Minerva swallowed. “And that’s all. You… You don’t like me at all. You won’t miss my company or… or wish to see me for any other reason?”

  There was a taut silence before he replied. “No.”

  She didn’t believe him, couldn’t believe him, but her stupid heart hurt, which was ridiculous. Even if it were true, she’d steeled herself against his indifference, or at least she’d thought she had. He’d turned away from her, staring out the window at the garden beyond. The sun, which had been so bright and cheerful all morning, had been lost behind a bank of thick grey cloud and she felt cold suddenly. With fingers that were not entirely steady, she fastened the ribbon on her chemise, tugged her corset back into place and did up her buttons.

  He didn’t turn around.

  “My carriage won’t return for another twenty minutes yet, but I’ll wait in the kitchen. You needn’t see me out.”

  Silence.

  Minerva swallowed down the ache in her throat.

  “I’m staying with Bedwin for the next few weeks if… if you wanted to write to me. If you change your mind. I won’t forget to speak to him for you, either.” He still said nothing, keeping his back to her, his arms folded. “I’d like to see you again and… and I’ll come if you ask me to, but… but I shan’t come again like this, without an invitation, so you need not worry. I’m sorry if I disturbed your work. I do hope… I hope you find what you are looking for.”

  She stared at him for a moment longer, wishing he’d at least say goodbye to her, but she felt foolish now, so she turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Chapter 7

  Dear Prue,

  How are you feeling? I hope the dreadful sickness has passed now. I know just how you feel. If it makes you feel better, I’m waddling like a duck and can barely see my toes. How lovely it will be to see our children playing together, though. I can’t wait.

  I wanted to ask you if you’ve seen Matilda of late. Did you know she’s determined not to take a dare? She says her reputation is too damaged already to take any risks and I do understand that but Prue, all of ours changed us for the better. Do you not think she needs to do this? I feel like she’s standing on the edge of something, as though she’s too frightened to decide which way to go, but if she does nothing, she’ll end up with nothing. I’m sorry, I’m not sure this makes the slightest bit of sense and it’s likely I’m being over emotional. Do you know I burst into tears at the sight of Nate holding a kitten yesterday? I mean, it was an adorable sight, but still, hardly something to bawl over.

  Babies have a great deal to answer for.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Alice Hunt to Her Grace, Prunella Adolphus, Duchess of Bedwin.

  7th January 1815. Church Street, Isleworth, London.

  Inigo didn’t dare move until he heard the front door close. He let out a breath that was not at all steady. His hands were clenched into fists and his fingers ached from being held so tightly for so long. It wasn’t the only part of him aching.

  Oh, God.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

  He raked a hand through his hair, trying to rid himself of the sight of Minerva sat on the work bench in his laboratory, her lips swollen from his kisses, her beautiful breasts exposed to him. Something proprietary and possessive burned inside him, and he cursed himself for a fool. She didn’t belong to him, he didn’t even believe in that kind of ownership, and she was way beyond his touch. A lady. Not for him. Oh, but the taste of her, the feel of her under his hands, his mouth. She was so unbelievably soft, so sweet, and he wanted her so very badly.

  He’d known she was trouble from the first. Not because she was beautiful, not because she belonged to that class of women who usually ignored him as though he were furniture, because he was beneath their notice. No, it was because of the curiosity in her eyes, the desire to know him, to figure him out like a puzzle. She wanted to know how he worked, what he felt and why and, in some strange way, he understood that. The problem was he was afraid she could do it, she could unravel him and figure him out and, soon enough, she’d see it hadn’t been complex at all, it had been easier than she could have imagined. Then she would grow bored and move on to someone more interesting.

  It wouldn’t be like that for him.

  Inigo knew himself. He knew the way his mind worked, knew the single-minded devotion and passion that took him up and held him captive. All well and good when your passion was your work. Not so when it was a woman. He’d been too busy with his work to let anyone close, but he knew he risked his sanity if he allowed himself to become captivated by her. He’d meant everything he’d said. He didn’t believe in love, but he understood obsession, he knew the signs of his mind grasping hold of an idea, a desire to know something, everything. Never had such feelings been provoked by a woman, though. Not that he’d ever met one so thoroughly provoking as Minerva. He could feel it already, the wanting, the need to have her near him, to know everything about her. Sleep had eluded him since the last time she’d been here. If he allowed his brain to do anything but work, it immediately returned to her, and keeping his attention on his work had been no easy task.

  He was losing his mind, and today he knew she’d taken an even bigger slice of his sanity, alongside a generous helping of his peace of mind. Work, go back to work, he chided himself, moving further into the room, trying to find something he could concentrate on. Except he found himself in front of the place where she’d sat, and he was certain he could detect the scent of her still. He closed his eyes and inhaled, wanting to cry with frustration. Why had she come into his life? She would wreck everything, wreck him. If he didn’t break this now, he’d do something stupid and destructive. He’d have to have her near him, with him, just to keep himself sane, and he wouldn’t be able to do that. It would ruin her. So, he’d be forced to marry her, and then he’d be saddled with a wife.

  Inigo gave a bitter laugh. He’d once told Harriet he couldn’t have an ordinary marriage, because it wouldn’t be fair on his wife to be constantly ignored for his work. He’d been quite honest in that. Marriage to Harriet would have been simple. She would have kept his life in order, and he could have offered her the security and support to pursue her own work in a world where women could not do such things with ease. They’d liked each other well enough, too, respected each other’s work and intellect, but most importantly he didn’t desire her beyond reason, didn’t want to figure out every hidden part of her, to know her thoughts, to know everything about her.

  Then he’d met Minerva.

