I Thee Wed (20 page)

At past engagements the duke had not bothered to hide his fondness for Orion's pretty young cousin. He suspected it had more to do with her straightforward manner and stunning
figure than her industrious nature. Bliss was as hardworking and practical as a farmwife, qualities not typically found in a duchess.

Before Orion could inform the Duke of Camberton that he had, in fact, located Bliss, he heard Neville exhale quickly.

“Who, pray tell, is that vision in gold?”

Orion and Judith turned in unison to follow the duke's blatant stare. And there came Francesca, returning from the sweets table with a dainty cake balanced in her fingers. She was weaving in and out of the ballroom crowd, her eyes sparkling with delight.

Orion was suddenly awash in an emotion he had never before experienced. It was thoroughly unpleasant, a hot and sharp dread laced with protective anger. It was
jealousy
, of all things. The thought that another man might admire Francesca's beauty—even the kindly Neville—was unacceptable to him. To make matters even more unpleasant, a generous sprinkling of guilt had just added itself to the emotional mix. Orion was supposed to be courting Judith, was he not? Yet they stood next to each other as stiff and cold as the marble floor beneath their feet as all his heat and desire were directed toward the girl with the cake!

What a tangled mess!

“I see Bliss, Your Grace.” That was how Orion decided to redirect Neville's attention. “She is standing there, toward the bottom of the staircase.” Orion placed a gentle hand on the duke's shoulder and turned his body until it faced away from Francesca. “Do you see? In the blue?”

“Ah, yes! Of course.” Neville promised to visit with them later in the evening. “Enjoy yourselves. Now, if you would please excuse me.”

The moment Neville stepped away, a chill crept over Orion. Judith stood at his side, her perfectly shaped head perched upon her elegant neck, her pretty eyes gazing out a window. He could not help but stare at her, his scientific mind
searching for an answer that had thus far eluded him. How could it be that Judith was everything he assumed he would one day desire in a female companion, yet she left him unaffected, unchanged? He considered the fine shape of her cheek, her intelligence, the pink of her lips, her decorum, the delicate earlobe, her soothing voice . . . She possessed all the desired elements, yet she did not stir him.

Francesca stirred him.

Astounding. Judith Blayne was a lovely and perfect English rose, yet she had no effect on him.

Francesca, the Italian wildflower, affected every part of him—mind, body, and heart.

Orion was stabbed by a sudden pang of shame. It was so clear to him now. Courting a lady for whom he had no feelings was a lie. It was wrong to seek a lady's hand as a way to advance his career. And it would be nothing less than a sin to marry a woman he did not wish to spend his life with.

Suddenly, the silence between them became deafening. Judith daintily cleared her throat.

“Shall I get you a lemonade, Miss Blayne?” Despite the turmoil in his soul, Orion found himself behaving like a trained monkey. He promised himself he would find a way to rectify the situation to everyone's betterment, and soon.

Judith turned to him. Her mouth had curled up into a smile, but her eyes remained a pale and placid blue. “Yes, that would be lovely, Mr. Worthington. Thank you.”

“And may I be promised the first quadrille of the evening?”

“Of course.” She nodded, then glanced down and away. That was his cue to take his leave.

Was it wrong that once he excused himself from Judith's company, relief rushed over him like a cool breeze? Good God! How had this happened? He had arrived at Blayne House, intending to immerse himself in the study of botanical compounds. Anything and everything else had been inconsequential. Yet here he was, trapped in a romantic
quagmire! Such a messy, disorganized state of affairs reminded him far too much of his own family's modus operandi, and he could not believe he had put himself in such a situation.

“Well, what do we have here?” a voice said from behind him. “If it isn't Sir Geoffrey's fresh meat!”

T
HE tiny hairs on the nape of Orion's neck had already begun to rise as he turned around. Who had spoken those odd words? He should not have been shocked by the visage that greeted him—Nicholas Witherspoon, the utmost of the idiotic suitors who called on Blayne House far too regularly.

