Chapter 3
Never before had Eloise believed it when someone was said to be not of sound mind. She had always thought it an excuse for bad behavior. But right then she very much understood it. Because her mind had quite simply stood up and wandered off. It must have. For why else was she kissing the cousin of the man from whom she was supposed to be attempting to win a proposal?
Madness was the only answer. She simply had leave of her senses. Nothing else could have explained it.
This man, this Tucker Ryan, had woven some kind of magical spell over her. It had wound its way through her skin, tucking itself in between pores and behind cells until it was so much a part of her, she could never be separate from it again. But how had he done it?
Eloise had had her fair share of suitors over the two seasons she’d been out. She wasn’t so modest as to pretend she wasn’t pretty. While she wasn’t beautiful, she knew her features held some appeal, but it was her personality she liked best. So while her prettiness drew suitors in, her charm was what had kept them there. This had resulted in a few shy kisses, perhaps an awkward exchange of affectionate words, but it had all been so playful and light.
This was nothing like that had been.
This was…this was…heavens, she didn’t even know, and for that very reason, she knew it must be magic. Must be for how else could this near stranger have such a hold over her?
Why was she kissing him back?
Maybe it had been she who had kissed him. She didn’t even know any longer or care. She stood on tiptoe, her arms winding their way around his neck to hold on to him, wanting every piece of herself to be pressed against every part of him. He seemed to want the same thing as his hands pressed into her back, his fingers kneading and exploring, taking and keeping.
And she gave, her lips tangling with his, her fingers delving into his thick hair—even his hair was magical—and she forgot for just a second to hate herself for what she was doing. Hate herself for this selfishness. She had sworn this season would be different. She had discarded her fanciful dreams of a love match. Two dukes were too many to ignore, and the reality of a woman’s place in society was highlighted in stark relief.
Marry well or face a difficult life.
She knew that to be the truth, but instead she was ravishing a near stranger in another stranger’s drawing room.
She wrenched away so abruptly their lips made a smacking sound as they disconnected. She fell backward, catching herself against one of the sofas before she tumbled to the floor. Pressing the back of one hand to her aching lips, she blinked, trying to right her vision.
Finally she took him in, standing where she had abandoned him. His hands hung in the air, and it was as if they still molded her body. Every one of her muscles reacted, tightening at the sight of his hands, registering how painfully his fingers curled. Possessively.
She swallowed. “I don’t even know you,” she managed. “I only met you last night. You…you…” She searched for something damning and flung out a hand when she found it. “You could hate kittens.”
His hands didn’t move as he replied, so terribly softly. “I love kittens. Especially calico ones.”
“Of course, you’d love kittens,” she spat. “Everyone loves kittens. You’d need to be a rampaging murderer to not love kittens.” She eyed him. “You’re not a rampaging murderer, are you?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” His tone never changed, holding to the same steady soft cadence she was coming to expect from him. She wondered if he weren’t as effected as she had been, but then she realized his hands still hung in the air where she had stood in his embrace.
“Coffee or tea?” The question burst from her. The need to find a difference she could drive between them urging her on.
“Coffee.”
“Damn,” she swore, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. What was this man doing to her? She flung out a hand again. “A promenade in the park or a dance at a ball?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Neither.” He waited a beat as if searching, and then a light came into his eyes, a light that seemed to call to her. “Coasting. I’d prefer coasting, preferably at dusk with the moon rising on the horizon. There’s nothing quite like coasting in the dark.” He paused, considered. “As long as there’s nothing you might crash into.”
Her hand dropped of its own volition. “Coasting?”
He nodded, his own hands finally falling. “There was a terrific hill for coasting where I grew up.” He smiled then, a smile of such joy it pulled her from her stupor.
He was handsome but not in the traditional sense. His face was too full of light and playfulness for that. She’d mussed his tawny hair with her wandering fingers, but she had a feeling a lock always fell over his brow like that, adding to the boyishness of his face but with a more rakish bent.
