her. She’d get another notebook—she was, after all, a mathematician to the bone—but no longer would she devote her time and intellect to fictional relationships that ended in tragedy.
Life was too valuable, love too precious, to be measured.
She turned away and swiped at a stray tear. When Alexander had first held the door open for her all those weeks ago, she hadn’t imagined so many subsequent doors would open as well. Without him, she never would have ventured forth again. Not in mathematics. Not in life. Certainly not in love.
She tried to imagine agreeing to his suggestion, presenting her ideas to an audience of her colleagues. Her prime number theorem or the lemma of—
Oh, Lydia. Stop being foolish. What have you been telling Alexander all this time?
Strengthening her resolve, Lydia brushed off her skirts and went upstairs to the schoolroom. Jane stood beside the fern near the window, a metal apparatus in one hand, while their grandmother busied herself organizing Jane’s books.
“It’s looking lovely.” Lydia stopped to examine the fern, which had grown green and lush in the past few weeks. “What is that?”
“It mists water onto the fronds. Lord Rushton told me how to care for it.” Jane put the bell glass back over the plant and turned away. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought we might go over long division again.”
“I’ve actually got something else to do.” Jane dropped the apparatus onto the windowsill and left the room.
“Is she all right?” Lydia asked Mrs. Boyd.
“As far as I know, yes. Why?”
“I’ve hardly seen her since I returned from Floreston Manor.” Lydia frowned. “You don’t suppose she’s upset that she wasn’t able to come along?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Mrs. Boyd straightened from the bookshelf and dusted her hands. “I told her she could accompany you the next time you go.”
Lydia’s heart lurched. “What… what makes you think there will be a next time?”
“Of course there will be.” Her grandmother stacked a pile of books on the table, then bent to retrieve several folded papers that fell to the floor. “Lord Northwood didn’t ask you to his country estate because he wished to end your relationship.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did he?”
Lydia’s throat tightened. She shook her head.
“Well, then,” Mrs. Boyd said. She glanced at the papers and replaced them on the shelf. “I must say, Lydia, I never imagined things would come to this when you went to retrieve that locket. Have you gotten it back, by the way?”
“Not yet.”
“Good. All the more reason to keep his lordship’s acquaintance.” Mrs. Boyd’s lips curved into a smile. “Had I known this would happen, I might have pawned the foolish thing years ago.”
She swept the books into her arms and left the room. Lydia went to the window, staring down at the street, where wagons and pedestrians passed.
She couldn’t find it in her to be indignant over her grandmother’s attitude. Despite Charlotte Boyd’s manipulations, she had always wanted the best for Lydia. Like Alexander, her father and grandmother had always believed in her abilities, her intelligence. They believed she had something important to offer the world.
The difference was that Alexander also wanted her to believe in herself. Because he loved her. He loved her in ways she had never been loved before, in ways she hadn’t even known existed.
Longing sliced through her, cutting through thick layers of resistance. She couldn’t stop herself from envisioning what her life would be like if her wishes came true.
She sank into a chair by the window, resting her forehead against her hand. She would be Alexander’s wife, she would stand before a crowded lecture hall to explain her theories, she would pour her heart out to Jane and give the girl everything Lydia never had. She would be free—mind, body, soul.
Perhaps one day…
The little whisper of her heart brought tears to her eyes because her mind knew that one day would never come. Never.
Enough.
Alexander flexed his fingers in an effort to ease the tension hardening his every muscle. He’d worked too hard for everything—the Society, the exhibition, his family, his company—and it was all slipping from his control. He would not allow the same to happen with Lydia.
With unshakeable resolve, he descended the carriage on East Street. The housekeeper answered the door of the town house, her eyes widening at the sight of him.
“Lord Northwood! We weren’t expecting your—”
“Never mind, Mrs. Driscoll. Is Mrs. Boyd at home?”
“Yes, milord, she’s in the morning room.”
“Good. Tell her I am here.”
“One moment, please, yer lordship. Miss Kellaway is—”