A low rumble rose from the street, and Louisa caught sight of a carriage crossing the cobbles, sunlight flashing off its polished panels. “Blast,” she whispered and raced from the room. She had quite lost track of time.
In an instant she was flying down the narrow back stairs, apronstrings flapping, hair loosening from its pins. By the time she reached the drawing room door, the butler’s deep voice was already carrying across the walnut-paneled space: “Mr. Dominic Beckett.”
She slipped in through the opposite entrance, a half-breath before him, the scent of smoke and chemicals clinging to her skin. Grabbing an ink-stained folio off the console table, she flipped to a page and bowed her head as if she were reading. Feigning composure as her stomach knocked in time to her heartbeat, she glanced up as he entered.
And Louisa knew, from her first look since that afternoon months ago on Bond Street, that she’d made a grave mistake thinking she could keep her attraction in check.
His hair was dark and unruly, exactly what she liked, the ends touched with a curl, threaded faintly with silver as though life had tried to weather him and not quite succeeded. His shoulders filled the charcoal superfine with deceptive ease, broad but lean, the cut tailored close to the quiet strength beneath. And his mouth—oh, that mouth—seemed built for mischief, for heat, for laughter.
Although his smile was guarded, as though any indulgence might undo him.
Still gorgeous, she decided, the pages trembling in her hands. Though there was always the likelihood he’d ruin everything by making her feel small or foolish or desperate.
But he didn’t. In fact, Dominic Beckett did a most unexpected thing.
She thought he would stride forward, dominate the space between them, stare her down. Instead, he halted in the doorway, the lamplight catching in his eyes and revealing them to be a deep, unsettling blue, the dazzling hue of the rocket that had exploded over Vauxhall Gardens last summer, sending gasps through the crowd. Maybe she’d been trying to replicate this color for ten years.
Yet there was a hint of shyness, of reticence, about him that stoleher breath.
Did he remember her, she wondered?
For a beat, neither of them moved. The air between them seemed to narrow, as if the whole of the room had shifted its attention to a single point of contact.
Whatever this was, it felt dangerously close to fascination.
Finally, Dominic shook himself free and advanced upon her. He smiled then, not broadly but with a quiet, knowing curve, and gestured to her with his hat. “Lady Louisa, I fear I’ve caught you working. Chemistry, isn’t that it?”
So, he didn’t remember her. But he’d read the broadsheets.
Disappointed but not surprised, Louisa’s attention dropped to her ink-smeared apron. “Oh,blast.” She tugged at the ties, fumbling them open, then shoved the offending garment behind a pillow on the settee as though that might erase the evidence entirely. When she looked back, his expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of amusement lurking in his gaze.
“Is there a chaperone anywhere about?” he asked, as though the suggestion was a jest. “Society seems to favor them.”
Her spine stiffened, not from offense so much as the sudden certainty that he found this encounter diverting. A morning’s entertainment. The thought needled her, even as she caught the faint twitch of his mouth, a laugh he tried hard to suppress.
If he discovered she’d been the one to invite him, her embarrassment would be tenfold. He was obviously doing this as a kindness to his aunt.
“My lady’s maid is within call,” Louisa lied, motioning toward the nearest seat. Truthfully, she had no clue where Lucinda had gotten to. “And the footman is bringing tea.”
Of this, she was fairly certain.
After waiting for her to sit, Dominic crossed the room with a measured stride and took the settee, the very one where she’d hiddenher apron. The cushion next to him bulged, but if he noticed, he gave no sign.
For a moment neither spoke. When she dared a glance, she found his gaze fixed on her, steady and intent, until she looked away, warmth rising to her cheeks.
After seconds spent listening to the tick of the mantel clock, the awareness between them pressed close, and then he held out his hand.
“Excuse me?” she murmured, unsure what he wanted.
“Your notes.” He flexed his fingers in a come-hither gesture. Long and slim, they made her think of risqué things she’d heard whispered about in candlelit ballrooms. She wasn’t ignorant of such matters; she’d been kissed twice, both more of a disaster than any of her experiments. “If we’re to delve into deeper discussions, as is Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s hope, can’t I see your work?”
If he’d asked for the moon, she couldn’t have been more shocked.
Would this man donothingas expected?
Without considering how much she might be sharing, Louisa gave him the folio as the teasing scent of citrus and warm spice drifted to her.
Heavens, she thought, he smelled as good as he looked.