“When I was eleven, I attempted to build a sledge of my own. I nearly cut off an arm when I made the runners too sharp.” His voice trembled with a laugh, and she couldn’t stop her smile from mirroring his. “Liam wouldn’t even test it with me. Thought he would be decapitated if he hit a berm at the wrong angle.”
His smile vanished and so did hers at the reminder of what, in fact, they were doing. Who they were betraying.
She backed way, her hands sliding along the edge of the sofa as if it were a lifeline, and she was forced to grope her way in the sudden darkness that had descended over her from the haze of lust she was now peering through.
“It was just a kiss,” she clamored on.
“That’s right,” he was quick to agree. “Just a kiss. No one must ever know of it.”
Well, that sounded terribly guilty. He seemed to think so as well because his brow furrowed, and his gaze dropped to the floor.
She’d made her way to the corner of the sofa by then and pushed herself around it, her hands going to the arm of the furniture so she was forced to bend nearly in half, but she just couldn’t let go of it.
Because if she did she’d run right back to him, throw herself in his arms, and?—
Make the worst mistake of her life.
That realization felt like an Arctic blast sweeping through the drawing room, and suddenly she was able to let go of the sofa. She straightened, her arms falling uselessly at her sides.
It wasn’t that pursuing this magical thing that had erupted between her and a near stranger was silly and futile; it was that it couldn’t happen at all. She was destined to marry a duke that season. And likely, it would be this man’s very cousin.
No, what was happening between them wasn’t silly. It was impossible.
“Mr. Ryan, I?—”
“Tuck.”
The way he spoke his own name had her stopping. The single word was filled with sadness and longing and worst of all, acceptance. As if she could give him this one thing, calling him by his given name, when she could give him nothing else.
“Tuck.” She spoke the name like the gift it was and then swallowed, prepared to sever whatever it was that had sprung up between them. “We can’t do this. I’m supposed to marry your—” Her throat closed around the word cousin, and she felt the distinct prick of tears. She couldn’t cry, not now, not over something so silly and so important. She forced a smile and straightened her shoulders. “I’m to marry a duke this season.” Her voice was brittle with unshed tears, but she pretended instead it was a laugh. “My mother will settle for no less.”
Tuck’s smile was hesitant, and she thought it was likely in response to her show of bravado rather than any happy feelings.
“Whatever it is that is between us now is just a lark. An accident of our meeting. It will go away in a few days.” Oh lud, was she speaking of love or a fever?
His smile faded. “You’re right, Lady Eloise. We’re nothing but the victims of biology. There isn’t anything more to it.” His words sounded as false as hers had.
She forced another one of those smiles. “Then we are in agreement. This is nothing.” The tears almost came then, and she felt like the silly little girl she’d been two years ago when she’d been thrust onto the Marriage Mart.
She had swept through her first ballroom with visions of romance and love and affection only to find her suitors measuring her like a prized mare, sizing her up for her wealth and connections and most importantly of all, her ability to bear children. There was nothing romantic about any of it, and love was as real as unicorns.
“It might be best if we were to avoid one another,” he said.
The idea sliced through her like a dagger, and she thought she might never breathe again. Avoid each other? Not see him? It couldn’t be and yet at the same time it must.
“You’re right,” she replied. “Perhaps if we were to see less of one another these feelings will grow stale and fade.”
Liar.
She knew she spoke lies, but she must believe she was telling the truth. Too much depended on her making the proper match. Her mother would be so disappointed if she didn’t secure the hand of the duke, and something deep inside of Eloise wouldn’t let that happen. She needed to grow up, had decided to grow up and then?—
She’d met Tuck.
It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. She’d already made her choice.
Besides, Ardley seemed like a fair gentleman. Perhaps her marriage wouldn’t be without laughter or kindness. The very thought felt empty when she was looking at Tuck.
So she looked away, her feet moving her toward the door when her mind told her to stay, and her heart was already back in Tuck’s arms.
