Chapter 1
Leicestershire, England 1779
Anthony Rutland hated being late as much as he loathed disorder. He rounded the arborvitae hedgerow bordering his laboratory. The door banged open in the wind. A vein pulsed in his neck. Other than his lab assistant, George, who had been missing for three days, no one dared to cross the threshold. An intruder? There had been problems in the past with unknown enemies of the Rutland family. Flasks banged. Burettes clinked. The intruder was not concerned about making noise.
George would never be so careless. Although lackluster in aptitude, the man understood Anthony’s perfectionism in maintaining the lab’s organization and was the only assistant who had stayed with him for more than six months. Since George’s absence, Anthony’s lab mushroomed into chaos. Given that his assistant was not the kind to venture off, a niggling crept up his spine. He clenched his hand. To put his fist through someone’s face appealed. The velocity, the impact of that collision, and then the end result to his hand would no doubt present an exercise in futility and would further delay his entrance into the Royal Society of Science for un-gentlemanly behavior.
Anthony entered his inner sanctum. His eyes widened. The most exquisite woman he’d ever seen stood in a triangle of light, washing his lab equipment. His breath stalled, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He assessed the statistical odds that nature could improve upon perfection. None.
What must have been five pounds of wild, rich auburn hair was swept atop her in a gentle swirl and cascaded in a mass of loose ringlets. Errant tendrils escaped and he found that flaw enhanced what nature had delivered. Her nose was straight, delicately boned, and her skin was pinkened by the sun—as if the girl cared more for health than a fashionably pale complexion.
She stretched, reached back, massaging her spine. The outline of rounded breasts strained heavily against silk, the effect more than a simple provocation and yielded an act of war on his senses. His anatomy, like a compass, pointed stiffly north. What was the likelihood of his physical reaction? If probability equals one, an event will almost occur and definitely had occurred.
Females rarely captured his attention, even his late wife whom he had married out of duty had failed to hold his interest. He had not loved her, didn’t know if he was capable of that emotion. Celeste had been skittish and had begged to postpone their wedding night. Too involved in his work, Anthony had honored her request. The marriage lasted two weeks before she broke her neck. If he had spent more time with her…she’d be alive. For four years he wrestled with the guilt for not protecting his wife.
He had tried to blend into the world and the disappointment of attempting to mix into humanity yielded a terrifying reality. He was doomed to be alone in the universe. He cultivated that loneliness, night and day immersed in his work, allowing the loneliness to tunnel into his soul. Long ago, he had given up hope of finding someone who would understand him, someone to fill that space. Unlike his brothers, who had dallied with women, Anthony lost himself in his lust for science and discovery. Not that an impudent maid hadn’t thrown herself at him, but at thirty years of age, he was burdened with an unhappy consequence. He was a virgin.
But now with a complete stranger, all manner of wicked thoughts filled his brain. Would her hair feel soft and silky in his fingers, would her lips yield willingly under his, would she… He shook his head. How absurd? He was a scientist, not a randy adolescent boy.
Bottles straight, counters wiped, his lab had been cleaned, polished and organized. Never before had he seen such industry even in the best of his lab assistants. With reverence she employed a feather duster, her hands, dictating a soft swish over glass bottles. How would those same hands feel stroking his body? Where did that idea come from? She picked up a notebook. Humming a tune while she read, the vibrations from her vocal cords radiated a soft moan of pleasure and desire that flowed over him like rich warm cream. He could watch her thumb through the pages all day.
Reading? Like a condor off the Pyrenees, Anthony swooped down and slammed his notebook shut. “How dare you read my private notes?”
Her hand flew to her chest, knocking a bottle off the cabinet. Glass shattered and splintered. She stooped to pick up the pieces. “I’m so sorry.”
“That was one of my most expensive Flemish flasks,” he growled, hovering over the woman. Her creamy skin reddened. He clenched his jaw. Wasn’t her fault he couldn’t get a grip on his lust.
“You don’t have to gnash your teeth. I was trying to help,” she said.
