A Study In Seduction

chapter Twenty




Pencil marks, notes, and scribbled equations marred the pages of her notebook. Lydia leafed through them, attempting to muster the desire to pursue her ideas, to prove that Alexander was wrong. She could quantify love. She could explain attraction through a differential equation, could establish patterns of intimacy.

She just no longer wanted to.

She looked at all the notes she’d made about Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere, Helen and Paris, Petrarch and Laura. Her equations could never explain the one common element of those relationships—the fact that none of them ended well. For all their passion and emotions and desire, none of the couples lived a joyful, fulfilling life together.

So dr/dt = a11 r + a12 j mattered not a whit since, ultimately, it equaled unhappiness. Not to mention a frequent untimely death.

I propose, Miss Kellaway, that you throw your infernal notebook into the fire and leave me the bloody hell alone.

A faint smile tugged at Lydia’s mouth. She snapped the notebook closed and stared at the fire. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the notebook into the flames.

It fell open, pages fluttering in the heat before the paper caught and began to burn. Her writings, her numbers, her equations, blackened and curled in the fire.

She watched until the book burned to ashes. A sense of freedom spun through her. She’d get another notebook—she was, after all, a mathematician to the bone—but no longer would she devote her time and intellect to fictional relationships that ended in tragedy.

Life was too valuable, love too precious, to be measured.

She turned away and swiped at a stray tear. When Alexander had first held the door open for her all those weeks ago, she hadn’t imagined so many subsequent doors would open as well. Without him, she never would have ventured forth again. Not in mathematics. Not in life. Certainly not in love.

She tried to imagine agreeing to his suggestion, presenting her ideas to an audience of her colleagues. Her prime number theorem or the lemma of—

Oh, Lydia. Stop being foolish. What have you been telling Alexander all this time?

Strengthening her resolve, Lydia brushed off her skirts and went upstairs to the schoolroom. Jane stood beside the fern near the window, a metal apparatus in one hand, while their grandmother busied herself organizing Jane’s books.

“It’s looking lovely.” Lydia stopped to examine the fern, which had grown green and lush in the past few weeks. “What is that?”

“It mists water onto the fronds. Lord Rushton told me how to care for it.” Jane put the bell glass back over the plant and turned away. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought we might go over long division again.”

“I’ve actually got something else to do.” Jane dropped the apparatus onto the windowsill and left the room.

“Is she all right?” Lydia asked Mrs. Boyd.

“As far as I know, yes. Why?”

“I’ve hardly seen her since I returned from Floreston Manor.” Lydia frowned. “You don’t suppose she’s upset that she wasn’t able to come along?”

“I shouldn’t think so.” Mrs. Boyd straightened from the bookshelf and dusted her hands. “I told her she could accompany you the next time you go.”

Lydia’s heart lurched. “What… what makes you think there will be a next time?”

“Of course there will be.” Her grandmother stacked a pile of books on the table, then bent to retrieve several folded papers that fell to the floor. “Lord Northwood didn’t ask you to his country estate because he wished to end your relationship.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did he?”

Lydia’s throat tightened. She shook her head.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Boyd said. She glanced at the papers and replaced them on the shelf. “I must say, Lydia, I never imagined things would come to this when you went to retrieve that locket. Have you gotten it back, by the way?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. All the more reason to keep his lordship’s acquaintance.” Mrs. Boyd’s lips curved into a smile. “Had I known this would happen, I might have pawned the foolish thing years ago.”

She swept the books into her arms and left the room. Lydia went to the window, staring down at the street, where wagons and pedestrians passed.

She couldn’t find it in her to be indignant over her grandmother’s attitude. Despite Charlotte Boyd’s manipulations, she had always wanted the best for Lydia. Like Alexander, her father and grandmother had always believed in her abilities, her intelligence. They believed she had something important to offer the world.

The difference was that Alexander also wanted her to believe in herself. Because he loved her. He loved her in ways she had never been loved before, in ways she hadn’t even known existed.

Longing sliced through her, cutting through thick layers of resistance. She couldn’t stop herself from envisioning what her life would be like if her wishes came true.

She sank into a chair by the window, resting her forehead against her hand. She would be Alexander’s wife, she would stand before a crowded lecture hall to explain her theories, she would pour her heart out to Jane and give the girl everything Lydia never had. She would be free—mind, body, soul.