“I’ll leave first,” she heard herself say. “We shouldn’t be seen coming back into the ballroom together. There will be talk.” She turned back at this to see if he understood.
She was surprised to find he’d buried his face in one hand. At her words, he straightened, sweeping the hand up his face until it pushed through his hair, spiking the lock that fell over his forehead backward and up, entirely ruining any style he might have meant to make of it earlier that evening. But when the lock fell back into place as if he hadn’t made that gesture, she wondered if he’d attempted a style at all. Maybe this was just him, that wayward lock and that gesture of frustration.
It was one of the millions of little things about him she’d never learn.
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “I shall wait here for a time.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Tuck. I’m—” She had almost said she was sorry, but she wasn’t sorry. She could never be sorry about Tucker Ryan. She could only be sorry that she’d met him too late. “I’m lucky to have met you at all,” she said instead and then forced another smile as she slipped through the door.
She didn’t go back to the ballroom. She found a retiring room down the empty corridor and locked herself inside of it. When she finished crying, she scolded herself for her immaturity and gave herself the talking to she deserved.
It was only infatuation she felt for Tucker Ryan, and it would fade. It must.
She fixed her hair, smoothed her skirts, and when she let herself out of the retiring room, she promised one day she’d believe such an idea might be true.
* * *
Standingin a crowded drawing room surrounded by enough starched cravats to hold up Big Ben, Tucker Ryan was fairly certain it was the worst day of his life.
He’d once spent seven days on a ship anchored off of the Shetland Islands, assisting his mentor, a Professor Ludgate, in studying a colony of puffins. A storm raged over the island for five of those seven days, pounding the researchers with fifty-mile-an-hour winds, lashing, unrelenting rain, and eight-foot swells. Even the heartiest of sailors on board their vessel became ill with seasickness, but the storm prevented them from going ashore or even taking the chance of finding a harbor. The coastline was too rocky, and the inclement weather meant death to all of them if it lifted their ship against the dangerous rocks.
So instead, they remained at sea, weathering the storm, and the seasickness that plagued them. By the third day, the stench of sick had been burned into Tuck’s nostrils, and he was certain he’d die from sleep deprivation. Even then, Tuck had felt more at home than he did standing on the edges of that drawing room on a dismal Tuesday afternoon in Mayfair.
Liam had said it was important for Tuck to mingle in a setting that was less demanding than a ball. He thought calling on one of Liam’s prospective wives would be a casual affair and give Tuck the chance to make some new acquaintances.
So here Tuck stood, a cup of tea gone cold in his hand as he lazily spun the floor-standing globe at his elbow, seeing where his finger might land and if he were familiar with the location when it did.
The debutante Liam had decided to call on was a Lady Frances Hipplewaite, the daughter of the Earl of Leighton. She was a nice enough girl, although girl was truly the description for her. Liam had said she was only seven and ten, rather young to be out already, and Tuck felt bad that she had been forced to give up the innocence and ease of childhood so quickly. She had a nice smile in an unfortunate face, and he wondered if she would find criticism amongst the ladies of the ton now that she was out. Wallflower was the word Tuck thought might be used to describe her, and it seemed a shame.
But her drawing room was filled to the rafters that afternoon, evidence of the sizable dowry her father had bestowed upon her. Perhaps he too was aware of his daughter’s inevitable wallflower status.
Tuck should be speaking to someone, anyone, really. He wished to embark on his journey by that August, so that he would be fully established in Spitsbergen before the aurora borealis returned in the fall. There was much to be done before then, and without funding, he could do none of it. Yet here he was twirling a globe instead of speaking to anyone.
Twirling a globe and trying not to think about Lady Eloise Bounds.
Why on earth had he kissed her?
When he’d returned to Liam, he’d claimed a headache and said he’d speak to his cousin in the morning, hurrying off before his cousin could probe further and discover the horrible thing Tuck had done.
Betrayal.
The word reverberated in his head like a curse, and there was nothing he could do to break it. He must remind himself that Lady Eloise was just one of Liam’s prospects, and it wasn’t as though his cousin had declared his undying love for the woman. He was merely interested in her as a potential wife.
