Chapter Ten
“Lady Diantha seems very pleasant.”
Mr. Bishop offered his opinion as though he was doing Lucian a favor by bestowing it.
Had Lucian ever disliked anyone this much? Had he ever disliked anything so much?
Mr. Bishop could tie with cold oatmeal, which the duke had forced him to choke down when nine-year-old Lucian had neglected breakfast to go see some kittens in the duke’s stable.
“It will be better to work with her than with her father, who by all accounts is a bit . . . erratic,”
Mr. Bishop continued, sounding disapproving.
Cold oatmeal was now a distant second.
Though, Lucian didn’t want Mr. Bishop anywhere near the earl anyway, since an erratic earl would be more likely to invest in some sketchy proposition than a more sensible gentleman.
Like his father, who was investing, so what did Lucian know anyway? Perhaps the erratic earl would take a look at Bishop’s proposal and suss out the man as a charlatan.
“Lady Diantha and I have already discussed the issue, and we will be working on the solution,”
Lucian replied in a tone that indicated there was nothing more to discuss.
“What are the solutions?”
Apparently Mr. Bishop thought there was more to discuss.
Lucian felt his temper rise. He couldn’t afford to be openly antagonistic, however; his father would be looking to this loathsome confidence man to report on Lucian’s activity while the duke was tending to John.
Come to think of it, the last time he’d needed a nursemaid was when he was nine years old eating cold oatmeal. And he didn’t like it any better now than he had then.
“The solutions?”
Mr. Bishop prodded, and Lucian took a calming breath before he said something he would regret.
Or at the very least something his father would hold over him for the rest of his life.
“We’re in the very early stages of discussion,”
Lucian replied. “Rather like your investment plan,”
he couldn’t help but add.
Mr. Bishop’s face turned dark, and Lucian resisted the urge to smile. “When we are further along we will invite you in to talk about it. It’s not worth your time now.”
He knew that would appeal to Mr. Bishop’s sense of self-worth.
“Yes, I am very busy now, so I would prefer to wait until there is something substantive to speak about.”
He puffed himself up as he spoke, reminding Lucian of a fussy peacock.
Lucian one, Mr. Bishop zero.
That was obviously the way to prevent him from interfering: stroking his vanity while also giving him some sort of facile ownership over the project.
“And speaking of Lady Diantha, I am going to ask her for a dance.”
Because if I stay here with you any longer I will either have an apoplectic fit or bash you with the Sneeds’ beautiful epergne. “Excuse me.”
He was fortunate to find her within a few moments, standing with an older woman he presumed was her mother, the countess.
“Good evening again, my lady.”
“Good evening, my lord.”
She gestured to the older woman. “May I present my mother, the Countess of Courtenay? Mother, this is Lord Lucian Eldridge, the Duke of Waxford’s second son.”
The woman’s expression fell as her daughter made the introduction.
Well. He wasn’t known as the most charming man in London for nothing. He would get this woman to like him despite his provenance.
“My lady, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I have long admired your taste in clothing, particularly shawls, for some time now.”
He heard Lady Diantha smother a snort of laughter.
“Well, thank you, my lord,”
the countess replied, sounding assuaged. “I do like to think I have an artistic flair, even though I have not studied art.”
“Your taste is truly unique,”
Lucian said in an admiring tone.
Lady Diantha covered her mouth with her hand as she turned to suppress a coughing fit.
“If I may, I would like to ask Lady Diantha to dance.”
Lucian bowed toward Lady Diantha, whose eyes were lit with laughter.
“Diantha is free to do as she likes,”
the countess said, waving her hand in dismissal. “I am going to the card room. I have a feeling about a certain number, and I must heed its call.”
“You must, my lady, or fate will think twice before blessing you with another piece of good fortune like your artistic taste.”
“Indeed! I do like you, my lord, even though—”
and her mouth twisted in disapproval.
“Indeed,”
Lucian replied, nodding in understanding. He held his arm out for Lady Diantha. “If I may?”
“Indeed,”
she said in an amused tone.
They walked onto the dance floor as the music started. It was a polka, which offered some opportunity for conversation, provided the dancers could perform the lively steps while also speaking, which could be difficult for gentlemen who weren’t as physically fit as Lucian.
Thankfully, he had literally trained for this.
“Have you had responses to the ad yet?”
he asked, whirling her around the floor.
She gave him an annoyed look, which indicated either she hadn’t had any responses or she didn’t appreciate having to talk and dance.
“Yes, many.”
The latter, then.
“Do we have any appointments set up?”
“Yes.”
“And,”
he continued, because it was far more fun to needle her while dancing than just enjoy the dance itself, “do you have any information about what any of them will be presenting? Do you think they’re all worth our time?”
This time, she just gave him a stony-faced look.
Lucian one, Lady Diantha zero.
“Ah, I’m sorry. Perhaps you aren’t comfortable doing two things at the same time,”
he said, giving her an arch look that made her bristle.
She could do two things at the same time. For example, she could stomp on his foot while dancing. Or she could pinch his arm while also explaining Mr. Faraday’s current experiments.
The worst part about it was that even though he was clearly trying to be annoying, she couldn’t help but want to do a third thing: kiss him while also twisting her fingers through his dark hair.
Damn it.
“My lady?”
he said. “Maybe you didn’t hear me? I said—”
“I heard you,”
she said, giving him a narrowed look. “I was just thinking about how it seems fate—the fate that, according to you, gave my mother excellent taste in clothing—has flung us together after that night, and . . .”
She wondered how she could put it best.
“And—?”
he prompted.