Perhaps one day…

The little whisper of her heart brought tears to her eyes because her mind knew that one day would never come. Never.


Enough.

Alexander flexed his fingers in an effort to ease the tension hardening his every muscle. He’d worked too hard for everything—the Society, the exhibition, his family, his company—and it was all slipping from his control. He would not allow the same to happen with Lydia.

With unshakeable resolve, he descended the carriage on East Street. The housekeeper answered the door of the town house, her eyes widening at the sight of him.

“Lord Northwood! We weren’t expecting your—”

“Never mind, Mrs. Driscoll. Is Mrs. Boyd at home?”

“Yes, milord, she’s in the morning room.”

“Good. Tell her I am here.”

“One moment, please, yer lordship. Miss Kellaway is—”

“At St. Martin’s Hall. I know.”

“Just a moment, then, milord.” Mrs. Driscoll scurried off.

Alexander waited impatiently before she returned to usher him into the morning room. Mrs. Boyd stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt as she approached. She had an imperial quality that he admired, and he intended to use her calculated interest in him to his advantage.

“Lord Northwood, to what do I owe this honor?”

“Mrs. Boyd, has Lydia spoken to you regarding my intentions?”

“Your intentions?” A gleam of interest appeared in her eyes. “No, my lord. Might I inquire as to what they might be?”

“I requested her hand in marriage when she visited Floreston Manor.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened, her hand going to her throat. “Oh, Lord Northwood, I had no idea. Lydia never said anything to me.”

Alexander paced to the windows and back. “Perhaps because she refused the offer.”

“She refused?”

“Yes, but she gave me no satisfactory reason for doing so.”

“I’m sorry, my lord.” Mrs. Boyd’s fingers trembled a bit as she brushed a lock of white hair from her forehead. “I’ve no idea what to say, except that clearly my granddaughter has behaved in a very foolish manner.”

“Quite contrary to her usual nature,” Alexander agreed. “And I must explain that I told Lydia she can continue her work, that she will lack for nothing. You may be assured I will take both you and Jane under my protection as well.”

“I’m deeply obliged to you, my lord. I… May I ask if the offer still stands?”

“For one more week, yes, though Lydia gives no indication of changing her mind.”

“This is why you’ve come to me?”

“I hope you might be able to talk some sense into her.”

“My lord, please have patience. Lydia is… different, you know. She always has been. She did not have a normal childhood, though of course she would make an excellent wife and do nothing to—”

Alexander held up a hand. “You needn’t vouch for Lydia, Mrs. Boyd. I am well aware of her qualities.”

He paused as the truth of the statement struck him. Everything about Lydia complemented him—her intelligence, her wit, her passion. Even her stubbornness suited his nature, as if it were a gentler echo of his own inflexibility. And her genuine goodness, her kindness, reminded him with every heartbeat of what he should strive to be.

“Lydia has many traits that I deeply admire,” he continued. “However, my offer does not stand much longer.”

“Of course not. I’ll speak with Lydia straightaway, my lord. Thank you ever so much. You honor our family with your consideration.”

Alexander took his leave and returned to the foyer. As he was putting on his coat, he stopped and glanced toward the stairs. Jane stood on the bottom step, her hand curled around the newel post.

Alexander straightened and buttoned his coat.

“Did you mean it, my lord?” Her voice quavered. “You really want to marry Lydia?”

He nodded and approached her. Her green eyes swam with tears, which made him uncertain what to do.

“You dislike the idea of me marrying your sister?” he asked.

Her tears spilled over. She shook her head.

“Then what is it?”

Her chest hitched as she swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Alexander gave her shoulder an awkward pat, discomfited by her reaction. He suspected Jane couldn’t imagine someone taking Lydia away from her, that the very idea caused her pain.

“You would continue to see Lydia as often as you like,” he said.

She sniffled.

Alexander reached into his breast pocket and removed the locket. He took Jane’s hand and put the necklace in her palm, closing her small fingers around it. “This belongs to you. Lydia always intended for you to have it. If she does accept my offer, I’ll be most pleased to have you as a sister-in-law.”

Jane’s fingers tightened on the locket as a fresh course of tears spilled down her pale cheeks.

“It’s not that I dislike the idea of you marrying Lydia.” She gulped. “It’s that I don’t want her to marry you.”

She turned and ran up the stairs, leaving Alexander staring after her in utter bewilderment.