Chapter 8
Anthony raked his fingers through his hair. Weeks had melded into two months and nothing. Stimulants madly indulged his mind…electricity…and Rachel Thorne.
“Our errors are a result of simple bad luck.” She placed glass tubes in a rack, running her fingers down their glistening length.
His mouth went dry. How erotic. What would she taste like? Cinnamon? Spice? Lemon? “I do not believe in luck. Everything I do is designed to eliminate randomness and eradicate chance. To deduce every possibility, predict every response, and mold experimentation toward a desired outcome.”
“I want to know your thoughts on the Leyden jar.” He watched her walk across the lab to retrieve another flask, her hips swung with the practiced ease of a courtesan, except she was no courtesan. She was tall, inches shorter than his six foot two frame with padding in all the right places, undeniably the right places.
Anthony said nothing. He was good at saying nothing. He could say nothing for the rest of his life and be content. He should waltz her out of his lab, lock the door and stay inside for the rest of his life. Yes, he could do it. And he could hurl the Thames River back to its source.
While Aunt Margaret snored in the corner, Rachel turned to him, with concentration. After a long silence elapsed, her brow furrowed, expectant of him to fill the void with what he was thinking.
Anthony scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Why he was no different than a useless dog, panting outside the butcher’s shop?
“The Leyden jar has an alternating current that flows and bangs, pumping and thrusting, sliding and straining violently along a course.” Had he just said that?
Thank the higher powers she was immersed in pouring a saline solution over the brass and nickel discs that she did not hear him.
Anthony held his breath and attached the wires. A small burst of electrical fire, and then nothing. He cursed beneath his breath.
Rachel knitted her brow in a way that gave Anthony the sense she was trying to figure out how best to say, I told you so.
“My miscalculations have brought a tempest of unforeseen challenges. We will use your sulfuric acid suggestion tomorrow.”
She beamed her approval. Why did her happiness mean so much to him?
Aunt Margaret quit snoring, sat up and blinked at the clock. “Heavens, it is well past the time to leave, Miss Thorne.”
Anthony scowled. “Where are you going? I cannot work without you.”
“A ball followed by entertainment. Do you want to join us?” Rachel licked her lips with cautious hope.
“Absolutely not. The most illogical convention known to mankind.”
“Sometimes it is good to be illogical,” she chastised him. “Lady Imogene Brougham is going to sing. They say she is a sensation.”
“Her singing presents the same sensation as barnacles scraped off the bottom of a ship, except the hull of the ship remains safe and sound. The damage to your ears is catastrophic.”
“So you’ll come?” Rachel reached up and smoothed his hair back, jolted him. He tamped down his reaction, told himself her touch was the same given to her brother.
She smiled then, the kind of smile that started the phase transition of ice to water to evaporation. All day long he had watched her as she moved about his lab, imagining the incredibly long legs under her skirts. Even the way she consumed those wretched cream puffs drove him mad, entering between her full lips, licking the cream from the side of her mouth with the right amount of seductiveness. It was best she left with Aunt Margaret to tea. At least he’d be able to breathe again.
When they were gone, he stared at the back of the door and a hushed void filled the laboratory. He sat in her vacated chair with nothing but silent air and the lavender and lemon scent from her body. Like long sharp needles, roots of loneliness crept through his insides. Anthony looked out the window, across the row of newly planted arborvitae and where a splattering of snow lay over a field of brown grasses. A frigid mist skirted the dark, grey woods. Ice covered gorse surrounded a lake’s edge, adding to the surrealness of the landscape and all at once, a flash of memory assailed him…
“I’m going out riding.” Celeste slapped her gloves across her hands with a youthful pout.
“Again? You are gone every day.” She was so young, seventeen summers and had hounded him with her peach-colored skin and bright violet eyes, and hair, the red-gold of amber.
Celeste trilled. “My Lord, you are busy in your lab and will not miss me. Besides, I love to ride.” She leaned up on her tiptoes and gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek. The only intimacy she allowed.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
She pursed her lips. “And take you away from your experiments? Wouldn’t think of it.”
