*
FREDERICK MOVED INTO the parlor and waited for the others to make an appearance.
Today was Christmas Day.
The grandfather clock seemed to tick slowly, and he forced himself to pick up a book. Last week he’d delighted in John Herapath’s kinetic theory of gases, but the man’s innovations, as exciting for progress as they were, did not stop his mind from wandering to Lady Theodosia.
He closed the book and walked to the window.
The snowflakes galloped downward, as if competing at the Ascot.
And then he saw...
Her.
He blinked.
The chit must be mad.
No woman in the world could have reached her age, the maturity emphasized by an abundance of curves that made him force his gaze on the tree behind her, without being cognizant that coats were a requirement for a Yorkshire winter.
The woman seemed equally unaware of the conveniences of hats, mittens, or scarves. Frederick had always considered stoles and pelisses to be the more ridiculous items of female garb, containing a worrying dearth of warm-supplying materials considering their accompanying lofty price, but he would even see one of those with pleasure.
He rushed toward the door, weaving past poufs and armchairs, and flung it open.
“Lady Theodosia,” he shouted. “Come inside.”
She stepped back.
Blast.
The woman seemed...afraid.
He’d been so proud of himself for cultivating his reputation. If women thought him a beast, their mothers might be less prone of thrusting their daughters on him.
He glanced at her lustrous dark locks, her face, pale from the cold—he hoped not from unhappiness at seeing him, the soft curves of her figure, her valise—
He paused.
“Why are you holding that?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I thought I would go—”
“Just like that? Just into a snowstorm? Without even saying farewell?”
She shivered.
“It is dangerous outside,” he said. Not bellowing the words took more effort than he’d thought possible.
“But I cannot stay. It’s—it’s not proper.”
“Perhaps the kiss lacked propriety. Then again, so does freezing to death.”
She glanced downward, and her cheeks flushed. “Forgive me.
“So you intend to knock on people’s doors in the hopes you won’t chance upon a murderer.”
“Most people are not murderers. In fact, proportionally the likelihood of me finding a murderer is even less likely than me having ten children.”
He swallowed hard.
Having ten children involved certain mechanisms that might be pleasant to linger upon.
Hurt surged through him.
They’d kissed.
And it had been good.
Really good.
And yet she intended to saunter out the door, not even saying goodbye to him. Disappearing into the snow, as if snowstorms were not dangerous things.
“I-I must,” she said.
Her voice trembled again.
Blast.
“What are you scared of?”
She was silent, and his stomach sank.
So it wasn’t anything except him.
He grimaced. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t intend to frighten you.”
“I don’t mean to be a bad host,” he continued. “I’m not accustomed to it.”
“You don’t plan for Yuletime blizzards?”
He shook his head. Her eyes were sparkling again.
Thank heavens.
He grinned back.
His lips felt tight, as if he wasn’t quite accustomed to doing it.
She’d tried to run away.
She was too good for him.
Of course it was easy to speak negatively.
She deserved someone...more. Someone who was not referered to as the mad duke. Someone who had not made himself a pariah to even most scientific people. Somebody who didn’t spend most of his days locked in his laboratory mixing potions together—particularly those of the faulty variety.
There were men who would be joyful, were there a blue sky, and not worried for the ramifications of their scientific experiments.
She should be with someone like that.
Someone whose mind was clear, devoted to her, because, Lord knew, she deserved the best. She’d tried to run away. A death mission. At what point had he become somebody whom even the people he seemed to get along with thought best to flee from?
He took her inside. Heavens, her lashes were so thick. Her skin was soft, and he yearned to stroke it and capture her lips with his again. But instead he stood rigidly. “I didn’t realize I’d hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” she said quickly. “You were...wonderful. So wonderful. And I shall remember this for the rest of my life. You’ve given me such good memories—”
He pressed his hand over her mouth. Energy surged through him as he felt her lips against the palm of his hand.
Her eyes widened.
“They needn’t be just memories.” Frederick’s throat shouldn’t have become itchy. He’d never been prone to allergies, and there wasn’t a furry cat or pollen spewing plant in the area. And yet his throat still seemed to close off, and he grabbed Celia’s hands in his own.
He didn’t want to think about what might have happened to her if he hadn’t chanced upon her.
She was so slender, and it was easy to imagine the wind whisking her up and carrying her away and—
His heart squeezed, and he clutched hold of her hands. “Promise me you won’t do that again.”
Her hands might be gloved, but heat still coursed through him at their sudden closeness.
He stared into her eyes. How had he never realized that green was the very loveliest color in the world?
Everything had changed, he realized.
It seemed ridiculous that somebody might so thoroughly disrupt his life. But he’d known, from the first time he’d seen her, that she was important.
And she’d run away.
“Is there...something wrong with me?” His voice was definitely hoarse now.
Her eyes widened again. “No, no.”
“Then what would possess you too—”
“I shouldn’t even be here,” she said.
“Is there someone else?”
“Naturally not!” She looked so appalled, that he almost smiled.
He glanced around the corridor. They were dripping icy water.
Likely she was going to get a chill, and then pneumonia, and then—
He swallowed hard.
His mind was leaping to far too many wild things.
Still. She should get dry. The snow was dashed cold.
“I’ve kept you too long in these clothes,” he said. “You must have something else to wear.”
“Y-yes,” she said. “I’ll change.”