Chapter 4
Felix left London for a week. The day of his return, he went to the Reading Room of the British Museum. After two hours with stacks of books before him, he stepped out from underneath the Reading Room’s famous blue-and-gold dome to find himself a cup of tea.
Sitting in a corner of the nondescript refreshment room, a plate of wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches before her, was none other than Miss Louisa Cantwell, in the same green velvet walking dress from the time they had run into each other at the bookshop.
He blinked, not sure he hadn’t somehow conjured her.
He’d gone to Huntington, his country seat, because he had not wanted to waste the night skies of an unusually sunny week in the middle of a very wet summer.
But one could argue that he had left to prove to himself that he would be quite fine were he to stay away from her.
He was fine, busying himself with his astronomical observations. He thought of her a great deal, but that was only to be expected, given that he had plots in place concerning her. Besides, those thoughts were quite pleasurable and gave him not a moment of distress or angst.
Ignoring her sandwiches, Miss Cantwell played with her napkin—something she would never do at a proper dining table—rolling it into a tight tube, then shaking it loose and folding it into a smaller and smaller triangle.
He found her prettier like this, distracted, unsmiling, and without the air of utter agreeableness that she wore like a layer of theatrical makeup.
The next moment, something in her aspect changed. Her fingers, which had treated the napkin as only a napkin, now lingered over the linen, caressing it, then seizing a handful of the cloth as if in agitation—as if the fabric were that of the sheet upon which she awaited her lover.
He felt his own breath quickening. A little disconcerting to realize that she could arouse him even when she was not reacting to his presence.
She glanced up. The expression on her face when she saw him—as if he were a swaying cobra and she a hapless would-be victim, desperate to flee but mesmerized against her will.
He wished he could distill and bottle the sensation.
One drop of such an essence would turn a eunuch as virile as Hercules himself.
He approached her table. “Miss Cantwell, an unexpected…pleasure.”
The way he lingered over the syllables of that last word—he might as well seduce virgins from good families twice a week.
He was saved from ridiculousness only by her even more disproportionate response. Her pupils dilated. A pulse throbbed visibly at the base of her throat. And she flushed everywhere—or at least all the way to her earlobes.
She cleared her throat. “Lord Wrenworth, we thought you still at your estate.”
“I cannot long forsake the delights of London during the Season. May I join you?” He sat down before she could answer one way or the other and gave his order to the server who had sprung forward to inquire after his needs. “What brought you here to the Reading Room?”
He hadn’t pegged her as the bookish sort. But this particular refreshment room served only to those holding readers’ tickets—the public refreshment room was by the statue of Mercury, in the Gallery of Antiquities.
“Oh, idle curiosity.”
Too bad books and manuscripts could not be taken out of the Reading Room—that would have made it easier for him to discover what she had come for.
She was no longer looking at him—or rather, no longer looking him in the eye.
But he could feel her gaze elsewhere on his person, a heat that lingered for a moment at the top of his collar, then journeyed across the width of one shoulder and down the length of that arm, intensifying every inch farther south.
It would be alarming, the degree to which she stirred and tantalized him, fully dressed and sitting a respectable distance away, if he didn’t feel himself completely in control of the situation.
Still, he brought up a sobering subject—sobering for her, at least. “And how goes your quest for a bridegroom, Miss Cantwell?”
Her resentment returned. And he, budding pervert that he was, found her sullen, suspicious glare terribly stimulating—the seemingly even-keeled lady in fact possessed quite a temper.
“You know very well, my lord, how difficult it is for a young woman of unexceptional birth, unexceptional looks, and no fortune at all to win the hand of a man in prosperous circumstances.”
“Come, Miss Cantwell, London all but overflows with gentlemen this time of the year. Surely the loss of a mere pair of candidates should not detract from your chances of a successful match.”
“You think so because you have no need to fret about your budget, sir, but everywhere else gentlemen are hurting in the family coffer.”
“I am well aware of my good fortune in that regard. But I also know that I am not the only one so blessed.”
“Indeed not, but the Duke of Lexington is still at university, as is the youngest Mr. Marsden.”