Anthony shook his head sharply, straining to wipe away the unsettling memories. God, would it constantly be like this? Four long years had eclipsed, and still he was tormented by his inadequacy into looking after her, the past entombing him beneath a shadowy shroud.
Would he ever be free of Celeste? Would he have loved her if given more time? Was he capable of love? To experience a love like his mother and father who adored each other…a grab for the farthest reaches of the universe?
Hadn’t Celeste pursued him, treating Anthony with golden deference and worshipping everything he said? Smiles and warm charm, she had everyone convinced of her value. His mother had died in childbirth and Celeste had charmed the Duke from his melancholies.
“A good match…you are well past the time to marry, Anthony…”
If only he’d not been driven by his father into the fatal words, “I do.” To experience a new Celeste, remote and distant, faultfinding and disdaining while keeping up a public persona that said otherwise.
Independent of his father, Anthony had accrued a huge estate from his patents and investments. When Celeste discovered his assets, she spent huge amounts on her wardrobe, demonstrating a self-absorbed nature that Anthony credited to her immaturity. Since he was busy with his scientific pursuits, he allowed her childish behavior until she adjusted to married life.
Since Anthony’s father was a powerful duke and cousin to the King, she enjoyed and took full advantage of the prestige that gained her access to the best of England’s families. At first, Anthony attributed her insistence to attend every social occasion without him as part of her youthful zeal to experience life. Now as he thought back to that time, he had the distinct feeling, Celeste didn’t desire to be encumbered by a husband, she considered boring.
Whatever Anthony’s feelings were toward Celeste he did not live up to the principles ingrained in him since birth−to protect those for whom he was responsible. His shameful neglect left him flawed and undeserving. If only he’d been insistent on accompanying Celeste. He could have prevented her death, and been less likely to endure disconnect from his family and the rest of society.
Anthony stalked through the heated press of guests dressed in pretentious silks and satins, jewels dripping from their necks. His mind directed on one objective, his icy gaze parted the crowd. If Rachel was to find a suitable husband, then by God he would make sure her prospects were the finest. Even if it meant his presence at a social entertainment he loathed. Aunt Margaret sat with two old harridans, chatting up a storm. “Where is she?”
His aunt drew herself up, then lifted that dratted ear horn in his face. He repeated his question, and then realized his aunt was going to launch a monologue dating back to the eleventh century’s William the Conqueror.
The orchestra stopped for a recess. Anthony wrinkled his nose from the overheated bodies and shrill laughter. A feverish murmur swept through the ballroom. He pivoted and followed their gazes to find her moving through the crowd.
The first time he laid eyes on Rachel in his laboratory, Anthony could barely get over her beauty. But this−this was beyond perfection. Both hypnotizing and enchanting, her refinement challenged ordinary souls. Didn’t the insinuation of defiance in her unflinching eyes afford her to be that much more bewitching?
The rich, auburn of her hair had been swept up in a gentle swirl, anchored by tiny diamonds. A mass of curls escaped, accentuating her shining blue eyes and arched sable brows. Her willowy figure well-served by a tight-waisted gown, the bodice boasting a row of diamante, plunging low to enhance the deep valley of her swelling breasts. Her pale throat was adorned with a string of diamonds that his father had lent her from the Rutland collection to add sparkle to the deep emerald green of her satin gown.
The sight of her arrested him as well as every hot-blooded man in the room. Delivered to his aunt’s side by Sir Martin, Rachel was quickly surrounded by a knot of men. His blood rose in temperature. Two hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit, the exact temperature of boiling liquids.
From her clamoring legion of admirers, an older man and his son leaned into her, garnering her attention—overlong—in deep conversation that Anthony doubted had any intellectual acuity. She lifted her chin, and her smile brightened. Anthony viewed the scene through a red haze, and watched as she turned her attentions from one male to another, always smiling and nodding.
She caught sight of him and waved, a daring and refreshing vision of nature and empirical science. She moved to him then, and like a parting of the sea, her demanding admirers, protested the loss of their queen as she left them behind.
“Do you like my new dress?” she whispered
Damn. His mind went awry, his tongue trussed in knots. His body temp scorched a few degrees higher. He could say imposing or stately beauty, no. Goddess-like, yes. Ravishing came to mind. Maybe breathtaking too, because he forgot to breathe for a few moments.