Her accent was unusual, clipped, and wild. Definitely American, a Yank. Her unfortunate circumstance was her place of birth. He couldn’t hold her place of birth against her. Weren’t all Americans an unruly, boorish lot with minimal education and un-refined thinking? “It will be months and costly to replace, not to mention that I need it now.”
“I will pay for it.”
Her voice, soft yet defiant, robbed him of his anger. He raked his fingers through his hair. He was a brute, knew it, but was unable to erase the unease over his absent assistant, and further, why was a Colonial woman… “Who gave you permission to enter my laboratory?”
“Your father.”
Did her chin actually lift a notch? “My father would never−”
“I did,” the duke answered, his words slow and meticulous as he strolled in and sat on a stool. His posture translated serious business.
When was the last time his father had turned up in his laboratory?
“Anthony, this is Miss Rachel Thorne from Boston,” said the duke. “I would have escorted Miss Thorne, but I had some last minute business to attend and told her to meet me here. Your sister, Abby has sent Rachel for us to introduce to society.”
Anthony had forgotten the arrangement made months ago. Rachel was cousin to the notorious American privateer, Captain Jacob Thorne who had rescued Abby from a kidnapping. They had fallen in love, married, and now lived in Boston with their infant son. With the war against the Colonies still raging, and Miss Thorne’s relationship to enemies of the Crown, finding her a husband in English society wouldn’t— He pulled back his shoulders. Good God, why didn’t she simply marry someone in the Colonies?
“What does this have to do with me?”
The duke gave a stern eye that brooked no disagreement. “You will be her escort along with Lady March until other arrangements can be made.”
“Impossible. A waste of my valuable time and with my assistant unaccounted for…”
“He doesn’t have to escort me,” announced the author of his imminent imprisonment.
She walked past him, the sway of hips and soft swish of her skirts mesmerized him. Good Lord, the woman possessed weapons enough to scorch his backside.
The duke thumped his silver-headed cane on the floor. “Yes, he does. He will accompany you to dinners, balls, whatever invitations you receive, instead of maintaining his hermit-like existence.”
Anthony swept his arm over his laboratory. “I have a myriad of experiments to complete and lacking competent help, the likelihood of any one of them being achieved is hopeless.”
His father’s lips formed a stiff line. Anthony was accustomed to applying carefully constructed scientific methods and planned his life accordingly, but this particular scenario had disintegrated into madness, and his father, the duke had taken on the role as director.
“You have it all wrong.” She raised her chin and looked down her nose at Anthony.
The hackles rose on his neck.
Anthony crossed his arms. “What do I have wrong?”
“Your formula on hydraulics is full of errors.”
Anthony snorted. “Did I hear you right?” The prospect of a woman having an idea of modern hydraulics was laughable. He grabbed his notebook and flicked through the pages. He knew exactly to what she insinuated.
She marched to the cabinet, shoulder to shoulder with him. To ignore her height, he focused his gaze on his notes. Was it lavender or lemon balm that entwined him? She snatched a quill and scratched on a sheet of paper. “This is the way your calculations should read.”
“If you say so.” There was not a prayer her computations would be accurate. Impossible for a Colonial woman to have the least idea of force, pressure and area of liquids. For weeks, he had suffered with the formula. He compared his calculations to... His mouth fell open. By God, what she had assessed in minutes made complete sense. Brilliant. “How do you know this?”
“It is a hobby of mine.”
“Hobby? This knowledge takes years…we need to discuss this.”
“You have booted me from your lab. Remember? And refused to be my escort.”
The duke rose and took her by the arm. “Miss Thorne will be occupied today. The seamstresses are waiting for her fittings.”
The Colonial woman halted. “Fittings? I couldn’t possibly−”
The duke put his hand up. “My daughter is three thousand miles away and I miss her terribly. By way of her letters, Abby has ordered a new wardrobe for you. I will honor her request.”
Anthony tossed his notes aside. “She can’t go. I must have more conversation−”
Miss Thorne paused with a dismissive glance over her shoulder. “Are we having a conversation? If there were a hanging for hospitality, Lord Anthony, you’d be last in line. I wouldn’t dream of wasting your time.”