Chapter 13 Derek #2
Miss Forester snapped her fingers in his face. His eyes widened. No one had ever done anything so rude to him before.
“My eyes are up here.” She looked pointedly at him.
Derek’s annoyance faded, and his lips hooked up in a half-grin.
He decided right then and there that he liked her impertinence.
He hoped she would bring that into the bedroom.
He hadn’t ever had a bratty lover. Mmm, but getting to punish her impertinence?
Yes. He very much liked the thought of that.
The look she gave him was dry as dust, and then she moved back to the map. He spotted his name directly under the Dowager Duchess of Ironcrest. He would hand it to Miss Forester. She had done her research.
He made a show of removing his gloves, and she glared obstinately at him. Amusement lit in his chest, and he leaned forward, brushing up against her side as he pointed to his name. “And here I am. You snagged quite a connected second in command.”
He traced the lines, moving gradually closer to where her hand lay pressed flat against the map. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw her satisfied smile, her glowing eyes. Pride. His heartbeat stuttered.
“I did, did I not?” Their eyes clashed. Her smile faltered.
Their position leaning over the tea table had them mere inches apart. His pulse took off. His attention dipped to her lips and then back up.
He slid his fingers blindly across the paper, searching…
searching. His skin met her frayed gloves, the material so thin he could feel the heat of her skin.
His insides ignited, her touch like flint striking steel, sending sparks leaping to life.
Her gaze snapped down, but his was locked on those darkening blue irises.
He traced her fingers, slowly drawing an outline around them.
She sucked in a soft breath, but didn’t pull away, just stared, transfixed, where they touched.
Like maybe she was going up in flames too.
He ran his fingertips up and over her fingers, up over the back of her hand, then down to her fingers again.
Her breasts rose in short, quick bursts. Lovely.
Her stare finally flicked back to his, even closer now, tracing his spectacles.
He was pulling her in. He refused to believe it was the other way around.
He leaned forward infinitesimally. His heart clamored in his chest. She glanced down at his mouth.
She licked her lips. He could almost taste the shortbread flavor that would be on her tongue. Victory.
He shut his eyes and closed the distance.
And was met with nothing but air.
His eyes flew open. And was met with a mulish expression. Damnit. He glared at her, his beautiful mule, and ground his teeth together.
“Please…” he drawled and waved his hand with a flourish. “Enlighten me about this plan of yours.”
She ignored his curt tone and turned back to the papers, running her hand underneath the matrons listed at the top of her society tree.
“There are four patronesses of Almack’s currently in London.
From what I have read, they are discerning and turn away more women than they grant vouchers to.
It is likely they only accept half of the young ladies vying for a voucher.
I would rather err on the side of caution.
Let us assume they only provide vouchers to thirty percent.
If I only impress upon one matron, then I only have a thirty percent chance of being admitted. ”
She turned to Derek, her shoulders, eyebrows, and jaw rigid. “I do not like those odds. Especially considering I have very little to recommend me.”
Miss Forester glanced down, lifting her outdated skirts with one hand and letting the fabric float down. Derek nodded as he studied her. She wore her rigidity like a shield around herself, as if no hurt could penetrate through it.
“You’re not wrong.” He was nothing if not honest. “While your father is a baron, he is a baron who never travels to town, and most of the ton has forgotten his existence. I don’t know anything about your mother, but she clearly has no presence—here or in the ton.
Your aunt hasn’t frequented town in years.
Not to mention the fact that she never produced heirs for your uncle.
Another mark against you.” The chit wasn’t the only one who did her research.
Derek didn’t ever like to be caught unaware.
She gave a single jerky nod and looked back at the tree in front of her.
“My best chance is to infiltrate each of the matron’s inner circles.
With a thirty percent success rate”—she glanced at him quickly—“that’s a seventy percent failure rate.
” She looked back down. “With four possibilities…that leaves me a…” She wrinkled her nose, her eyes going slightly cross-eyed.
Her tongue darted out the corner of her mouth.
Derek’s gaze pinged around the room. Was she having a fit? Granted, it was a rather adorable fit if it was one. Those lips moved soundlessly, curling around something. Heat flared in his groin. What in the bloody hell was happening? Her eyes were closed now, forehead wrinkled.
Then those blue eyes snapped open. “75.99% chance of being admitted.”
His jaw fell open. “Pardon?”
“If I am able to impress upon all four matrons, I have a 75.99% chance of getting a voucher.”
“Do you have a quill and ink?”
“Yes, of course. On the desk.”
Derek swiftly walked over to the desk and grabbed the quill and inkpot. He brushed the feather of the quill over his chin, his mind turning over on the best way to do the computation. Then he began scribbling down figures. He underlined the final figure on the paper: 75.99%.
He spun toward her. “You could not have possibly done that in your head.”
Her brows furrowed adorably. “Because I am a woman?”
He narrowed his eyes at her and leaned forward. “No, not because you’re a woman. Because that is one”—he held up a finger—“a difficult concept, and two”—he held up a second finger—“complicated math to do without quill and parchment.”
She tilted her head, a pretty, befuddled expression crossing her face and wrinkling her nose. No. Not pretty. Bloody hell, he needed a drink. Just not her whisky.
“Not particularly,” she was saying. “The probability of success would just be one minus the probability of all the matrons rejecting me. That’s simple enough.”
He said nothing. Because yes, it might be a simple concept, but it wasn’t a simple computation.
She blinked at him earnestly. “No, it truly is. Here, let’s do it now!”
She bounced in her seat, and his eyebrows jumped to his hairline. That was…quite a bit of excitement over computations.
“What is the chance they all reject me? Seventy percent for each one. Which is seventy percent raised to the fourth. Seventy percent multiplied by seventy percent is forty-nine percent. Percentages always throw me off, so let’s leave those off for now.
” She swatted the air with her hand, an imaginary percentage going flying.
“Forty-nine squared is just messy, don’t you agree?” She looked at him as if she’d just said something as obvious as the sky is blue.
He glanced from side to side. “I…suppose.”
“Excellent, same page. So, we’ll compute fifty squared instead, which is 2,500. But we need to take off one-fifty because we only want forty-nine, so that puts us at 2,450. Simple, yes?”
He dipped his chin slowly. Sure… Simple…
“However, that is fifty forty-nines. We want forty-nine forty-nines. So, take off forty-nine and you’re at 2,401. So, the probability of rejection is 24.01%. One minus that is 75.99% or the probability of success!” She clapped her hands once in front of her, smiling. “See, not difficult at all.”
Derek stared dumbly—which he truly felt after all that, and he was a smart man—his jaw once again on the floor. This woman was remarkable. Her mind… His cock twitched, something hot and heavy settling in his groin. He’d never met another woman like her.
He had to have her.
Maybe he’d have her do computations while she rode him.
He nearly groaned. Did he have a proclivity for probability?
Based on the tightness of his breeches…
The odds were embarrassingly high.