“And I can’t seem to forget about it. That night, I mean. It’s even more aggravating than you.”
The music stopped as she spoke, so more aggravating than you rang out in the silence. A few heads turned, and Diantha felt her cheeks heat, while his mouth curled up into a smirk.
“Stop that,”
she hissed, and he gave her an innocent look.
“Stop what? Being so aggravating?”
He leaned close to her and spoke in a low tone directly into her ear. “Or being so aggravatingly charming you can’t forget that night. When I gave you your first kiss and you melted into my arms.”
He drew back, his gaze intense and dark. “As you can tell, I can’t forget about it either, Diantha.”
His use of her given name was nearly as startling as what they’d done in that anteroom.
“You can’t?”
she asked.
He shook his head slowly. “I’ve tried, I promise.”
That shouldn’t sting. It was right that he try to forget, what with being the respective children of people who bore lifelong grudges against one another, but it did. But even more than that, she was proud that he hadn’t been able to forget. She would have assumed someone with his reputation had such encounters every day of the week, even Sundays, and they all would eventually be a blur.
But apparently she was not a blur.
“Perhaps . . . perhaps since neither one of us seems to be able to stop thinking about it, perhaps we could . . . continue? To get it out of our systems.”
She swallowed, then met his eyes. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to do our best resolving our parents’ problems if we are distracted by—”
and she made a vague gesture in the air, hoping he’d understand.
“Get it out of our systems?”
he repeated, his eyes widening. She’d managed to surprise him, that was for certain. “That is an excellent idea, my lady. We’ll try it again, and we’ll see it wasn’t the stupendous moment we seem to be remembering. And then we can both be assured that what we are feeling is just some aberration. Perhaps we were both swept away with the excitement of our friends’ marriage, since we are both so close to the couple.”
Diantha felt relief too. Mostly because he had said she’d had an excellent idea. People never said that to her. At least not without wanting something from her or being resentful because she was so smart.
It honestly was not the best plan. But the alternative—that she continue with her life while still obsessing about how he’d looked at her—was not tenable. Not if she wanted to live her life on her own, completely independently without any kind of distraction, pleasant or otherwise.
Which she was going to do. Most definitely.
After they sorted out the factory, planned its management, figured out what it would produce, as well as embark on this kissing experiment she’d just proposed.
Lucian resisted the urge to fling his arms up in the air and celebrate this surprising turn of events.
Though, he dearly wished he could. But he thought that might alarm the other guests, as well as make Lady Diantha reconsider her proposition.
Because that was what it was.
She was proposing they do more of the things they’d done in that intimate antechamber a month ago. To get it out of their systems, she’d said.
He didn’t know if that would do it, but he certainly wasn’t going to turn down the chance to try.
“Well,”
he said, trying to sound calm when he absolutely wasn’t, “how do we do this system-cleansing thing? And when? It has to be either before or during the demonstrations because we’ll need clear heads to figure out the best product for the factory. And it can’t be at either of our houses, for obvious reasons.”
He snapped his fingers. “I know. The British Museum. I went there, per your recommendation, you know.”
“You did?”
She sounded surprised.
“Yes, and there were not very many people there. I expect—given your knowledge of the place—that you would be able to find a secluded spot for us.”
“That is an excellent idea.”
“I do have them, you know,”
he said indignantly. “Such as when we kissed—”
“That was my idea,”
she interjected. Her lips were curled into an amused smile, and he had never felt like kissing someone so much in his entire life. Even if it was someone else’s idea in the first place.
“Excellent idea you had, my lady,”
he shot back. “So it’s to be the British Museum for our system-cleanse project. Not to be confused with our factory-resolution project.”
“Our first appointment is in three days.”
“So we should meet at the museum tomorrow or the next day, then.”
She swallowed. “So soon?”
“If you don’t wish to—”
“No, I wish to,”
she said. Her cheeks were flame red, and he hoped the other guests would attribute her color to the heat in the ballroom, not the scandalous things they were discussing. Things like museums and factories. “I just want to get all of this—”
she said, gesturing to her head “—out of my thoughts. It’s very distracting.”
He was currently very distracted, what with wanting to drag her into another anteroom and do more than just kiss her. For example, he wanted to explore her skin with his tongue, run it across her delicate neck, over her collarbones, and then lower still. Perhaps undo the yellow satin buttons at the back of her gown, running his fingers underneath to caress her back. Then wrap his hand around her to keep her pulled up tightly against him as he continued undressing her.
“I . . . yes, I understand,”
he said, realizing she was waiting for him to reply.
“It is agreed, then,”
she replied. Her color was still high, but she seemed calmer than before. “We will take care of all this—this distraction tomorrow, and then we can begin to have our appointments and resolve the factory issue soon thereafter.”
It sounded so simple.
But Lucian didn’t think one time with her alone was going to resolve that issue. And if it was resolved for her, then he hadn’t performed his end of the bargain properly.
He wanted her desperate and eager, her eyes lit with the sparkle he’d seen in the cloakroom. Her hungry gaze focused on his mouth. Her fingers sliding over his body, learning it like a map.
But he didn’t say any of that; he just gave her a nod. “I will see you tomorrow, then.”
He was eager to know more about her, to know why she was so set on forging any kind of path at all, what with being an earl’s daughter and having a predetermined path already planned. Earls’ daughters, generally, got married to equally well-titled gentlemen and raised a passel of aristocratic children, all of whom would repeat what their parents did. And so on.
Was she unusual enough to want to break the mold? To carve out her own future?
If that was true, then—then she was undoubtedly dangerous, from his point of view. Because he preferred the unusual and knew he would never settle for the mundane.