Chapter 13 Derek
Derek
Derek hummed as he ran his fingers over the abacus sitting on the desk’s scratched surface and awaited Miss Forester. A plate of mostly eaten shortbread biscuits lay next to a text on calculus and a stack of journals, the top one written by notable polymath Frederick Hodge.
Frowning, he picked up one of the journals and flipped through it.
Notations filled the columns of the journal entries—thoughts, observations, the occasional equation.
He squinted, trying to make out the notes.
The scribblings looked to be corrections to Hodge’s theories.
Apparently, Lord Forester was a mathematician.
Approaching footsteps echoed in the hall, and then Miss Forester appeared in the doorway, pale yellow skirts swaying about her ankles. The subtle hint of vanilla wafted to his nose, drowning out the stale smell in the Forester’s rented rooms.
He drank in the sight of her. Another simple dress, outdated and lacking any embellishment. But did she need any embellishment other than those blue eyes? She could wear a sack and still be captivating. He clenched his jaw. God, what was wrong with him?
“Miss Forester,” he murmured with a polite bow.
She curtsied, lowering her gaze. He almost scoffed. Truly, she was playing demure? Bloody rubbish. The clothes-stealing mouse.
“Lord Dunmore.” She rose, raising her chin and meeting his gaze.
There she was. Miss Forester may play prim, but it was clear she was anything but.
He sipped the whisky he’d filched from the dilapidated sideboard.
And promptly broke into a fit of coughing.
He turned away and fought back the burn behind his eyes as he wheezed.
God, that was bloody awful. Cheap dresses, cheap rooms, cheap whisky.
The Foresters were worse off than he’d initially presumed.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting…though I see you made yourself welcome.” She looked pointedly at his whisky glass, and he didn’t miss the delighted retribution glimmering in her eyes at his reaction to the awful stuff.
Oh, she was a saucy one. She looked like an angel, but she had claws. He’d felt them. Looked forward to feeling them again.
“My aunt will be down momentarily. We arrived in town not too long ago and are still settling into our accommodations.”
He glanced around the parlor, the windowless parlor—another indication of the Forester’s lack of funds. Two faded brown upholstered settees faced each other with a scratched walnut table between them. A worn sage chaise lounge chair sat in the corner next to the weathered sideboard.
“Yes, quite…lovely accommodations. You are here with only your aunt?”
A slight flush dusted her cheeks, but she lifted her chin higher. “Yes, my papa has no interest in town. He is an academic. It would throw him completely off balance to be away from his study.”
Ah, so her father was the academic. But he wasn’t here. So, why the material on mathematics? And no mention of a mother, only an aunt.
“He is always off in his own little world. Or, I suppose, out of our world. He is fascinated by space. An astronomer.” A fond smile tilted her lips.
Derek picked up the calculus text off the desk, fanning the pages. “So not a mathematician. That must mean this is yours. Intriguing reading choice for a young lady. Riveting stuff. I see you enjoy it while partaking in…shortbread.”
She stiffened.
Interesting.
She cleared her throat. “No, those are my father’s. The books, I mean.” She let out a soft laugh, but it was forced. “Obviously, he didn’t eat the biscuits. Those are mine. Were mine. There is quite a bit of math involved in astronomy.”
He studied her beneath his lashes. She squirmed, hands strangling the fabric of her yellow skirts. Why so uncomfortable, little mouse?
“Your father’s…yet your father is not here.”
Her blush deepened, highlighting her delicate high cheekbones. “I…I brought them with me for…for comfort.” Her voice grew stronger. “It makes me feel as if he is here. They are sentimental.”
He scoffed and shot her an incredulous look. “That may have been the worst lie I’ve ever heard. Let us pray you won’t need to tell any falsehoods while navigating society.”
She huffed out a breath but didn’t speak.
“Admit it.”
“Pardon?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, doe-eyes wide and innocent.
He tried and failed to hold back the roll of his eyes. Did she think he was an idiot? He waved the book in front of her. “Why won’t you admit the books are yours?”
Her gaze shot heavenwards. “Fine,” she said with a low hiss, glancing around the room as if afraid someone would overhear. “They are mine.”
He arched a brow at her. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? By your hesitance, I would have thought you were hiding a third arm, not the fact that you have a brain.” He clapped his hands once. “Shall we get on with this?”
