Chapter 9
Theodora dipped her quill into the inkwell, steadying her breath as she opened her leather-bound notebook to the page marked Stage Six — The First Kiss (Symptoms: Sensory Overload Observation Day One of Melancholy: Potential Remedies and Interventions.
Her handwriting here was softer, and less rigid than when she wrote about her experiment with the Scarlet Duke. Theodora reminded herself to note that down as well.
She stared at the blank page before her as she recalled her meeting with Lady Rosalind. Theodora’s heart ached for the young girl mostly because she understood her pain.
But what is the root of her pain?
She dipped her quill again, ready to continue her notes on potential remedies.
Rest, sunlight, and gentle companionship—
Her hand slipped when a knock at the door interrupted her.
Theodora sighed. “You may enter.”
The door creaked open, and Marianne stepped inside. She was the youngest and newest of their maids, barely sixteen, with a round face and earnest brown eyes. Theodora smiled at her and the girl curtsied nervously.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Dowell. A letter has arrived for you.”
Theodora accepted it with a nod. “Thank you, Marianne.”
The girl bobbed another clumsy curtsy and slipped out, closing the door softly behind her. Theodora turned the envelope over in her hands and her breath caught when she recognized the bold, slanted, and unmistakably masculine handwriting.
“Speak of the devil,” she mumbled under her breath.
She frowned as she imagined what he may have written about this time.
Surely it is not a poem after our last… mishap.
She had not heard from him since that disastrous afternoon at Hawthorne House and had assumed he was done with her. Or perhaps she had hoped he was.
Her fingers hesitated at the seal before she broke it open.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. No poem or innuendo. And no scandalous rhyme meant to make her blush. Theodora did not understand why she felt a tinge of disappointment.
Miss Dowell,
I owe you an apology. My temper was ill-placed, and my words were unworthy of you. I spoke out of fear, not reason. Rosalind is the most precious person in my life, and I reacted poorly when I believed she was distressed. You meant no harm. I see that now. I hope you will forgive my conduct.
— Alexander Kendall
Theodora examined the letter in silence, experiencing a physical response she found uncomfortable. She had not anticipated an apology from him, and even if she had, any warm feeling generated by it seemed uncertain.
Forgive him?
She folded the letter carefully and set it aside.
I shall but I will not write back.
She would not allow him to pull her into another argument, another kiss, or another moment where her mind went dangerously silent and her body betrayed her.
Distance was necessary and safe.
She rose from her writing desk and crossed the room to her bedside table, where a small stack of books sat waiting. Her friends had insisted she read one of their scandalous novels.
“For research,” Anna had said with a wicked grin.
Theodora shook her head and resisted. But now, as part of her experiment, she supposed she ought to examine the literature that so thoroughly corrupted the minds of young ladies.
She picked up the top volume.
“The Duke’s Forbidden Embrace by Clarissa Pennington,” she read aloud.
The name alone made her chuckle. She carried it to her bed, settled against the pillows, and opened to the marked page that was apparently the best part, according to Evelina.
Theodora cleared her throat and began reading aloud.
“His hand trailed down her spine, igniting a fire she had never known. ‘Tell me you want this,’ he murmured. His breath was warm against her ear.” Theodora paused.
This is ridiculous.
Yet she continued.
“Her knees weakened as his lips brushed the hollow of her throat, sending tremors through her very soul. She clutched his coat, desperate for more—”
Theodora’s breath hitched because suddenly, it was not Mrs. Pennington’s fictional Duke she imagined. It was hers. The Duke of Hawthorne.
Theo imagined his large hands sliding down her spine as well as the way he would grip her close to him and tilt her head up before kissing her parted lips. His breath would brush her ear and his lips would trace the line of her throat.
Heat pooled low in her belly.
She swallowed hard and kept reading.
“He pressed her against the wall, his body a solid, unyielding force. ‘Say it,’ he whispered. ‘Say you want me.’” Theodora’s pulse quickened.
She had read enough medical texts to understand her own body’s responses, and the ways she might…alleviate tension. She had, in the privacy of her own room, even experimented once or twice. She placed the book lightly on her chest and slowly lifted her skirts up.
Theodora closed her eyes as she grazed her thigh with her palm. She let out a soft sigh. An image of the Scarlet Duke crossed her mind, tempting in every way.
Her breath came faster, Her thighs pressing together instinctively. She felt her body awakening, tingling, yearning—
“No! Absolutely not.” She pulled her hand back, picked up the book, and snapped it shut with a loud thud.
Theodora sat upright and yanked her skirts down to her feet. Her cheeks burnt from shame.
“This is absurd,” she muttered, swinging her legs off the bed. “Utterly absurd.”
She paced to the window, pressing a hand on her heated face.
“Foolish girl,” she whispered to herself. “You are conducting an experiment, not indulging in fantasies about a man you cannot stand.”
She inhaled sharply as her eyes darted to the letter on her desk.
“Especially not that man.”
Theodora flung the scandalous book onto her bed and glared at it as though it had personally offended her. She would be sure to complain about it at their next Corset Chronicle meeting.
Despite her denial, her heart still raced, her lips still tingled, and her traitorous, illogical body still hummed with the memory of the Scarlet Duke.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and shut her eyes.
“Get a hold of yourself, Theodora Dowell!”
* * *
“You are late,” Anna announced, lifting her brows. “Have you been conducting experiments again? Or perhaps reading something… enlightening?”
She winked at her, but Theodora ignored the jab and took her seat.
“Speaking of reading,” she said, pulling her gloves off with more force than necessary, “I must express my profound disappointment in the novel you all insisted I examine.”
Evelina nearly choked on her tea. “Oh dear. What did you think of it?”
“What did I think?” Theodora repeated, incredulous. “I think Mrs. Pennington ought to be arrested for corrupting the minds of impressionable young women.”
Maria snorted. “It is hardly corruption. It is entertainment.”
“It is nonsense,” Theodora declared disgustingly. “Utter nonsense. The heroine swoons every third page, the hero cannot seem to keep his shirt on, and the descriptions…” She shuddered. “They are entirely unrealistic!”
Anna grinned like a cat who had cornered a mouse. “Unrealistic? My dear Theo, you sound as though you have conducted a comparative study. Is the experiment going well?”
“The experiment is going well but not in the way you assume,” Theodora snapped.
Evelina leaned forward, eyes sparkling with shameless curiosity. “But you said the scenes were unrealistic. How would you know, dear sister?”
Theodora froze.
Anna gasped dramatically. “Oh, I am very curious to know how she knows too.”
“Surely science does not have you clued in on every aspect of the experience,” Maria added.
“Your secret will be safe with us; you do know that? Unless of course it is too scandalous and you may have to marry your…specimen.” Evelina grinned at her.
The excitement amongst them was palpable and heat crept up Theodora’s neck. “I simply meant that the book exaggerates. It is melodramatic, overwrought, and entirely improbable.”
“Improbable?” Evelina echoed, her brow arching. “Theo, darling, you turned the color of a ripe tomato when you said that.”
“I did not!”
“You did,” all three said in unison.
Theodora lifted her chin. “Regardless, this book is absurd.”
Anna laughed. “Absurdly accurate, perhaps.”