“Witherspoon.” Orion scowled as the fop's words echoed in his mind.
Fresh meat?
What could he possibly have been implying? “Good evening to you.”

Moments like these were precisely why Orion preferred science over Society. The rules of science were straightforward and observable. Hydrogen was always hydrogen. It did not frolic through ballrooms masquerading as oxygen, nor could it pretend to be magnesium even in the darkest of lighting. By comparison, London Society could be a twisted maze of artifice and politics, and Witherspoon was one of its finest creations. It was common knowledge that the man's claims of serious scientific inquiry into the field of biology were suspect. But his family's wealth and connections had paved the way for his membership in the Fraternity, and his lack of
serious technical accomplishment was ignored by his army of rich and powerful cronies. Should Orion wish to join the ranks of the Fraternity, Witherspoon, though a pompous ass, was not someone he could afford to offend.

Witherspoon's sneer lingered like the odor of whiskey on his breath. “So, how are things with Sir Pilfery?”

Sir Pilfery?
Although Orion felt no deep affection for his mentor, he did feel obligated to defend against such cowardly slander from the likes of this reptile.

“What exactly are you implying, Witherspoon?” Too late, Orion realized he had pressed close enough to enter the thick of Witherspoon's ethanol vapor. He leaned away.

Witherspoon chuckled. “Oh, you'll find out soon enough, Worthington. All of his assistants find out eventually.” The sneer widened. “And say, don't forget to visit the card room this evening—Camberton never skimps on the quality of his whiskey.”

With that, the idiot, whiskey fumes trailing behind him, paraded off into the crowd of guests, leaving Orion's mind in a state of mayhem. What next? Masked highwaymen? Flood? He felt his jaw clench and his stomach roil. What had promised to be just another tedious Society ball was developing into a drama worthy of a staging in the Worthington family parlor!

Orion continued with his errand to fetch lemonade for Judith, but he was so distracted, he accidentally jostled several guests and found himself apologizing again and again.

“Please excuse me. So sorry . . .”

What had Witherspoon meant? Orion racked his brain for the memory of any rumor, anything he had ever heard about Sir Geoffrey or his previous assistants, and that was when it occurred to him that he had never heard anything about the ongoing careers of Sir Geoffrey's research assistants. Might that in itself be a concern? Had Orion ever heard the names of any previous assistants? Were any of them now pursuing their own scientific studies? And why was the position with
Sir Geoffrey available in the first place?

It all funneled into another question, one that plagued Orion more than anything else: Why him? Why had Sir Geoffrey summoned Orion as his assistant and suggested that Judith and he were a good match? Orion had always conducted his research somewhat outside the established scientific circles, and though his work was acknowledged, he had never promoted himself or implied he was available to work as an assistant to a well-established London scientist.

Orion procured the lemonade and returned to Judith, aware that his distracted behavior bordered on rude. He stood by her as she took delicate sips of her drink, yet he was unable to engage in small talk. When the quadrille began, he held her gloved hand in his and absently led her around the dance floor, weaving in and out of other dancers, pulling away, then returning, passing by other couples, switching partners, then returning once more. Orion only snapped out of his private fog when the unmistakable scent of Francesca tantalized his senses and he found himself touching hands with the shimmering dark-haired beauty.

She smiled up at him. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Worthington?”

He felt his lips part, but no words escaped.

“I'll take that as a ‘yes,'” she said, suddenly swept away by her dancing partner, none other than the duke himself.

Orion returned to Judith in proper turn, and though he tried very hard to keep his focus on his dance partner, he could not keep his eyes from scanning the ballroom in search of a flash of gold silk and dark curls. His blood began to heat. Orion suddenly felt a completely inappropriate and illogical distaste for the affable Duke of Camberton!

Never in his life had Orion felt so without tether. Francesca. Judith. Sir Geoffrey. Neville . . . All was disjointed and unsettled, out of order.

