anything to judge by, she knew far more about prime numbers and differential equations than fashion and etiquette.
Perhaps that alone was the reason Alexander hadn’t met her before now. Though her father, Sir Henry Kellaway, had been a scholar of considerable repute in Chinese history and literature, he’d always been something of a recluse.
Had that been because of Lydia?
Alexander frowned at the thought. He ordered the carriage brought around, then gave the driver an East Street address that was written inside the front cover of the notebook.
As he rode, he paged through the notebook. There appeared to be no organization to the scribbles—just pages and pages of algebraic equations and geometrical diagrams.
This happens when r is the greatest of the solutions of a + ar = b + βr, a + ar = c + γr, &c. Let (k – a) : (a – κ), which we call ρ, be the greatest in the set—
Alexander gave a short laugh. Odd, he’d called her? Miss Kellaway was more than odd if her brain not only comprehended such convolutions, but also actually produced them.
A few words on the following page caught his eye.
Variables as the measure of love.
The word love was heavily underlined. This was followed by a series of equations and notes that made little sense to Alexander, aside from his recognizing the structure of differential equations and scrawled references to the Iliad, Romeo and Juliet, Petrarch.
He closed the notebook, not having any idea what to make of it. But rather wishing he did.
A short while later, Alexander descended the carriage across from a modest brick town house. A newspaper boy, his trousers tied with a length of rope, paced in front of an iron fence. At the corner, a fruit seller set up her stand and shooed away a dog pawing for scraps.
The door of the town house opened, and a woman emerged, her arms laden with at least half a dozen books. No, not a woman. Lydia Kellaway. In a black dress, her torso as rigid as a tree branch above the billow of her skirts.
Yet despite her clothes, her body appeared both slender and quite deliciously rounded, intensifying Alexander’s conviction that an unclad Lydia Kellaway would be lush, soft, and as tempting as sin.
He crossed the street, his heart slamming against his ribs with every step.
A brown-haired girl, perhaps ten or eleven and as neat as a pin in a starched pinafore, appeared at Lydia’s side to hold the door open.
“Jane, please, could you take—” Lydia’s gaze slid to Alexander as he approached. She straightened, fumbling with her books, her lips parting with surprise.
“Miss Kellaway.”
“Lord Northwood.”
God. Even the sound of her voice made his blood hot. Lyrical, with just the slightest bit of a rasp, like a good brandy that slid rich and warm down one’s throat. He wanted to hear the sound of his Christian name in her voice, wanted it to melt against his skin.
“May I?” He stepped forward to take the books from her. His fingers brushed against her arms, her gloved hands. His head filled with the scent of the air surrounding her.
“Thank you.” Lydia lifted a hand to straighten her crooked hat. Exertion flushed her pale skin, and a few locks of dark-brown hair spilled around her neck and forehead.
She placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and bent to whisper in her ear. The girl shot a curious look at Alexander before going back into the house. He looked after her with a slight frown.
“My sister,” Lydia explained. “You’ll forgive me for sending her away. I don’t wish her to know of recent… events.”
“Events?”
“Yes, the… Lord Northwood, please come inside.” She preceded him into the drawing room.
As he unloaded the books onto a table, Alexander let his gaze sweep across the room, the worn brocade sofa and chairs, the peeling wallpaper, the faded Chinese scrolls. Not a speck of dust appeared on any surface, but the furnishings bore the evidence of age and wear.
“I intended to contact you today, my lord.” Lydia turned beside the window, tugging off her gloves. “Have you got my notebook? I’m afraid I left it the other night.”
Alexander lifted his gaze from her slender white hands and tapered fingers. He slipped the notebook from his pocket. Relief flashed across Lydia’s face as she started forward.
“Oh, thank you. I’ve got so many notes written there that if I were to—” She stopped a short distance from him as she realized he wasn’t extending the book to her.