He cleared his throat. “Are you hinting for compliments, Miss Thorne?”
“Would you give me any? No, because you have an economy on words, Lord Anthony. However, I have had so many compliments tonight it would be silly to expect more.”
Touché. Miss Thorne didn’t just nip; she took a chunk out of him.
Aunt Margaret stood on her cane. “I was remarking on Miss Thorne’s popularity. So many gentlemen have promised to call on her. Don’t you think she is a grand success, Anthony?”
Like pouring vinegar in a cut.
“Here comes your good friend Lord Ward, and what a colorful spectacle. I am blinded by his scarlet velvet coat and yellow breeches,” said Aunt Margaret.
Lord Ward hosted a palette of hues more dazzling than a rainbow. Anthony analyzed the likelihood that Ward’s father mated with a peacock.
Although, in deep discussion with another scientist, Ward paused before them, feigning surprise at Anthony’s presence. “Oh, Lord Anthony—and the Patriot.”
“Good God, a Patriot?” said Ward’s companion, Sir Burns, insinuating the Rutland’s had invited a pack of rats.
Aunt Margaret glowered. “Her family are loyalists. At no time have they favored measures looking to forcible resistance and independence despite the British government’s impolitic and harsh actions disposed on the Colonies,” said Aunt Margaret daring Lord Ward and his friend to speak one more insult, she’d shoot them dead.
Regardless of the falsehood, Anthony marveled at his aunt’s eloquent support of Rachel and marveled at her sudden ability to hear so well. She fended off a catastrophe.
“My pardon, Lady Margaret,” said Lord Ward, “But I was caught in mid-discussion of a scientific matter and made an erroneous slip.”
Aunt Margaret projected her horn like a weapon. “Make sure you do not have a slip again. I know your grandmother very well. She would have an opinion.”
Lord Ward paled. Aunt Margaret didn’t just trump Ward, she kicked him in the throat.
“This is serious business,” interrupted Ward’s partner, Sir Burns, measuring up to the same vanity and buffoonery as Lord Ward. His allusion to Rachel as something nefarious raised the hackles on Anthony’s neck.
“I cannot possibly come to a conclusion without supportive corroboration,” said Burns.
Anthony scoffed. “Try an educated guess.”
Sir Burns gave Anthony a withering stare. “I have degrees from Oxford and Cambridge.”
Anthony bowed. “Then try an educated guess, Sir Burns. But you can’t because your work is tantamount to a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples. Everyone knows you are a neck stretcher, copying other students’ exams, tossed out of both schools and barely earning one degree.”
Sir Burns shook his fist in Anthony’s face ready to strike. “You can blow your trumpet all you like, Lord Anthony, but the Royal Society will never shine on your doorstep.”
Aunt Margaret leaned in, her ear horn extended between the two men. “Sir Burp, did I hear you say you are working on a strumpet?”
From Aunt Margaret’s miscomprehension, everything happened all at once. Face purpling, Sir Burns stalked off followed by Lord Ward. Rachel’s lips twitched. Anthony stared at his father’s sister.
“I have a practiced eye for concealed disasters.” Aunt Margaret repeated the words Anthony had spoken about her in the laboratory. “It’s the job of auntie’s to interfere and protect their nephews.”
Anthony narrowed his eyes. “Your mind is sharper than one hundred axes and your tongue twice as sharp, not to mention how your hearing is selective.”
She leaned to listen with her dreadful ox horn. How he’d like to toss the bizarre instrument out the window.
“I’m old. I’ve earned the privilege of saying whatever I think.”
Rachel touched his arm. “Aunt Margaret prevented a brawl.”
“My nephew seems to be getting himself in many altercations of late. So unlike you, Anthony. You are always so staid and unadventurous.”
Anthony grunted.
“With all humility, I must admit that I’m better than average at clever remarks and have a flair for getting people to dislike me,” said Aunt Margaret.
“Not to mention that you could have started a war with your insults to Sir Burp.” Anthony tugged at his waistcoat. “Now you have me mispronouncing his name. And with humility?” He choked on that notion.