She nodded slowly, her gaze wary as she studied his face. She obviously didn’t trust him. And she shouldn’t. But not because she had an apparent like for mathematics. No, she shouldn’t trust him because he was going to seduce her. And she was going to love every second of it.
The wooden floors under the threadbare rug creaked as she strode over to the desk. “I have a plan to improve my reputation. And it’s all laid out right here.”
He barely suppressed a groan when she bent over and grabbed a bundle of papers and some rolls of parchment, the curve of her arse mere inches from him. His hand flexed.
Don’t touch, Derek. It’ll only set you back.
That arse would be his soon enough.
She scooped up her papers and marched over to the settee, all the while glaring at him. She settled herself on the far end, placing her pile of things on the table.
He pressed his lips together, staving off a laugh. “Trying to stay as far away as possible, are we, darling?”
Her eyes narrowed into slits, and he couldn’t prevent his dark laugh that time.
He sat deliberately near her, his thigh pressing into hers.
Her mouth pinched, and he grinned, something heady buzzing through him at her ire.
He had warned her. If he was to seduce her, he would need to touch her. What did she expect?
Miss Forester ignored him and unrolled the parchment and organized her papers, placing the math text and abacus on the curling corners. He leaned forward, their shoulders bumping together, and squinted, studying the parchment.
He blindly reached for his pocket and drew out his spectacles. He slipped them on, and his eyebrows shot to his hairline as the blurred scribblings snapped into focus in front of him.
A soft intake of breath wrenched his gaze away to a seemingly dazed Miss Forester, if her softly parted mouth and faraway look were any indication. Her lips curled around a silent word, and he followed the movement. Spectacles? He grinned. She liked his spectacles, did she? How advantageous.
He casually pushed them higher up the bridge of his nose. And her mouth went flat, golden brows lifting in a way that made it clear she knew what he was doing. Well, it had been worth a shot.
He glanced back at the map. Because that was the only way to describe what lay in front of him.
It was a map. Of society. It was brilliant, really.
His attention darted back to Miss Forester.
Her chin jutted toward him, plush lips pressed tight together, and her delicate nostrils flared.
She dared him to speak down to her with that look.
Heat went straight to his groin. How ruthless she was turning out to be.
“Just to clarify, are we navigating society…or going to war?”
One pale blonde eyebrow winged up. “Are they not one and the same?”
He barked out a laugh before he could catch himself. Indeed. “All right, Wellington. Lead on.”
Her lips twitched. He sat a little taller, the beast inside of him liking very much that he’d almost made her smile. And he immediately hunched again. What a fucking daft thought.
“Here we have a diagram of society. At the top, we have the leading matrons, the ones who are most influential and important in achieving my goal.” She turned to him, her blue eyes a fist to the gut. Every. Bloody. Time. “I must be admitted to Almack’s. That is paramount to my success.”
And by the conviction in her voice, he didn’t doubt for a moment she would. He feared for anyone who stood in her way. God, she was going to be a glorious shag.
“And this is all to win…whose attention are you trying to win here?”
Her gaze flitted away. “Mr. Warren Thorton.” He pocketed that. Miss Forester tapped the paper. “These are the women who can provide me with a voucher to Almack’s. Therefore, I need to somehow invade their circles and gain their attention and approval.”
She traced lines leading down from the matrons.
“Under each matron is a group of lords and ladies closest to the matron. I consider these to be their inner circle. Those who have the most sway over their opinions. Underneath are members of society who are influential to the inner circle. As we move down, the groups become larger and larger. Which means more individuals who can sing my praise to those above them.”
She took a deep breath, and Derek’s eyes locked on her bosom, her small breasts surging against the white frills lining her yellow day dress. How would she respond if he trailed his tongue along the edge of her bodice? If he tugged that bodice down, revealed all of her to him.
Derek was a breast cove. As in he loved all breasts.
Small and pert, so large he nearly drowned in them, hell, give them to him each a different size.
Dark nipples, rosy nipples, when they had a bit of personality and pointed out at a saucy angle.
He just wanted his hands and mouth on them.
And he had a feeling this woman was hiding a pair of breasts just as deceptively delicious as the rest of her. Would she like a bit of teeth—