Chapter Six
Ralston was riveted. He’d seen Nora sneak out of the manor and had followed her at a discreet distance to discover her wading in the surf.
He’d settled on her blanket and observed her.
Her skirts were hitched in her waistband, as she searched for something and his gaze was drawn to her slender ankles and shapely calves.
The sight instantly brought back memories of her legs pressed against him in bed.
He knew the smoothness of her skin. He’d had the privilege of touching it, of running his hands over her calves, then trailing his fingers along her soft inner thigh.
Her auburn hair shimmered beneath the sun as she approached, eyes wide.
She wasn’t freckled like other women with her vibrant hair colour, but she had a lovely dusty complexion.
Her eyes, a vivid green, reminded him of the ferns from his summer home in Hertfordshire.
The combination was striking. He could sit and watch her for the entire afternoon.
She stopped in front of him, not bothering to let down her skirts. Placing a hand above her brow to shield her eyes from the sun, she asked, ‘What are you doing here, my lord?’
He stood. His manners had been ingrained since childhood.
‘I saw you depart from the manor. I was worried you were ill.’ It was the truth.
He’d thought she’d slipped from the house to be sick in the gardens.
Then he’d seen her walk down the shell driveway, away from the manor.
Cornwall was safe, but there was always a chance of harm.
‘Ill?’ She lowered her hand, and a guilty flush rose in her cheeks. ‘There’s no need for your concern. As you can see, I’m perfectly well.’
She was completely unlike the women he knew.
Those prim and proper London misses would not be caught alone on a beach, wouldn’t take off their stockings, wouldn’t wade into the surf.
Tendrils of auburn hair had escaped her pins to curl about her cheeks and his fingers itched to reach out and tuck the errant strands back in place.
He was swiftly becoming fascinated, and he was disgruntled at his own reaction.
They were to have a business-type relationship, dammit.
He changed the topic of conversation. ‘What are you searching for?’
‘I told you about my interest in biology, specifically shells.’
‘Yes, I recall the shell you placed on my escritoire.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, well, Cornwall has an abundance of them. But there is one on my list that I was searching for.’
He was curious. ‘Did you find it?’
A glimmer of satisfaction lit her eyes. ‘Yes. Do you want to see?’
‘Show me.’ He wanted to spend more time with her. If looking at sandy shells was a way, then he’d agree. It wasn’t just to be near her physically, he told himself, but to understand her mind.
She slipped the canvas bag from around her shoulder and set it on the blanket.
As if realizing her dishabille, she pulled her skirts from her waistband, allowing the fabric to fall to cover her legs, then sat on the blanket.
Glancing up, she patted the spot beside her. ‘Aren’t you going to join me?’
He wondered if it would always be like this with her. She’d turn his orderly life upside down in a heartbeat.
He sat, stretching out his long legs. His valet would have a fit when he returned with sand on his polished Hessians.
Ralston took care with his appearance, not as a dandy would, but because a politician must appear properly attired at all times.
One never knew who he would run into in Town.
Nora, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care.
His gaze dropped to her bare feet. They were slender with a delicate arch and perfect toes.
He’d never noticed a woman’s toes before.
Rather than feel disapproval at her state of undress, he wanted to ease her back on the blanket and kiss her.
She reached inside the sack to pull out a shell. Yellowish with brown, it was unimpressive and had a crack down the center.
‘This is a cockle shell,’ she said. ‘It’s distinctive with its heart shape and strong radiant ribs.
It can be found in warmer water as well as colder water like Cornwall and even Iceland.
It’s described in detail in a book in my bedchamber.
’ There was passion in her tone, and she held up the sandy shell as if it were a prized possession.
‘But this specimen is more fascinating in life.’
‘The one you found is cracked and damaged.’
She turned her face to his, her eyes wide, her full lips tilted in a grin. ‘Damaged? No! It’s a wonder. This shell was marred from a fisherman’s net and mended itself. See how the crack is fully sealed.’ She ran a finger across the imperfection.
He leaned close to study it, and the distinct scent of lemongrass mingling with the scent of fresh ocean teased his senses. ‘Is it what you were looking for?’
‘Yes. Please pass my basket,’ she said.
‘Why? Is there wine in there?’
She laughed. ‘No, silly. My journal.’