“Those qualities must be hereditary, don’t you think, Miss Thorne?” Aunt Margaret pressed a hand to her chest, and then turned to engage with the older woman beside her. How good she was at chopping him into little pieces.
Rachel giggled. “She is a genius of a woman. Do you think she really needs the ear horn?”
He tipped his head back and downed his drink. “The thought has crossed my mind.”
“Captain Johnson, is coming toward us. He is the brother of the recluse whose abandoned home we rode by two weeks ago when you gave me a tour of the estate. He is one of the interesting people I’ve met this evening. I’ll remind you to take care of your remarks. Every time you speak, your mind is on parade.”
The sea captain bowed and raised his head like an old turtle, lifting his head out of the sand. “So good to see you again, Miss Thorne, Lord Rutland and Lady Margaret.”
Rachel bobbed up on her toes. “I’ve had a lovely conversation with Captain Johnson this evening. He lives in the village and has invited Aunt Margaret and me to tea.”
Captain Johnson pointed with his clay pipe, the bowl of which was a carved caricature of a bearded, turbaned Indian. “Miss Thorne has been charming me with how much she knows of ships. Never met a more knowledgeable female. Interesting, her theories on bilge pumps. And her knowledge on sailing and the seas. Why she could be one of those infamous Colonial privateers.”
Anthony choked, thankful Captain Johnson was pulled into conversation by Aunt Margaret before any questions could be asked about Rachel’s lineage. An elderly gentleman stepped in front of them and bowed. The din of the crowd prevented Anthony from catching his name.
“Miss Thorne, I have a question on our earlier discussion on some of the plants you described in the New World. Slippery Elm, Witch Hazel and Skull Cap. What again were their medicinal uses?”
Rachel warmed to the topic. “A tea of Slippery Elm is used for intestinal disorders, sore throat, gout and arthritis, we boil the stems of Witch Hazel to treat bruises, swelling and to stop bleeding. Skull Cap is a tonic for the kidney and female complaints.”
Anthony looked heavenward. She was an expert in botany?
“Miss Thorne absolutely bewitches me with her knowledge of plants and their medicinal uses. Fascinating, isn’t she?”
For the life of him, Anthony couldn’t remember who the gentleman was despite his nagging familiarity.
Rachel protested. “I cannot lay claim to the knowledge. Many of the treatments from these plants we learned from the Indians, Mr. Banks.”
Joseph Banks. Anthony grabbed a glass of wine from a tray from a passing servant. The president of the Royal Society was in attendance and she had him eating out of her hand?
“And I am not the least bit fascinating,” Rachel said, and gave Anthony a quick wink. “Lord Rutland is coming up with something that will be revolutionary. Aren’t you?”
“What is it?” Joseph Banks coaxed.
Anthony choked on his drink.
“He cannot tell. Cannot give one hint of his work,” she dared to answer for him. “At least, not yet.”
Anthony narrowed his eyes. Wait until I get you home so I can wring your neck.
“But his discovery will gain him entrance into the Royal Society.” She pressed Joseph Banks.
“If his revelation is as sensational as you have mentioned, Miss Thorne, then his entrance is with certainty.”
Anthony could not believe his ears. A compliment from the world’s most famous botanist?
When he bowed and left, Anthony turned on her. “There you go again, making promises that I may never meet. Don’t you know that an entry is voted on by subcommittees of fellow scientists, not demanded by a Colonial? All of England will be laughing at me.”
“Don’t worry. I have full confidence in your ability.”
Anthony growled. “How will that happen, attending tea parties and soirees?”
“Now that we are on that subject. Aren’t you glad you came? You have met so many illustrious people.”
“Besides you, Joseph Banks, Captain Johnson and Aunt Margaret?” Anthony scanned the room. “The rest were born at the top of the stupid tree and have fallen, hitting every branch on the way down.”
She gave him a pained smile—more of a wince. “Being one of the smartest men in the entire kingdom can be a lonely affair. One can imagine when you’re constantly surrounded by dimwits, dullards and—worse—those who think they’re clever.”
“Am I the only one not given to bullbaiting and cockfighting?”
She pealed out her laughter and everyone looked. He widened his smile, thoroughly enjoying himself, a feat up until now, he’d thought impossible.
