark with a mere touch.

Amusement still glinted in his eyes as he gave a slow nod, the movement bringing his lips in line with hers.

“You’re right,” he murmured the instant before his mouth met hers.

Although her mind warned her against it, Lydia sank into the kiss as if nothing else mattered. And in that moment, nothing did. His tongue caressed hers, his teeth sliding across her lower lip. She drew in a breath as her pulse began a low, heavy throb that echoed in her head.

She curled her hands around Northwood’s arms, pressed herself down onto his hard thigh, felt his fingers digging into the stiff lines of her corset. A tremble ran through his body. His knee shifted, his thigh beginning to rub against her with delicious friction.

Then without warning he was moving away from her, his palms smoothing down her skirts as he positioned himself between her and the study door. Lady Talia’s voice began to penetrate Lydia’s fog of desire.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks, attempting to regain her composure. Northwood leaned toward her, putting his mouth close to her ear, one large hand sliding beneath her breast.

“Why is a good woman like dough?” he whispered.

“Why—”

“Because a man kneads her.” His lips touched her ear before he moved away, his dark eyes filled with a combination of humor and desire. “And make no mistake. You are a good woman.”

Lydia pulled herself from his grip so swiftly that her heel caught on the edge of a rug. She grasped the back of a chair to steady herself, all amusement evaporating like steam.

“As you once told me, Lord Northwood,” she said, “it’s dangerous to make such assumptions.”

“That, Miss Kellaway, was not an assumption.”


Dear Jane,

Hah, I’ve perplexed you, haven’t I? Did you ask your sister for help? Though I suppose that might be a bit like cheating, considering her apparent talent for numbers.

Don’t feel badly that you haven’t got the same facility as Lydia—not everyone is capable of grasping certain concepts with ease. I’d wager that she doesn’t see the insect world in quite the same way as you do, which is rather unique.

Sincerely,

C


Jane lowered the letter. She looked out the rain-spattered window, down at the street, where pedestrians bustled back and forth, umbrellas blooming like mushrooms. A damp bird flitted onto the surface of the iron fence across the way.

Jane’s fingers tightened on the letter. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember if she’d ever told C her sister’s name.