creased her forehead, and she gave an irritated huff. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to make an entirely improper request before you give me my notebook back.”
“Hmm. Hadn’t planned to, but it’s an intriguing thought.”
“Lord Northwood!”
Alexander grinned and handed her the book. Their hands touched as she took it. She pulled her arm back, a faint flush coloring her cheeks.
Her reaction wasn’t coy. He knew that. It was as if she simply had no idea what to do with him, and her lack of knowledge caused her embarrassment.
Lydia looked at the front of his shirt, her white teeth biting down on her lower lip. He took the opportunity to study her in the light streaming through the window, noticing details he hadn’t the other night.
The smooth arch of her eyebrows, the faint freckles sprinkled over the bridge of her nose, the delicious fullness of her lips—no, that he had noticed when he’d been close enough to feel her breath. But now he could see the color of her bare, unpainted lips, like the blush of an apricot. She’d taste that way, too, all sweet and juicy and pink.
Hell.
Alexander took a step back, fighting to rein in his arousal. He forced himself not to skim the rest of Lydia Kellaway’s body, to rake with his gaze the curves of her full breasts, the slope of her waist, her round hips…
Stop.
For no other reason than to stop looking at her, Alexander turned his attention to the books he’d dumped on the table. For a man who prided himself on his self-control, he was reacting like a lusty greenhorn.
As he forced aside his reactions, his vision focused on the title of the topmost book. Introductio in analysin infinitorum. He pulled the books from the stack and glanced at the other titles. The Mathematical Analysis of Logic. Thoughts on the Study of Mathematics as Part of a Liberal Education.
Alexander restacked the books before lifting his head. She was watching him, her thick-lashed eyes wary, her lower lip still caught between her teeth.
“Do you read anything else besides texts on mathematics?” he asked.
“The occasional magazine or book, yes.”
“Petrarch?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You read Petrarch, don’t you? Shakespeare? The Iliad?”
“How did you—” She drew back, her lips parting on a shocked gasp. “You read my notebook?”
“Hardly. If I’d read your notebook, that would imply I understood it. Which I did not. I did, however, notice your writing about romances.”
“Lord Northwood, you have violated my privacy!”
“Mmm. Like you did mine when you invaded my house at midnight? Or when you hunted up gossip about me? Or when you skulked about unlawfully procuring my name from Havers’s salesbook?”
“Well, I—” Twin circles of pink stained her cheeks, and Alexander wondered if any other woman in the world blushed as much as Miss Lydia Kellaway.
She cleared her throat and fumbled with a brooch pinned to her neckline. “That is to say, I didn’t intend—”
“In any case,” Alexander said, “I fail to see what’s so private about scribbling a few names and equations. Now, if you’d written erotic poems or—”
“Lord Northwood.” Despite her intensely pink complexion, she lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “I happen to believe there is a mathematical basis for romantic relationships.”
He stared at her. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d told him she actually did write erotic poems—just in a different notebook.
“A mathematical basis for relationships?” he repeated, not understanding at all.
“Yes. A pattern of behavior. I am using historical examples such as Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Helen and Paris, etcetera, to test my theories and establish proofs.”
She was serious. She stood there clutching her infernal notebook, her blue eyes blinking without guile.
“Proofs of… of what?” Alexander asked.
“Patterns of attraction and rejection. For example, although Laura was a married woman who spurned Petrarch’s advances, he continued to pursue her through his sonnets. I believe I can describe their relationship by assigning variables to their emotions and creating differential equations.”
Alexander was dumbfounded. The woman was trying to quantify love.
“Lydia, I thought you were going to—”
Both Alexander and Lydia turned as an elderly woman entered, her steps accompanied by the click of an ivory-handled cane. She stopped.
“Grandmama, this is Viscount Northwood.” A hint of dismay colored Lydia’s voice. “Lord Northwood, my grandmother, Mrs. Charlotte Boyd.”
“Mrs. Boyd.” He nodded in greeting, suppressing his annoyance at the interruption. How in the name of heaven did one quantify love? “A pleasure.”
“Lord Northwood.” Mrs. Boyd looked at Lydia and back to him again. Something