Three young gentlemen stopped in front of Rachel, heels together and bending at the waist. “May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Thorne?” The gentleman to the left elbowed in front of the others, yet shied from Anthony’s glare. Rachel smothered a giggle.
“Of course, she will,” Aunt Margaret intervened. “But one at a time.”
“Sir Jenkins, I would be honored to have this dance.” Rachel extended her hand to the handsome young man with the trim build, and then gave Anthony a look of laughing exasperation. I can’t help it. She swirled to the music. Honey scent drifted through the air, the room ablaze with hundreds of beeswax candles in a row of chandeliers that fired hundreds of crystal pendants in a sparkling prismatic display.
She enjoyed a good laugh as much as anyone, and made an effort to bring laughter to others. She could be outspoken, but she also had a teasing nature and a gift for lightening someone’s mood, no matter how sour their character.
Sir Davies, her next partner possessed such a disposition. The imperturbability of excess and vanity hung on him like melted wax. Similar to other male acquaintances in England, they lacked goals in life to make a difference in the world and floundered in a sea of indolence.
So unlike Jacob, Ethan and…Anthony Rutland.
Sir Davies smacked his lips. “I have a secret passion, Miss Thorne.”
“Passion?”
“May I escort you to a tea with my mother and my aunts’ tomorrow? There will be a stimulating discourse on…samplers…my secret passion. Did you know that the tent stitch and cross stitch are the predominant choice in embroidery?”
Sir Davies embroidered? “I-I had no idea.” Her skills with the needle were making canvas sails when General Washington needed ships straightaway. Never did she hold the patience for the fine embroidery other women performed and never had she known a man who employed the pastime.
Rachel sighed. Abby had hoped she would find a husband in England. But the men were…not men. If anyone of them had any conflict or confronted any terror, they would run to their snuffboxes or their mamas in outpourings of hysteria.
Viscount Randall took her hand before Sir Davies had released her. Dressed impeccably, he had a magnificent bleached wig, and charming face decorated with an extraordinary powdered white beard, reminiscent of an ancient sea god. He was not very firm on his legs, his dancing had a shambling, wandering quality and he stepped on her toes more than once.
From over Randall’s shoulder, Anthony lounged cynically against the wall, scorn for the couple dancing together. As her new partner turned her, Anthony caught her eye, and she saw his amusement at her discomposure. His eyes flicked from her to Randall and he raised his glass in a mocking toast, as if to wish her well on her husband hunt.
Earlier in the day, she had been disappointed when Anthony had refused to accompany her to the social this evening. But, oh, so joyful when she clapped eyes on him, and for one second, she imagined he came because of her. Remembering his reaction to her new emerald gown, hot torrid heat curled inside her.
Why her dress practically melted off her under his gaze. How he made her feel like a woman, vanishing the girl.
Did Sir Randall say something to her?
“I just came back from Bath. The cure waters are wonderful for consumption,” said Randall.
The wasting disease? She widened her eyes in horror.
Davies corrected himself. “I meant to ward off consumption, in case…one was exposed to the lung ailment. Do you do jigsaw puzzles?” He referred to the new pastime of aristocrats putting together cut map pictures of the earth. “I know all about the world.”
“Your scholarship astounds me, Sir Randall.”
He beamed like an idiot and shook his head as if it were no great feat, and then coughed. Did he have consumption? The powder from his wig fell in an asphyxiating cloud about his face. How she disliked the fashion. Might he die from inhalation of Cyprus powder?
“I would like to call on you in the near future, Miss Thorne.”
“Of course,” she said, desiring to get away so she could breathe again. The crush was intolerable. So many people in this strange new world, like swimming in a pond and not being able to put your feet down on a stable bottom and getting caught in the muck.
At the end of the waltz, Rachel curtsied. Viscount Randall refused to let her go. She opened her mouth to complain. Many guests watched and she blushed at Randall’s offense.
Anthony drew abreast, his face of such dark menace that she shuddered. He jerked his elbow up, grazing Randall’s bearded chin and offered his arm. Rachel tugged her fingers away, scathing Randall with an angry glare.