She had done her homework. Not many people realized that the great fortune of the youngest Mr. Marsden’s godfather would pass to the godson.
“What about the Marquess of Vere? He is not at university.”
Miss Cantwell raised a brow. His question was designed to test the depth and breadth of her desperation and she well knew it: Lord Vere was known far and wide as an arrant idiot.
“Yes, I would gladly marry Lord Vere. He is easy on the eyes and certainly rich enough. But Lord Vere prefers his debutantes both beautiful and propertied, and he has not come near me, except once, to spill some lemonade on my dress.”
“And Mr. de Grey? He pays no court to heiresses, from what I have observed.”
“I’m surprised you have not noticed the way he looks at his sister-in-law. He will not propose to anyone, not until he overcomes that obsession. And that would be far too late for me.”
“Well, there is always Sir Roger Wells. He is desperate for a legitimate heir. And if you would but look kindly his way, he would offer his hand to you.”
She leveled him with a nasty look—he relished her displays of testiness; they made him feel supremely accomplished.
“Now you are just toying with me, my lord. But I will tell you this: I do not want to be Sir Roger’s wife, not because of that unspeakable disease of his, but because several reliable sources have assured me that he has squandered his fortune and is now deep in debt. ”
“So would you have married him if his fortune had remained intact?”
“No.”
“No?”
“He is a despicable man even without that dread disease. I have come to London to help my family, not to martyr myself.”
“But what if you have no choice at the end of the Season? What if Sir Roger becomes your only viable alternative?”
“My family is not so destitute as that, sir. We are not going to be turned out of our house at the end of the Season. My mother is in good health and can be reasonably expected to live many more years.”
“But not forever. And when she passes on, what will happen to your sister, the one who is epileptic?”
She blinked, as if wondering how he could know so much about her family when she’d never brought up the subject before him. “We will take care of her, of course.”
“How? If you were to find a position as a governess or lady’s companion, you would not be permitted to bring her with you.
Someone has to be with her all the time, I understand.
Which means you need two people in that position, so that she is never left unwatched. How do you propose to finance that?”
A shadow crossed her face, but her words were relentlessly optimistic.
“When God closes a door, He opens a window. I have other marriageable sisters. Not to mention Matilda herself is both lovely and sweet—some lucky gentleman just might win her hand and ensure himself a very felicitous domestic union.”
He leaned in slightly. “Do you believe that?”
She had been looking either to the left or the right of him, but now she met his gaze squarely. “Perhaps not. But while I will marry a man I do not love, I will not take a husband I cannot stand.”
Her eyes were large and wide-set, but, rather unusually, slanted slightly downward toward the outer corners, giving an impression of tremendous transparency, of being unguarded and trusting. He began to understand why most people considered her a darling innocent.
And why Mr. Pitt and Lord Firth both found her so appealing.
But she was, if not a shark, then at least a dolphin: smiling and sweet-faced, yet ferociously intelligent and undeniably a predator.
An interesting woman even when she wasn’t quivering in unfulfilled lust for him.
“So…what are you willing to do?” he murmured.
Her lips parted, as if she found it difficult to breathe. And suddenly she and he were once again braced in that erotic tension that was infinitely addictive to him.
But before she could answer, someone called his name. “Wren!”
Startled, Felix looked up into the smiling face of John Baxter. Baxter by himself was more than harmless, but he happened to be the nephew by marriage of one Lady Avery, noted gossip.
He rose, shook hands with Baxter, and introduced him to Miss Cantwell. “It was quite a surprise when I saw Miss Cantwell here—not often do our most popular young ladies frequent the dusty environs of the Reading Room.”
It would not do to give the impression of a prearranged meeting—not when it was the farthest thing from the truth. And certainly not when he had plans that depended on his not being seen as an admirer of hers.
Baxter took his leave quickly to get his sandwich. Felix did so immediately afterward, making sure Baxter witnessed his departure. “I’m afraid I must also give up the pleasure of your company. The books I have selected do not read themselves.”
“Send Lord Vere my way, will you, sir?” she said by way of good-bye. “I do believe I shall be very happy with him.”
He nodded pleasantly. “I will see what I can do.”
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