marketplace, a woman selling eggs passes through a garrison. She must pass three guards on the way.”
She paused and glanced at him. A faint consternation lit in her eyes as their gazes met. Alexander gave her a nod of encouragement.
“To the first guard,” Lydia continued, “she sells half the number of eggs she has plus half an egg more. To the second guard, she sells half of what remains plus half an egg more. To the third guard, she sells half of the remainder plus half an egg more. When she arrives at the marketplace, she has thirty-six eggs. How many eggs did she have at the beginning?”
Alexander looked at her for a moment. He rose and went to the desk on the other side of the room. He rummaged through the top drawer and removed a pencil, then extended his hand for the notebook.
He smoothed a fresh sheet of paper onto the desk and read her neat penmanship.
An image of her flashed in his mind—Lydia Kellaway sitting at a desk like this one, her hair unbound, a slight crease between her brows as she worked on a problem she expected would confound people. Perhaps it was late at night and she wore nothing but a voluminous white shift, her body naked beneath the…
Alexander shook his head hard. He read the problem again and began doing some algebraic calculations on the paper.
Odd number, half an egg more, seventy-three eggs before she passed the last guard…
He did a few more calculations, half aware of something easing inside him, his persistent anger lessening. He realized that for the first time in a very long while, he was rather enjoying himself.
Alexander scribbled a number and circled it, then turned the paper toward Lydia.
“She had two hundred and ninety-five eggs,” he said.
Lydia stepped forward to read his solution. A perplexing surge of both triumph and regret rose in Alexander when he lifted his gaze and saw the dismay on her face. She hadn’t expected to lose.
No. She hadn’t expected him to win.
“You are correct, Lord Northwood.”
He tossed down the pencil and straightened.
Lydia stood watching him, wariness edging her expression. Her skin was milk-pale, her heart-shaped face dominated by large, thick-lashed eyes. Her cheekbones sloped down to a delicate jaw and full, well-shaped lips.
She might have been beautiful if it weren’t for the tense, brittle way she carried herself, the compression of her lips and strain in her eyes. If it weren’t for the ghostly pallor cast by her black dress, the severe cut of which could not obscure the combination of curves and sinuous lines that he suspected lay beneath.
His heart beat a little faster. He went to stand in front of her. Lydia swallowed, the white column of her throat rippling. If she was fearful, she didn’t show it. If she was anticipatory, she didn’t show that either. She merely looked at him, those thick eyelashes fanning her blue eyes like feathers.
He reached up and touched a loose lock of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. Thick and soft. Pity she had to keep it so tightly bound. He lowered his hand, his knuckles brushing across her cheek. A visible tremble went through her.
“Well, then?” Alexander murmured.
He grasped her shoulders, her frame slender and delicate beneath his big hands. He stared down at her, the muscles of his back and shoulders tensing. The air thickened around them, between them, infusing with heat. His heart thudded with a too-quick tempo and a vague sense of unease—as if whatever strange power vibrated between him and Lydia Kellaway contained a sinister edge.
He inhaled the air surrounding her. No cloying scent of flowers or perfume. She smelled crisp, clean, like starched linens and sharpened pencils.
Her lips parted. Her posture remained stiff, her hands curled at her sides. Alexander wondered if she ever allowed herself to lose that self-contained tension. He continued to grip her shoulders, and for an instant they were both still. Then he slipped his hand to the side of Lydia’s neck just above her collar.
She trembled when his thumb grazed her bare skin, brushing back and forth against her neck, the only movement within the utter stillness surrounding them. Color swept across her cheekbones, the same reddish hue as a breaking dawn. Her throat rippled with another swallow, but her expression didn’t break; her posture didn’t ease.
If anything, she grew more rigid, her spine stiffening. Alexander’s thumb moved higher, to that secret, intimate hollow just behind her ear, his fingers curving to the