“You are a skilled dancer.”

Orion's gaze snapped to Judith's, and he attempted to
summon his manners. “Thank you. As are you, Miss Blayne.”

“Thank you.”

The quadrille was coming to a close. Orion realized with alarm that he was losing his opportunity to gain the information he needed. “Has your father had many assistants before me?” he asked abruptly.

Judith raised her eyebrows and shrugged as if the conversation already bored her. “I'm afraid I can't remember the exact count.”

“Exact count?” He heard his voice sharpen. “Then there have been many? Have any of them moved on to do their own research? Might any of them be here tonight?”

Orion had been so consumed by his own circling thoughts that he hadn't noticed the music had ceased and that he and Judith now stood unmoving in the center of the marble dance floor. He noticed the smallest patch of pink spread over her flawless cheeks.

“Oh what a shame!” Judith placed her gloved hand on Orion's forearm and urged him to walk. “Look! Francesca is sitting all alone. It would be most kind if you asked her to dance.”

*   *   *

J
UDITH NUDGED
M
R.
Worthington toward Francesca and, with great relief, made her escape. She was happy to let Francesca dance with the fellow. She seemed to find him more interesting than Judith ever had.

At the edge of the dance floor, she hesitated. Judith was so rarely left alone, but she decided she quite enjoyed it compared to the alternative: to go off looking for Papa. Surely, he would be orating to a group of his cronies, and if she were in their company, he would only succumb to his usual performance. Papa would shower her with artificial affection and parade her before his crowd like a prized Pomeranian.
No, thank you
.

Someone familiar caught her eye. Across the room, Mr.
Nicholas Witherspoon seemed to be making his way to her general location, although his obvious drunken state caused his progress to veer to and fro. Judith turned her back to his approach, closing her eyes for strength.
Again, no. Really, so very unwanted
.

“H-hello, Miss Blayne!”

That's better.
Judith opened her eyes and let out her breath, turning to Asher Langford with relief. “Good evening, Mr. Langford!” She allowed him a small smile. Dear Asher. It was quite reassuring to see a friendly face—at least, a face that did not wish to buy her, sell her, or otherwise utilize her.

It was restful, being with someone who made so few demands. Of course, she had known Asher forever. They had always been comfortable in each other's company. Their mothers had been close friends, and she had played at his house when she was a child.

Was I ever a child?
The idea was shocking to her, since she felt a hundred years old at that moment.

Asher seemed to sense her weariness. “Er . . . may I . . . lemonade?”

Judith shuddered. She had no taste for sugary things, after a lifetime of Papa's bland preferences. It was only since Francesca's arrival that sweets had been part of her life—and she had had enough of bubbly, liberated Francesca and her culinary offerings. “No, thank you, sir. Let us sit for a moment, here by the garden doors.”

Asher bobbed a nod. “Yes . . . it's cooler . . .”

Sitting would hide them behind the dancers, out of sight of all those she wished to avoid. The drunken, sarcastic Witherspoon. The dutiful, distracted Worthington. And especially Papa.

Asher pulled out two chairs from the line set aside for wallflowers and elder dames of Society. They sat in companionable silence. Judith felt the ever-present tightness of her spine relax somewhat in Asher's nonjudgmental company.

She let out a breath and tipped her head back slightly to
gaze at the elegant ceiling medallions from which the grand crystal chandeliers dangled. “It is a lovely hall, is it not?”

Asher looked around the exquisite ballroom. “It is . . . er . . . very grand. I . . . I'd rather not dance, though . . . if . . . if you don't mind . . .”

Judith blinked. “Heavens no. I dislike such public displays. I should like to dance with someone only if we could be by ourselves on a rooftop, with no one else watching, or judging, or looking for fault—” Suddenly aware that her facade was slipping, she straightened in her chair. “It is a very successful event,” she stated. “The Duke of Camberton must be quite pleased with the turnout.”