God, Tuck was a failure.
This thought had his finger poking the globe harder than he should have, and it made a screeching noise against his flesh. He looked up, but nobody about him seemed to have noticed.
His view was mostly the backs of gentlemen waiting their turn to speak with Lady Frances, and most were involved in discussions of gambling and horseflesh, oblivious to the machinations of a bored scholar behind them.
Harrison wouldn’t be bored. Harrison likely would have raised all the necessary funds already, acquired seven new friends, and pledged allegiance to a fraternity or six. Tuck gulped his tea, shoving thoughts of his brother down into the bottom of his gut where he preferred to let them fester.
It was then someone jostled his elbow, sending tea splashing down his shirtfront. He wiped lazily at it, certain no one would notice, and made to smile at the gentleman who had knocked into him to indicate no harm was done. Only when the gentleman turned about, he greeted Tuck with a kind smile and a soft expression of sympathetic misery.
“Apologies, my good man.” The gentleman had a deeper voice than his lithe build would have suggested, a resounding baritone that cut through the din of conversation that surrounded them. “It’s rather more…” His voice trailed off as he looked around the room as if deciding what word would best fit what he wished to say.
“Congested,” Tuck offered, and this brought the gentleman’s gaze back to him, the corners of his lips lifted in surprised mirth.
“Congested. Yes,” he said. “That’s quite the right word for it, I should think.” He offered his hand. “The name is Templeton.”
“Tucker Ryan,” Tuck said, taking the man’s hand.
“Are you here to vie for the affections of Lady Frances then?”
Tuck shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I’m merely accompanying my cousin.” He nodded to where Liam occupied the sofa next to Lady Frances, her hand in his as he no doubt cooed epithets of undying love to her while a bevy of displeased suitors glared on around them. “The Duke of Ardley.”
Templeton’s expression fell. “So you’re not here for Lady Frances then?”
“No, I’m afraid I’m not in the market for a wife. I’m only in London to raise funds for a scientific expedition I am hoping to launch this summer. Are you familiar with the northern lights?” He indicated the ceiling with a single finger, painting the aurora borealis as Michelangelo may have painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. “The light phenomenon that is often witnessed in northerly skies?”
Templeton’s expression slid downward into something resembling confusion, so Tuck went on, feeling the familiar excitement when it came to discussing the aurora.
“You see, the aurora borealis occurs when there is some kind of anomaly to the geomagnetic field. I’m sure you remember the Carrington Event. That was caused by these disturbances that manifest as light patterns in the sky. Not much is known on what causes these disturbances or why they had such an impact on the operations of human life, and it is this which I hope to study in my expedition.”
Templeton looked as though he’d just eaten paste. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ryan. I must have given the wrong impression. I’m only a vicar.” He nodded in the direction of Lady Frances. “The young lady’s mother asked for me to be in attendance today to interview her daughter’s possible suitors. She wishes for her daughter to wed a devoted Christian man.”
Tuck realized he was still pointing at the ceiling then and slowly lowered his arm, tucking it against his body and hoping the floor would drop out from beneath him, allowing him to disappear entirely.
“I see,” he muttered. “Well then, how goes the interviewing?”
Templeton’s expression held notes of concern and empathy but mostly just the desire to be as far away from Tuck as possible. Tuck knew this because he was often looked at with such an expression.
He swallowed and stepped back. “You can leave,” he said, gesturing to the rest of the room.
“Thank you,” the vicar said and scuttled away.
“You scared off another one, didn’t you?”
Tuck didn’t even start at the sound of his cousin’s voice so near his ear. He took another sip of his cold tea and grimaced at the bitterness. “I didn’t scare him away. I only misunderstood the situation.” He glanced at his cousin whose expression was inscrutable. “Again,” Tuck added.
