“I couldn’t. The scandal, the divorce… I had to come back and attempt to repair the damage.”
“And Miss Turner?” Lydia asked.
Alexander rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his muscles tight and pinched.
“What of her?” he asked.
“What will happen when you’ve restored your family’s reputation? Will she wish to reopen the question of marriage to you?”
Alexander might have laughed if Lydia hadn’t sounded so grave. He shook his head.
“Miss Turner married the son of a viscount over a year ago. She has thus far borne him one daughter, and by all accounts they are quite content.”
Lydia’s blue gaze sharpened, the clouds of wariness dissipating. “Did that disappoint you?”
“God, no.” He might have loved the woman at one time, but now his affection for Miss Turner seemed inconsequential and misguided. “If all had remained status quo with my family, I’d have had a good marriage to Miss Turner. But as things transpired… she hadn’t the constitution to withstand the ugliness of it.”
He pushed himself away from the display case and moved closer to Lydia, drawn into the clean, crisp paper smell that belonged to her alone. “And the past month has made me realize I owe Lord Chilton my deepest gratitude for not allowing me to become shackled to his daughter.”
He stopped in front of her and lifted a hand to that single loose tendril of hair against her neck. He wrapped the soft strands around his forefinger.
“Because if I had been,” he continued, “I couldn’t do this.”
Her lips parted as if she expected him to kiss her. Instead he rubbed his thumb across her mouth, the ridges of her lips both soft and slightly rough. Her breath tickled his hand, her cheeks darkening with a crimson flush.
Aware that anyone might see them, Alexander fought the almost overpowering urge to kiss her. He stepped back. If she were his wife, there would be no barrier, either self-imposed or external, to prevent him from touching her, kissing her, lov—
Well. He needn’t go that far.
“We’d best go,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat. Must have caught a chill. “The hall will be closing soon.”
Dear Jane,
Monosyllable, yes. Clever girl. Here is another riddle:
A word of one syllable, easy and short.
Which reads backward and forward the same;
It expresses the sentiments warm from the heart
And to beauty lays principal claim.
Frankly I’m reaching the end of my riddle repertoire, so I will have to procure more complex challenges. Perhaps I’ll send along some mathematical problems to further test your skills.
Best of luck with your comprehension of long division; it sounds as if you’ve a most excellent tutor in your older sister.
Sincerely,
C
The riddle ran through Jane’s mind as she walked with Mrs. Driscoll toward the house for her piano lesson. A word of one syllable…
She glanced to the side as a movement caught her eye. Lord Rushton was striding along one of the side paths toward a large glass house.
“Sir… my lord!” Jane let go of Mrs. Driscoll’s hand and almost ran to catch up with the earl, her heart beating with a combination of fear and excitement over her own audacity.
He turned with a frown. Did the man ever smile?
Not that she expected him to smile at her.
“I’ve brought you something.” She thrust a book at him. “It’s a treatise on insects that are most harmful to a garden. It’s got pictures and everything. If you can identify them, you can figure out how to rid your garden of them. There’s all sorts of things you can try, like tobacco water or lime water for aphids, fumigation… you can trap snails and slugs with raw potato… and there’s a whole section on insects that injure greenhouse plants…” She paused to catch her breath.
The earl’s frown returned as he paged through the book. “Why did you bring this to me?”
“I thought you might find it useful. I did tell you I like to study insects, if you recall.”
He glowered at the pointed note in her tone.
“I also like puzzles and riddles,” Jane added. “I even know one about insects. Part of a tree, if right transposed, an insect then will be disclosed.”
“What on earth are you going on about, girl?”
“It’s a riddle. Part of a tree—”
“I heard you,” the earl grumbled. “Foolishness, riddles.”
Jane flushed. “Er, did you figure out what’s the matter with my fern, my lord?”
“Yes. Not enough moisture and perhaps too much direct sunlight.”