When she dared a glance at Asher, she saw with surprise that he had a slight smile on his sweet, familiar face. With surprise she realized that he was quite handsome when he smiled. “Don't worry,” he said to her quietly. “I won't tell anyone.”

Judith breathed a small sigh of relief. Dear Asher. He was such a good friend. So handsome when he smiled.

With the utmost gentleness, Asher leaned closer and brushed the back of his gloved knuckles against hers. It was such a gentle gesture and ended as soon as it began. But somewhere deep inside, Judith felt a knot release. Lightness expanded inside her chest. It was a most extraordinary sensation.

*   *   *

T
HE NEXT DANCE
was a waltz, but Francesca knew it was a bit late for the two of them to fret over tiny improprieties. So of course she said yes when Orion stood before her—much like a wolf cornering its prey—and asked her to dance.

Perhaps she agreed a little too enthusiastically. She blamed the champagne.

As Orion led her to the center of the ballroom, she marveled at his lack of concern for the rules of Society. She found
it most refreshing. But perhaps he didn't even realize what he was walking into, that an unattached couple locked in a waltz would surely inspire comment.

It did not matter. Either way would suffice for Francesca, since the end result was a forbidden waltz with the dark and desirable Orion Worthington.

Francesca was abruptly swept into Orion's arms, carried away in a swell of stringed instrumentation. His hand expertly pressed against the small of her back, holding their bodies a hairbreadth apart. When he pulled her into a turn, she lost her footing. Suddenly, her breasts were crushed against the front of Orion's lean body.

“Hiccup!”

He promptly set her to rights, then gazed down with a flash of curious amusement in his eyes. “Would you care for a glass of champagne after our dance?”

“No, thank you,” she said primly, keeping up with the steps. “I have already had a taste or two.”

“And was the quality up to your standards, Miss Penrose?”

“Hmm,” she answered, pondering her response as she swayed in his confident hold. “It was not Prosecco, certainly, but I did find both glasses quite refreshing.”

“I see.” Orion quirked his lips with the barest hint of a smile. “And the cakes?”

“The three I had were quite sumptuous.”

They continued waltzing, Orion more cautious with his turns, careful to steady Francesca with each change of direction.

She gazed up at him with an unrestrained grin. “You are a fine dancer, Mr. Worthington.”

“You are a fine partner, Miss Penrose.”

“Then let it be said that we dance well together.” She nodded, quite satisfied with the accuracy of the statement. Francesca pondered whether Orion was even aware of how effortlessly they moved together. “Indeed, the bonds of some
partnerships are stronger than others. In some cases they add up to more than the sum of their parts.”

“A sound conclusion.”

“Indeed! For example, on their own, basil and oregano are perfectly useful spices, yet together they form the foundation for an entire cuisine!”

Orion pulled back a bit to get a better look at Francesca, the ballroom philosopher. A segment of errant curls had loosened from its ribbon and now brushed against the side of her creamy neck. Her cheeks were flushed from the champagne . . . or the cakes . . . or the waltz. Or all three.

What was it about Francesca that captured him so, kicked down his hard exterior, and melted the cold core he'd always believed to be at the center of him? Was it her good-hearted innocence? Her disregard for the trivial “should-and-should-nots” of London Society? Perhaps it was merely the Italian in her, an upbringing that gave her a zest for living, an appetite for only the most delicious of life's morsels.

Whatever contributed to it, the overall effect was that Orion found Francesca indescribably sweet and open, and she intrigued him more than any single person ever had, man or woman.

“You are quite the original thinker, Miss Penrose.”

Francesca rolled her eyes at him. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“As you should.” Orion heard something in his own voice. If he didn't know better, he would think it was happiness. Maybe even joy.

*   *   *

D
ANCING WITH
O
RION
was a pleasant surprise. In Francesca's experience, male scientists thought their time too important to learn to dance well. Orion moved smoothly, leading her in a whirling path through the other dancing couples, as if they all stood still while she and Orion flowed freely like
a stream through rocks.