Liam rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly. “Tucker, my dear cousin, you must let me help. You know I applaud your abilities in the classroom, and I would never think to undermine your integrity as a researcher. But you’re in my classroom now, and you must let me show you how it is one deals with society.” He lifted his hand palm up to gesture about the room. “Follow me about, won’t you?” His hand stopped at about eleven o’clock to indicate a pair of men wearing similar plaid trousers and peach waistcoats. “The Devlin brothers. Younger sons of a marquess. Educated at Oxford. Both with courtesy titles and allowances to see them through anything and both riddled with the pox they acquired at Mrs. Heathcliffe’s House of Leisure.” Liam dropped his hand and turned back to Tuck. “Offer them a chair and watch them squirm. I haven’t seen them sit at a social function in three seasons. Their feats in the brothels are legendary. You would think they would wish a respite from the venereal pain, but they continue in their debauchery.”
Tuck blinked. “How do you know about the sexual exploits of those gentlemen?”
“Because one must know. Such tidbits are the ammunition one must have to succeed in this town.” His hand moved again, but Tuck couldn’t look. “Lord Byram, staunch supporter of the Judicature Acts, and yet he’s terrified of his own wife. He fakes migraines to avoid her.” The hand moved again. “The Honorable Martin Wycliffe. Thrown from a horse so many times, the man even refuses to ride in a carriage. Will walk miles to avoid it.” His hand dropped, and Tuck hoped fervently his cousin was finished. “You must discover more about who it is you wish to solicit before attempting to do so. Were you even aware Templeton was a vicar?”
Tuck opened his mouth, shut it, and shook his head instead.
“Did you think to ask him his name?”
“Ah,” Tuck said, happy to have a point in his favor. “The gentleman offered his name as simply Templeton. I didn’t know to ask more.”
“You must let me help.” Liam’s expression was stern, but Tuck waved him off.
“I must persuade a gentleman of means to be my benefactor, not seduce him into bed.”
Liam pressed a hand to his chest in mock indignation. “I am not a rogue, cousin. I am merely a man who appreciates the finer things this life has to offer.”
“The finer things being women.”
“Ladies,” Liam corrected. “Please, Tucker. Do not offend me with your baser accusations.”
His cousin grew quiet then, his eyes no longer playful. Tuck shifted, setting aside the teacup he’d nearly forgotten. He didn’t like it when Liam grew thoughtful. His cousin knew him better than anyone, which only meant he knew the sorest places to poke.
“Have you given any more thought as to what I said?” Liam finally asked, his voice soft. “About approaching potential funders with why you are doing this instead of the science of the thing?”
Tuck suddenly wished for another cup of tea, or perhaps something stronger, as his throat grew scratchy at his cousin’s words. He shook his head.
“You know I will not pursue such a line of inquiry. It is no concern of my potential benefactors why it is I’ve set my sights on this expedition. The merits of science should be enough to win their dollars.”
“And how was it that the vicar felt about the aurora?”
Tuck only frowned.
“Precisely. You must give these men something they can relate to, or you’ll just find yourself watching their backsides as they walk away from you.”
Tuck felt that familiar sensation of falling, the one he had felt for so many years now, ever since the stranger had shown up on their doorstep with the news that would set the course of his life.
He faced his cousin. “I will not speak of Harrison. These people don’t deserve to know of him or what happened to him. This is about the expedition and the science that can be gained from it. That is all.”
Liam’s expression held a degree of empathy that always made Tuck feel instantly guilty for rebuffing his cousin’s attempt at aid. He dropped his gaze and forced a breath out of his lungs before looking up.
“I’m not ready, Liam. Not yet.”
“It’s been fourteen years, cousin. When will you be ready?” Liam questioned delicately.
Tuck couldn’t answer.
His cousin shifted and blew out a breath. “Did you ever think you’d have an easier go at this if you could speak of him?”
The question dug into Tuck’s chest like an arrow, sapping the breath from his lungs as he’d never considered the question.
“I guess we’ll never find out,” Tuck answered because he knew the truth of it.
He simply couldn’t talk about his dead brother.