He reached for the basket and she pulled out a well-worn leather journal.
‘I need to record my findings.’ She swiftly flipped through pages, each filled with sketches of shells and scribbled notes he couldn’t make out.
She stopped until she came to the desired page.
‘Here!’ She pointed to a cockle shell, except it did not have a crack. More scribbled notes filled the page.
‘The specimen I found proves my theory that the mollusk that lived inside this shell produced an element such as calcium as well as others that prevented the crack from fully breaking the shell. The mantle of this shell most likely continually repaired itself over months, even years.’
Her enthusiasm was inspiring and he was struck by her intelligence. When she’d first told him she was a biologist, he could not envision it. He’d believed all scientists were males or unattractive, bespectacled wallflowers. ‘I’ve never heard of a shell healing itself.’
‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it? The tiny mollusk that lived inside this shell was more advanced than anyone could imagine.’
‘I’ll never look at a shell the same way.’
‘They are all unique. Did you know mollusks never leave their shells? They start as a small creature. As they grow, their shell must grow with them. They are smart and hardworking enough to expand their shell, their home, as they mature.’ She reached for a charcoal pencil and scribbled a couple notes in her journal as she spoke.
‘They are smarter than some humans,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Some mollusks are even deceptive and poisonous. I’ve read about them.’
‘As are some people.’ He thought of his rival at the House of Lords.
Nora took the damaged shell from him and set it down on the blanket. ‘I must modify my sketches.’
He watched as she sketched. Sunlight heightened the colours of her hair as she worked. Red, soft brown and deeper auburn. He spotted an enticing freckle by her bottom lip. He hadn’t noticed it before and wanted to flick his tongue over it before he kissed her.
Too soon, she was finished and she returned her journal to the basket. He found himself not wanting their time to end. ‘What do you aim to do with your findings?’
She let out a sigh. ‘Like I told you earlier, my goal is to present my research to the London Scientific Society one day. I’ve even heard of a specific contingent of scientists studying abroad. What a dream that would be!’
‘Does the Society have an interest in shells?’
‘The Society has an interest in many things.’
If the stuffy scientists were exposed to her enthusiasm, he had no doubt they would be interested in her work.
She pushed her basket aside. ‘And you?’ she asked. ‘I told you about my goals. I know you are a politician, but I know nothing about your bill.’
He was surprised she’d asked about it. ‘The bill is to limit child labor in London’s cotton mills.’
A glimmer lit her eyes. ‘A good endeavor. But if I am to be honest, I would not expect you to take an interest in child labor or sponsor a bill to address it.’
His curiosity was piqued. Her mind was unpredictable to him. Did she truly think it a worthy bill or that it was somehow self-serving? ‘Why?’
‘I thought you would say your bill would somehow benefit wealthy landowners or those who owned a certain number of acres in the country.’
His lips quirked. ‘In other words, you believed it would benefit those that do not need it.’
She gave him a sheepish look. ‘Guilty. However, a bill to reduce child labor intrigues me.’ She shifted an inch closer to him on the blanket. ‘How did you get interested in it?’
He hesitated. An ocean breeze cooled his face and ruffled his hair. He didn’t know whether it was the beach or Nora sitting close to him that made him want to tell her more. ‘I read newspapers and pamphlets about the harsh conditions of child labor as a young man.’
She pursed her lips. ‘That’s it?’
Tell her. He took a deep breath of briny ocean air.
‘One day, when I was about fifteen, I was travelling with my parents in their fancy crested coach through London. Our driver shouted and our carriage came to an abrupt halt. I lifted the tasseled shade to look outside. Commotion ensued. Then I saw it. Or I saw her. A young girl, who could not have been more than eight, was on a cart cradling her arm, crying, and screaming in pain. Her hand had been severed off. Blood was everywhere. An accident had occurred at one of the cotton mills where she’d worked. ’
Nora gasped and placed a hand across her mouth.
The pit of his stomach churned at the memory.
‘The horror of the scene struck me. To make matters worse, a man driving a brewer’s cart shouted for the girl’s cart to get out of the way so he could pass.
It was heartless. It was then that my mother grabbed my hand from across the leather bench.
I remember her words clearly. “My son, you will one day have position and much wealth. Use it wisely.”’
Nora lowered her hand. ‘She must have been a special mother.’