He cleared his head. “It’s a personal matter. I’m searching for someone who has a…connection…with my name.” He left it at that.
“I see.” The professor leaned back, studying Collin with the intensity that had once had him struggling to fill the silence with words, any words.
But Collin was older, wiser, and far more experienced than when he’d been a lad at university.
The silence stretched on.
Collin waited, a twinge of some unnamed emotion willing him to fill the void. However, he ignored it, and like all the other feelings he’d had recently, it disappeared and left the void within.
“Hmmm,” Professor Essex remarked. “A practicing stoic.”
“Says the professor of philosophy…” Collin replied, trying to make his tone lighthearted. He hadn’t thought his words or manner were anything but normal. Yet as he considered the thought, he wondered if perhaps the apathy, the boredom and lack of feeling he’d been wallowing in, had seeped through his skin without him knowing.
The thought was sobering.
And still, he didn’t feel the inclination to change, but rather just to accept it, if that was indeed the case.
Anything else was far too difficult.
And he’d dealt with enough difficulty in his life that he wasn’t about to welcome any more, even if it was to better himself.
“It’s not in your words,” Professor Essex commented, frowning.
Collin wasn’t sure how to reply. He’d forgotten just how perceptive the older gentleman was, and it was unnerving.
“I prefer world-wizened,” Collin replied after a moment. “I assume you’re still confounding young minds with your philosophical questions?”
Professor Essex nodded as if he understood the unspoken request for a subject change. “I enjoy broadening their minds. If I can teach you, I can teach anyone,” he remarked with a dry laugh.
“Touché,” Collin replied just as the door to the office swung open.
“Oh!” a feminine voice stated in a startled tone. “Papa, forgive me, I thought you’d be out of your office.”
Collin immediately stood out of honor for the lady who’d just entered and turned to bow. She was taller than most women of his acquaintance, with pale-as-alabaster skin and freckles she didn’t strive to hide. Her strawberry-blond hair was nearly orange, and her eyes were dark brown, not light as her features would suggest. Her hands were clasping several books to her chest, her long, lean fingers tightening their grip as she studied him, not glancing away but evaluating him—just as he was evaluating her. For a fleeting moment, Collin wondered what conclusions she was drawing about his person.
“It is not unwelcome, dear. Allow me to introduce you to a former student who is in town visiting.” Professor Essex stood as well. “Lord Penderdale, allow me to introduce my daughter, Miss Elizabeth Essex.”
Collin bowed. “A pleasure.” He turned to Professor Essex, one brow lifted in query. “I wasn’t aware that Cambridge allowed female students.”
“They do not,” Elizabeth replied, answering the question meant for her father. Collin turned back to her.
Her pale skin was tinged with a bit of pink on her cheeks. If they’d been in a London ballroom, he’d have assumed she was blushing. But given her expression of restrained hostility, he’d wager the heightened color was from anger.
“It’s not common practice. However, I’m not a common man—or so I’ve been told on multiple occasions,” Professor Essex replied with a cough. “My daughter accompanies me at the school and has since she was only ten, when her mother passed.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Collin said, merely out of habit. Wasn’t that what one said when a family member’s death was mentioned? Wasn’t that what he’d heard thousands of times regarding his own losses? It was what was expected—regardless of whether it meant less than half a bloody fig.
“Thank you. I’ll take those from you.” Professor Essex approached his daughter and lifted the books from her grasp.
She cast a guarded expression at Collin and spoke to her father. “I took notes on the aspects you’ll need for the upcoming lecture. They are from the newer manuscript.”
“Thank you, dear.” He laid the books on the desk. Collin quickly read the titles, then stopped, since he wasn’t able to read Greek and his Latin was abominable.
“Nicomachean Ethicsand Lucretius, Lord Penderdale,” Elizabeth stated with a bit of a smirk.
Collin froze, but recovered smoothly as he turned to address Miss Essex. “Ah, thank you. My Latin has never been excellent.”
“A pleasure to assist,” she replied, and offered a rebellious smile. “They are rather difficult languages to master.”