Anthony guided her to the center of the floor for the next dance. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be so charming.”
She stiffened. “I was not flirtatious.”
“I could hold Poseidon’s beard and challenge him to a duel.”
Rachel huffed, goaded by the mocking amusement in his eyes. “I worried that you’d break his kneecap.”
“What would make you think that, Miss Thorne?”
“The fact that Sir Bonneville has been glowering daggers in your backside ever since you arrived, and is sitting with his leg in a splint, propped up on a chair.”
“I can’t help if Bonneville is clumsy.”
Rachel slanted him a knowing look. “You are irredeemable.”
“So how is the husband hunt going?”
Rachel started, then shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned when she was not. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”
He taunted her with a dubious expression. “I find that difficult to believe when you have so many admirers.”
Was he jealous? No. Anthony’s concern was steeped in a brotherly nature. “Many have handsome countenances. Baron Jenkins quoted the current price of gold to the ounce. Sir Davies greatest inspiration was having tea with his mother and aunts—and he shared his passion with me.”
“Passion?”
“He embroiders.”
“Confirms his birth at the top of the stupid tree.”
“And Poseidon…” she giggled at Anthony’s appropriate reference of Viscount Randall, “…dazzled me with his knowledge of geography, working jigsaw puzzles, informing me, America is to the left—of England.”
“Aunt Margaret will have to try harder finding a suitable husband.” He whirled her around, his movements, deliberate, with an animal grace.
Rachel’s shoulders drooped. She swallowed and looked away, her spirit deflated. “It is folly to believe that I would find someone. I will return to Boston and live as a maid. That is my fate.” Never had she really intended to marry anyone in England. She had come only to please Abby and to have a change of scenery. Any idea of marrying anyone of high nobility was impossible. Never would she bring her shame on anyone.
“You will not return until you have helped me with what you promised, Thomas Banks,” Anthony said.
Her brain scrambled to find a logical excuse to protest his arrogant demand. But when she raised her face, she was caught in the spell of those compelling blue eyes and clamped down on a sudden temptation to run her fingers over his wide shoulders and muscular arms. The boom of music and clatter of voices disappeared as she forced down those forbidden reactions.
“You have to help me find my unicorn.”
In his gruff, growly and roundabout way, he was making up for her disappointment by offering to be part of his discovery. Oh, Anthony, it is as if I’ve known you all my life, and when I’m with you, I don’t have to pretend to be anyone or anything.
She knew Anthony Rutland.
Because she knew herself.
Pushed behind a wall of painful emotions, trapped in the swirling waters of his subconscious, existed a fear of feeling…and being vulnerable.
Her heart ached for the highly intelligent man who was unable to see how his life paralleled the reclusive Captain Elijah Johnson, the deceased sea captain, making himself into an island… untouched and…isolated. Wasn’t Anthony’s endless days spent in his laboratory, taking on seemingly impossible challenges, undeterred by failure or setbacks tantamount to the sea captain’s hoarding? Preferring to be locked in a sphere of anguish, convincing himself that life proceeds on, undisturbed, for the rest of time?
“You should marry again, Lord Anthony,” she blurted, her voice shaking with more emotion than it should.
The dance ended and walking arm in arm, his muscles flexed, a glimmering of wanted touch. Anthony Rutland did not fool her. He wanted to break free of that prison, thirsted for human contact. Teaching him to dip his toe from time to time into humanity’s maelstrom was good for him no matter how many times he told her it was illogical.
No doubt he was more entertained than annoyed by what she said.
“Yes, I should. Perhaps you can help me decide whom I should marry.”
She winced at his abrupt suggestion. Not at all was she prepared to help him select a wife. But he was offering Rachel trust. She could see it in the warmth of his eyes; hear it in the gentleness of his deep baritone voice. How could she refuse, despite his entreaty cutting her like a knife. Shameful or not, she could not say no and nodded her head, a gesture of sincerity and honesty, she was far from feeling.
Shoved to the side, Rachel looked down on a young woman who had wedged herself between them. Imogene Brougham, the darling of the evening, surrounded by a bevy of female friends and gentlemanly admirers. Rachel pasted on a smile.
