How was it that in a room filled with guests, he was the only person that piqued her interest?
Diana turned back to Mr. Tibbons, discretely drew in a deep breath, and then exhaled in an attempt to slow her racing heart. It would be so much wiser to keep her sights pinned on Captain Edgeworth, or one of the other soldiers—or even this kind widower, for heaven’s sake. So why did her body respond like this to Lord Greystone?
Was she just like one of those gentlemen who only wanted something they thought they couldn’t have? Was this unsettling feeling so easily explained away?
Was she only going to want him so long as she knew she couldn’t have him?
That would be incredibly inconvenient.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and that liquid fiery sensation ebbed from her core to her limbs.
“Pastels suit you, Miss Jones.” Lord Greystone had arrived at her side, and while the room felt as though it was closing in on her, Diana’s companion turned to welcome the marquess into their conversation.
No, Mr. Tibbons wasn’t simply greeting the marquess—he was gushing.
“My Lord!” The widower bowed. “Such a pleasure to meet up with you this afternoon.”
“Timmons, is it?” Lord Greystone, level and practical, dipped his chin in acknowledgment.
“Indeed.” Mr. Tibbons nodded.
Diana smiled to herself. Had he forgotten his own name?
“Just this morning, I was reading your latest article on base number systems. Fascinating notion, my lord. Fascinating, indeed. When you have a moment, I’d love nothing more than to discuss the potential efficiencies of Herschel’s latest theory with you.”
Lord Greystone nodded, and in less than thirty seconds, Diana realized that Mr. Tibbons and her marquess might just as well be speaking a foreign language. Rather than attempt to comprehend what any of it meant, she took the opportunity to appreciate Lord Greystone’s appearance. Although he wore relatively common buff breaches that afternoon, the turquoise jacket, emerald waistcoat, and elaborate lace at his wrists ensured his ensemble was anything but common.
His dark brown hair was combed back and trimmed, and although he was cleanly shaven, tiny black whiskers were visible. Diana’s fingers itched to reach up and feel if his jaw felt rough or smooth, the memory of the unique texture vivid from the night before.
Despite seeming to be engrossed in his conversation with Mr. Tibbons, Lord Greystone’s silvery-grey gaze caught hers every so often.
Those casual glances didn’t feel casual at all.
They felt… intimate.
“…yes, of course, and I’d be more than happy to discuss this with you some other time, but I’ve engaged Miss Diana’s company for the afternoon, and I’d be a fool to keep her waiting.” Lord Greystone’s voice broached no argument as he touched his fingertips to Diana’s elbow.
And when, she wondered incredulously, had her elbows become the most sensitive part of her body? Because the stroking of his fingertips and thumb back and forth over her skin tugged at something deep inside her. When he slowly slid his hand forward, grazing over even more sensitive skin, she squeezed her thighs together.
Was he even aware of what he was doing? He must be! He exerted too much control over himself not to know he could affect her like this.
Diana shuffled her feet, startled that her knees were considerably weaker than they’d been when she’d come downstairs earlier.
“Ah, yes. Yes, indeed, my lord. Capital idea. I quite look forward to it.” The enthusiastic widower was bowing again as he backed away. “And lovely chatting with you, Miss Diana.”
Diana blinked and then smiled, grateful to be excused from making further inane conversation. Furthermore, it was all too apparent that Mr. Tibbons had enjoyed chatting with the marquess far more than chatting with her.
Because, of course, acceptable topics for ladies to discuss with proper gentlemen were limited to the weather and fashion. Her part to play was to nod fawningly at anything the gentleman chose to tell her about himself.
None of that bothered her today, however, because Lord Greystone had come as promised. She spun around to face him. “What are base number systems, and why do you write articles about them?”
The marquess’s eyes widened at her question, and then he shook his head. “You don’t really want to know,” he said.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.” They were something that fascinated him, and Diana found herself wanting to, at the very least, know what they were. Expecting him to dismiss her question again, she was pleased when he pursed his lips and made an honest attempt to provide her with an answer.
“They are a system of counting that make large numbers more manageable. I study the stars, galaxies, and solar systems. Base number systems make it easier to study their distances, their movements…”
“You like to look at the stars?”
