curled her hands around Northwood’s arms, pressed herself down onto his hard thigh, felt his fingers digging into the stiff lines of her corset. A tremble ran through his body. His knee shifted, his thigh beginning to rub against her with delicious friction.
Then without warning he was moving away from her, his palms smoothing down her skirts as he positioned himself between her and the study door. Lady Talia’s voice began to penetrate Lydia’s fog of desire.
She pressed her hands to her cheeks, attempting to regain her composure. Northwood leaned toward her, putting his mouth close to her ear, one large hand sliding beneath her breast.
“Why is a good woman like dough?” he whispered.
“Why—”
“Because a man kneads her.” His lips touched her ear before he moved away, his dark eyes filled with a combination of humor and desire. “And make no mistake. You are a good woman.”
Lydia pulled herself from his grip so swiftly that her heel caught on the edge of a rug. She grasped the back of a chair to steady herself, all amusement evaporating like steam.
“As you once told me, Lord Northwood,” she said, “it’s dangerous to make such assumptions.”
“That, Miss Kellaway, was not an assumption.”
Dear Jane,
Hah, I’ve perplexed you, haven’t I? Did you ask your sister for help? Though I suppose that might be a bit like cheating, considering her apparent talent for numbers.
Don’t feel badly that you haven’t got the same facility as Lydia—not everyone is capable of grasping certain concepts with ease. I’d wager that she doesn’t see the insect world in quite the same way as you do, which is rather unique.
Sincerely,
C
Jane lowered the letter. She looked out the rain-spattered window, down at the street, where pedestrians bustled back and forth, umbrellas blooming like mushrooms. A damp bird flitted onto the surface of the iron fence across the way.
Jane’s fingers tightened on the letter. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember if she’d ever told C her sister’s name.
Chapter Fourteen
Lydia looked at the equation, unable to muster any interest whatsoever. Even though she’d slept well and eaten a hearty breakfast, a headache pressed between her eyes. She couldn’t concentrate. Likely because one dark-haired, compelling viscount kept pushing his way in between her theorems and equations.
A good woman. Good.
Did he really believe that? And even if he did, did it matter? Although her grandmother had expressed a calculated interest in Lord Northwood, Lydia knew nothing substantial could come of their association. So it oughtn’t matter at all what kind of woman he presumed her to be.
And yet, of course it did matter. A great deal.
She shook her head and focused on her paper.
A knock sounded at the door. Lydia dropped the pencil with a frustrated sigh and pushed back her chair. Her eyes widened at the sight of Northwood standing in the corridor holding… a fishing pole?
“What on earth…”
He held up the pole. His dark eyes twinkled with something she’d never seen in him before. “Angling,” he said. “Ever been?”
“No.”
“Come on, then. Great fun.”
Lydia glanced back to her desk, where her paper awaited her return. Northwood made an impatient noise.
“Five minutes, Lydia,” he warned. “If you must, you can calculate the ratio of fish to water drops or something foolish like that. We’re waiting in the garden.”
He turned and headed back downstairs. Lydia remembered her promise to herself that she would enjoy her short stay here. A pleasant sense of anticipation tickled through her at the thought of fishing—one of many sports in which she’d never imagined herself participating. She put on her wrap, hat, and gloves, checked her reflection in the mirror, and went out to the garden.
Talia, Sebastian, and Castleford waited by the rose bed, with Talia and Castleford each carrying an array of fishing gear. Sebastian had both his arms wrapped around a rather enormous picnic basket.
“Ah, glad you could join us, Miss Kellaway,” Castleford boomed. “You’re certain to keep Northwood from lying about the size of his catch.”
Lydia laughed at the thought of Northwood lying about anything. Least of all the size of his catch. He flashed her a grin, the warmth of which caused a lovely glow to fill her chest.
The three men began walking toward the river, chatting about the wind, the weather, the possibility of trout. A sense of cheer and good humor surrounded them. Northwood’s shoulders were relaxed, his stride long and easy. Sunlight glinted off his dark hair.
Something loosened inside Lydia at the sight of him. Her headache melted away, and her heart lightened.