Imogene hung onto Anthony and beamed coquettishly. “Do you like the latest French fashion?” She fanned her brocade skirts, “Marie Antoinette’s new rage.”
An unfamiliar pang of jealousy surfaced. Why? Hadn’t she told Lord Anthony they were…like brother and sister? Didn’t he own the right to have feminine pursuits and hadn’t she just told him he should marry?
With his older brother, the heir, missing and presumed dead, Anthony was fair game. As the prospective next Duke of Rutland, he was a hare before the hounds, a veritable feast for status seeking females on the hunt.
“Do you play the pianoforte, Miss Thorne?” Imogene shrilled, and then looked adoringly to Anthony, one of her hands resting in the region of her heart as though to keep that organ from leaping through the silk of her gown.
Through her lowered lashes, Rachel stole a glance at Anthony’s grim expression as he engaged in conversation with the gentleman beside him. She hoped Anthony would marry well. Someone who appreciated him for his talents. Someone to love him. Her eyes clouded. She needed him like the very air she needed to breathe, but to dream of a life with Anthony was impossible. He walked a different path than hers.
He would be the next Duke of Rutland. As a duke he would need a match of comparable status. They were an ocean apart.
More young girls circled. Scavengers ready to feed on their prey. He looked incredibly handsome in his black evening attire that fit his tall, muscular frame to perfection. No doubt many of the women yearned to have him at their side, to bask in the aura of restrained power and masculine vitality that emanated from him, and to know the fascination of those bold blue eyes capturing and holding theirs.
All her musings scattered. Festering occurrences of the past tore open old wounds. She was alien, did not belong, a Colonial. “I am not accomplished in that area,” Rachel admitted.
“Watercolors? Embroidery? Too bad that you are not refined in the arts.” Imogene answered for her. “What can you do?”
“I-I-” Blood drained from her face. What could she say? That she could climb to the top of a mast in thirty seconds, tie sailor’s knots so tight, a ship in a hurricane couldn’t breach, discuss hydraulics? None of which were important to the British social whirl and definitely frowned upon. She lifted her chin. “I’m afraid I do not have any of the refinements you speak of.”
To go back to her room at the Rutland’s and crawl under the covers. Jacob, Ethan, Abby, her home in Boston…anything to distract.
The girls covered their mouths with their hands in a silent, condemning “no,” darting haughty glances to one another. Imogene snorted her disgust and tightened her grip on Lord Anthony. “An English Lord desires an accomplished lady.” She conveyed a remote and unapproachable majesty, pouting her perfect lips. Her companions tittered, nodding their heads in undeniable agreement, launching an attack that would have made Cromwell proud, and with Anthony in their sights.
Rachel’s world tilted. If Anthony was to be the next duke, Imogene’s foregone intimation was valid. Never could Rachel fill that role. He needed someone with a pedigree.
Would Imogene be his wife? Her belly knotted. He deserved so much more. In the past few weeks of working together, they had cemented a friendship, and as a friend, she could not allow Imogene to be that woman. But how?
“Mother, is going to buy me a Shiatsu or should I get a poodle?” Imogene said with all the charm and amiability she could muster. With tactical precision, she squeezed herself between Anthony and the gentleman he was conversing with. Anthony glared. Undeterred, Imogene fluttered her eyelashes as if she had just written and offered him the Magna Carta.
Anthony leaned toward Rachel, brushing her shoulder, his sandalwood drifting through the air. “What do you think about piling our capacitors?
“Is it a kind of cat?” Imogene gushed like water sluicing from a bilge, battling to be in the conversation.
Anthony groaned.
“I’m going to sing tonight, Lord Anthony. Would you be my escort?” Imogene didn’t wait for an answer, commandeering Anthony’s arm, and all but whisking him away. He stood firm. Imogen jerked back into place. Her eyes protruded. Refusal was not one of her strong points.
Identical to serendipity, a scientific thought occurred to Rachel, bubbling up and popping a champagne cork. “Did you ever think we could use Newton’s law to calculate the magnitude of electrical force arising between two charged bodies?”
“Do you sing, Miss Thorne?” Imogene trilled her coup de grace. Her companions raised their eyebrows, expectant of another failed response from Rachel.
