And then it all made sense. Would have sooner, had he not been so blind to the possibilities.
Edison slapped a hand to his forehead. “A Templeton.” He shook his head at his own stupidity. “It’s not Archie or Alastair or Adam. It’s you.”
“Congratulations on that monumental piece of mental agility.” The sarcasm in her voice would have sliced a lesser man to ribbons. “Why I should be surprised after all this time, I have no earthly idea.”
“My apologies.” Chagrined, Edison offered a deep bow.
That was his next mistake.
The instant he took his eyes off her, Miss A Templeton launched a beaker of tan liquid straight at him.
He ducked, but not soon enough. The stream hit him full in the face just before the glass bounced off his temple and crashed to the floor and shattered.
He braced for the pain, imagining the chemicals penetrating his skin, setting nerve endings aflame.
While he swiped the liquid from his eyes, she darted out the door and disappeared into the shadows.
There was no pain.
No searing agony.
He sniffed at the cuff of his overcoat. Tea. The damned wench had attacked him with a pot of cold tea.
He lunged after her, slowed only by the wide grin that split his face. Miss A Templeton was becoming a delightful distraction.
*
Ada raced across the dark lawn.
He could easily run her to ground. She had no illusions about that. The man looked strong and fit, and he’d already demonstrated an uncanny quickness.
Her lungs burned. The yard had never seemed so large, the back of the house—safety—so far away.
If she could have spared the breath, she might have laughed. There wasn’t much in the way of safety to be found inside. Stooped with age and nearly deaf, her butler, Beecham, would be snoring away in his bed. She could scream to roust Cook, or the young maids, but they’d be frightened to death, and truly, her assailant could make short work of the lot of them, should he wish.
To say nothing of Grandmama. He’d scare her out of her wits.
No, she didn’t dare bring a household full of defenseless women to his attention.
Adrenaline shot through her, making her knees wobble. Her toe caught on the hem of her old dress. She stumbled forward, but managed to keep her feet beneath her. Nothing registered over her own ragged breathing, though she knew he was behind her, eating up the space between them with quick, powerful steps.
She pumped her arms hard, surging forward, trying to ignore the way her corset squeezed her expanding lungs. If only she could make the terrace. Once in the library, she could grab something—a lamp, a book, Harrison’s brass clock—to cosh him with, should he dare follow her inside.
The man was a thief—obviously—but she’d sensed a strange decency. Perhaps he’d be loath to terrify her entire household.
She’d almost reached the terrace when he caught her.
An arm slipped around her waist, pulling her tight against his hard form. One instance she was running for her life, the next she was wrapped in a bear hug and swept straight off her feet, her body pitching toward the ground. She braced for the impact, but at the last moment he twisted her aside and landed on his back, absorbing the energy of their fall.
Before she could scramble off of him, he flipped her facedown on the lawn, his hard, warm body pressing her into the cold grass. It seemed futile beneath his great weight, but she couldn’t stop herself from struggling.
He didn’t speak, didn’t make a sound. Not a grunt, not a threat, nothing to suggest it took any effort to hold her down. He simply blanketed her with his superior weight and allowed her to exhaust herself, much like a fish struggling in a net, though she didn’t much care for the comparison.
Finally, it occurred to her she’d be better off conserving her strength, and she stilled.
Which presented new dangers.
The man was strong and warm. He smelled of soap and wool. She could measure each slow, even breath he took by the way his hard stomach pressed against her back with each inhale. Thank God her bustle saved her from the feel of his more… masculine parts.
“You seem a logical sort,” he murmured close to her ear once she’d stilled beneath him. “I was hoping we could talk about this.”
The scathing set down she fashioned morphed into a pathetic squeak somewhere between her lungs and her mouth. She wanted to think it was the weight of him smashing her into the ground. It couldn’t be the breathless sense of shock his touch created.
Because she was immune to that.
At her squeak, he shifted much of his weight off of her, thought he still covered her from shoulders to toes.
Ada lifted her head and stared at the back of the house, willing Beecham—or Grandmama even—to thrust aside the curtain and check the yard.
Not a drape twitched. The house appeared as barren as the cold, dark yard. There were no crickets, no owls, not even a lonely alley cat to cut the silence.
Just her splayed out across the lawn beneath a perfect stranger.
She pressed her forehead into the icy grass. It was enough to make her wish she’d never pursued her love of chemistry. Had she not spent so many years buried in her laboratory, not allowed herself to focus so singularly on learning everything there was to know about electro-chemical energy, it wouldn’t have come to this.
Never would she have guessed her contribution to the field would end with her spread-eagled beneath some criminal.
She dug her fingers into the thick grass, squeezing the blades between her fingers before yanking them up by their roots. A criminal who had the ability to inflame her body, to set off its own cascade of chemical reactions she was powerless to dampen.
Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes, which only stoked her anger. She was no watering pot. She’d endured incessant patronizing, constant disbelieve, unrelieved ridicule, all without shedding a single tear. She wouldn’t start now. Not when she was so very close to the respect she deserved.
She opened her fists, dropping the handfuls of grass, and ruthlessly blinked the moisture away.
“It’s Aurelia, isn’t it?” His soft breath tickled her ear, sending a jolt of awareness all the way to the tips of her toes.
She squirmed beneath him. How could a complete stranger affect her so?
“Amelia.” His breath stirred the hair at her temple, making her wonder what his lips would feel like touching hers. “Adelaide. No, not Adelaide. Augusta? Annabelle?”
His voice was deep, and ever so compelling. She could feel it—actually feel it—rumbling from his chest through hers, setting off a disturbing cascade of hormonal fireworks.
And that wasn’t the worst of it. His lips were a finger’s width from her ear. If she turned her head, they’d brush the sensitive edge. Even the thought made her breath hitch in her throat.
She had to stop the exquisite torture before she did something outrageously foolish.
“Ada,” she admitted.
“Ada.” He paused, as if savoring the taste of it. “I’m Edison. Edison Sweet.”