Chapter 2
Rachel prided herself on…people’s predictability. She sighed. Except nothing about Lord Anthony Rutland was predictable. To think he was privy to all the secrets of the universe. How good it was to show him he was wrong. Let him chew on that for a while.
This is taking too long. Standing on top of a stool with an army of pin-sticking dressmakers making endless adjustments made her head ache. Rachel had argued that her own family could well afford the gowns, but the duke remained unyielding, forcing her to relent.
Over the past year, she and Abby had become like sisters, confiding the deepest of secrets. Rachel had revealed to Abby her near rape by an English officer during the British occupation of Boston and the unbearable yoke of the stigma attached to her assumed defilement. Boston was a small town and news had traveled like fire through kindling. Despite her innocence, and even with the family’s efforts to rectify the dilemma, salacious gossip damned her. When suitors disappeared, she knew why. Rachel swallowed feelings of unworthiness. No man of any value would want her. Abby had insisted on a visit to her ancestral home outside London where Rachel could have a fresh start without the taint of disgrace attached to her. She had entered the country through a different port with a contrived story of her loyalist leanings.
How she’d rather be in that marvelous laboratory. The joy of being present there this morning, all the equipment and outfittings laid before her. That rich sensual feel of discovery at her fingertips. For months she had dreamed of seeing the newly built laboratory that Abby had described via letters from her father. Flowing through her veins was the love and enthusiasm of science, direct, simple and passionate. Never could she get enough. When she was discovering, she was unchained, free from the torment of her muddled past.
Abby had talked about her older brother, Anthony and his experiments with electricity. A whole new world dawned and Rachel had created with her heart, and built with her mind, an image of him. She ground her teeth. Lord Anthony. He had spoiled everything. Abby didn’t know her brother at all. He was not the sweet conscientious man Abby had portrayed. More like Attila the Hun.
“Ouch.” A pin skewered Rachel, punishing her for her woolgathering.
“My apologies,” said the dressmaker and showered upon Rachel a myriad of fabrics to choose, satin, bombazine, velvet, silk and taffetas in a dazzling array of reds, golds and sapphires.
Her skin tingled with the unexpected. Lord Anthony was as elemental as the changing universe, uncontrolled energy, with nothing lagging or degenerated about him−no softness at all to his solid and imposing frame.
Trimmings of ribbons, Chantilly lace, seed pearls and ostrich feathers were held up to taunt her. “Good Lord, what would I need with ostrich feathers?”
“For your riding habit hat,” the dressmaker explained, all but rubbing her hands with glee, the subtle suggestions drawing upon a tenacious campaign that such extravagant dealing implied. The duke had given orders to spare no expense. There was the matter of the dinner party this evening that Rachel must attend and a new dress must be readied for the event. With certainty, there would be a sizeable recompense for such a feat. The dressmaker would likely swoon at the amount of profits she would make from the necessary gowns, undergarments, and clothing items.
Abby had not warned Rachel of how devastatingly handsome her brother was. His eyes were baffling shades of blue, like lapis intershot with sunshine—dark, light, bluish grey, and intermittently, the azure of a stormy sea. Indeed, he had arrested her attention. Hadn’t he arched a dark brow and stared at her until she felt ready to squirm? His shirt had been askew and most charming, as if he had more important matters in the world to attend than an immaculate appearance. Her heart shuddered, stopping for a moment, and then began beating anew at a frantic pace. She didn’t know what emotion it was he caused to rise within her. Fear? No. She did not fear him.
Rachel tapped a finger on her lips. Admiration. That was it. Paging through his notes, she had discovered a genius. He dabbled in everything in the physical and biological world, extensive diagrams and formulas, theories and postulations. Did his mind ever rest?
“Let me get the other fabrics I brought for you to consider.” The dressmaker departed for the adjacent room which no doubt housed a repository of fabric.
Rachel’s back ached and a chill set across her body from the long hours of standing in nothing but her chemise and a half-sewn dress.
Anthony walked in and barreled right toward her. “I’ve been thinking about the formula you left me and I need to−”
Rachel crossed her arms over her chest. She blushed from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. The seamstresses squealed. From the uproar, the dressmaker returned and frosted their intruder with a withering stare. “Lord Anthony!”
At her icy authority, Anthony stepped back. He frowned, looking Rachel up and down. Thunderstruck, his jaw dropped with the dawning realization of her dishabille and his indiscretion. “My apologies.”
The dressmaker slammed the door in his face. When Rachel’s lightheadedness diminished, she gave a small smile. Poor Anthony. She had baited and whetted his appetite with the hydraulic formula on incompressible flows. Of course, he’d be like a dog after a bone until he obtained more answers.
Predictable.