“She hums,” Anthony answered for her.
To kick him had merit, but in his eyes, Rachel saw a glint of humor, then the amused twitch of his mouth. He was inclined to play games with Imogene.
“Hums? That is not a quality in a well-bred lady,” Imogene scoffed.
Anthony scratched his neck. “Rachel, do you remember our conversation about Reverend Pott’s wife? Do you recall how she was abated by your singular aim?”
Rachel smiled, abject gratitude from his sardonic sense of humor flooded her. She was scorned by his peers, and he had championed her in a swarm of scavengers.
Imogene glared at them, and then marched off. Her companions raised their noses, pivoted and trailed after their queen.
“A compelling touch of the civilized and the barbaric, don’t you think, Miss Thorne?”
“You have managed to be courtly, perfectly mannered and at the same time carry a ducal arrogance that women find irresistible.”
“Including you, Miss Thorne?”
There was something in his tone that touched a place inside her. Rachel met his steady gaze, then quickly glanced away before he saw the havoc wreaked on her soul. Was he making another jest?
She couldn’t afford to care or indulge herself in emotions that would lead to no end. Keep the relationship on an impersonal level. That was the best way to deal with matters. To put a bit of distance between them had value. A day apart would be best for both of them. Suitors were coming to call, and she’d promised to visit Lord Banfield and Humphrey. How they had championed her the night when Lord and Lady Ward, and then, Sir Bonneville had accosted her. She looked forward to visiting them. There had been a long history between the Duke and her cousin, Jacob that touched her heart.
A day apart would be best for both of them.
Rachel bit her lip. How she hated to disappoint him when he’d been so gallant, but disappoint him she must, and the sooner she spoke the better. With certainty, she was putting too much worry into the situation. Of course, Anthony would be very understanding. “I cannot work in the laboratory tomorrow.”
“And why not?”
Her idea was not going to be as easy as she thought. “I have callers visiting tomorrow and I have accepted an invitation with the Duke of Banfield and Humphrey.” No need to tell him it was an open invitation.
“You also promised Thomas Banks and the rest of the world something I cannot possibly deliver without a lab assistant. And now you are accepting a company of fools, and cavorting around the countryside.” His voice was cold, flat, furious and heard across the room. Revelers craned their necks. If only she could fade into the background.
Anthony proved difficult. “You’re invited, too,” she proposed in way of a peace offering. “You need to get out more, engage with others.”
“You have Aunt Margaret for that.” The muscles in his neck corded and his callous tone set the hairs on the back of her neck on end, plain refusing to entertain that her opinion might be valid. “How you like to agree to challenges without thinking them through, and then masking your inhibitions with social seeking. Is this your backward Colonial upbringing?”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “You are stubborn, dogmatic, simple-minded and unable to see—I won’t be available the next day, the day after that, and the week after that.”
Aunt Margaret sidled up in a whoosh of her skirts, her ear horn bobbing. “I need to go home before I get a headache.”
Rachel took Aunt Margaret’s arm. Her mother had suffered terrible megrims for hours at a time. “We need to get her home as soon as possible,” she commanded Anthony.
Anthony ordered their wraps and coats, bid regrets to their host that they would not be able to attend the soiree. Rachel settled Anthony’s aunt into the burgundy velvet squabs of the Rutland coach. Beneath the lantern light, Aunt Margaret appeared hale and healthy, her grey eyes twinkling.
Rachel spoke into the wide end of the ear horn. “I will have Cook make you a special concoction.”
“I am saved a headache from Imogene Brougham’s singing. The girl has the brain of a toad.” Aunt Margaret snorted, her grey eyes shot through with shrewd bright lights of amusement. “Don’t let Imogene deter you.”
Rachel’s jaw dropped. Had Aunt Margaret given her leave on her feelings toward Anthony or was she imagining things? Right now, he was at the top of her lunatic list. The insensitive, hypercritical, tyrant. He was worse than Imogene Brougham and had insulted Rachel to the first degree. Before she could form a reply, Anthony climbed in, slammed the door and stared at her in sullen silence. Aunt Margaret slumped on her shoulder, asleep.