  Why in the name of God had he given her his card that day? He never did that. He barely gave colleagues his card, not wanting to be interrupted by social calls when he was working. He didn’t like society, and he certainly didn’t want a conventional marriage. He didn’t want one based on obsession, either. How would he work with Minerva in the house, when he could touch her, taste her, whenever he wanted to? The idea was tantalising. It’s physical, he reminded himself, nothing more. Perhaps he should marry her, get her out of his system, and get someone to keep his life in order at the same time. That was hardly fair to her, though, and what if he never got her out of his system? What if he wed her and the obsession only grew? No, he assured himself with a bitter laugh, once Bedwin found out he’d put an end to any plans for marriage. Even Minerva had admitted her mother wanted her to hunt down a title, so Inigo couldn’t believe the duke would want anything less for his wife’s cousin.

  No, they’d not let them marry. She’d be sent away, and he’d go quietly insane.

  Rubbish. Pull yourself together, de Beauvoir. You’re just ripe for a tumble, that’s all. Easy enough to fix.

  In usual circumstances he had no qualms with making use of the many convenient houses where a man could satisfy his desires for a few coins. He knew places where the girls were clean, and there was one he visited from time to time as the fancy took him. The girls, and especially Rachel, were straightforward, and he respected their good natured crudeness as to what he wanted and what was expected of each of them. There was nothing complicated about it. There was nothing particularly satisfying about it, either. It filled a physical desire which he needed filled, nothing more than that. He knew it would not be the same with Minerva. Even thinking about taking her to bed made him tremble with desire. He clutched the edge of the workbench, leaning onto it, trying to steady his breathing, trying and trying not to remember the feel of her, the moment he’d taken her breast into his mouth and sucked, the little cry of pleasure she’d given.

  Oh, God.

  Stop it, stop it, stop it.

  No, he’d done the right thing. He’d sent her away and that was for the best. He was protecting her, protecting them both. His gut twisted with remorse as he remembered the hurt in her voice when he’d said he’d bed her if she came back, but that he no other interest in her.

  And that’s all. You… You don’t like me at all. You won’t miss my company, or… or wish to see me for any other reason?

  Inigo scrubbed his hands over his face, willing himself to forget it, but there was an odd aching sensation in his chest, and it was hard to breathe. Unfulfilled desire, he assured himself. It wasn’t the only part of him aching, after all. It would pass. He would go back to work and it would pass. It would.

  ***

  21st January 1815. Church Street, Isleworth, London.

  It didn’t pass.

  Two weeks went by—crawled by—and every day was worse. Three times he’d given in, sitting down and writing letters inviting her to visit, letters that ranged from terse commands to damn near begging. Each time he’d crumpled them up and thrown them in the fire before he did something stupid, such as put them in the post.

  The only bright point in his miserable existence was that he was certain he’d discovered a new element. Yet even that triumph seemed diminished somehow, for he couldn’t share it with her. He kept remembering the delight in her eyes when he’d told her about his discovery. She’d looked so pleased, so proud of him. No one had ever been proud of him before. He’d had no one to be proud before.

  Inigo had never been sentimental about his past. Growing up in an orphanage was hardly a recipe for an idyllic childhood, but he’d been one of the lucky ones. The Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury had been good to him. They’d fed and clothed him and given him an education. When they discovered he was above average intelligence, they had found him an apprenticeship working as an assistant in an apothecary shop. The bottles and jars and the precise order of it all had fascinated him. He’d loved weighing out exact measurements and mixing the various tinctures and elixirs; he’d even improved many of them once he’d realised the potential uses of each ingredient. In his every spare hour he read anything he could get his hands on, but especially any scientific texts. They were hard to get hold of but, for a boy willing to sell his soul to gain more insight into a world he wanted a part of, he always found something.

  They had allowed him to sleep in the shop, on a lumpy tick mattress in a storeroom. He’d been glad of it, thrilled to have a space of his own where he didn’t have put up with the other boys and their rough housing, teasing and bantering, mocking each other and fighting. Inigo had never fit in, never been a fighter, and had never understood the banter. The other boys thought him aloof and so picked on him for not being one of them, and for his cleverness. Thank God he’d been big enough not to be bullied by any but the oldest boys, though that had been bad enough. He’d been only too pleased to escape.

  He’d worked long and hard to get where he was. The day he’d bought this house had been one of the proudest of his life. It was his, his home, his house, his laboratory, all the things he’d ever wanted enclosed behind walls of brick and mortar. Safe from the world, cocooned in his lab with his science and an insatiable desire to learn everything. He’d been at peace, content, and then Minerva Butler had kissed him, and his world had crumbled at the edges. Now the house he’d worked so hard for, the laboratory that had been the pinnacle of his every desire—even the enormity of this new discovery—felt empty, hollowed out and meaningless, because he could not see the pride in her eyes at his achievement.

  God, he was pathetic.

  ***

  Minerva stared at the book before her in mute frustration before throwing it to one side. An Essay on Heat, Light, and the Combinations of Light by Humphry Davy had stretched her brain farther than it was willing to go. She didn’t understand the wretched thing at all. It might as well have been written in Russian or hieroglyphics for all the sense she could make of it. She was stupid to persevere. What was the point? What good would it do her, even if she could understand it? If ever she married, she’d likely only have to hide the fact she had something approaching a brain. God forbid her husband ever discovered she’d had an original thought in her head. Men don’t like clever women, Minerva, was a common complaint her mother threw at her. To begin with, Minerva had been compelled to point out that her cousin Prue was far cleverer than she, and Prue had caught a duke. Her mother seemed to wilfully ignore this evidence, however, dismissing it as a fluke. Prue had just been lucky and in the right place at the right time, and it could have been Minerva if only she’d tried harder.

  Ugh.

  She looked up, hearing voices outside the door. A moment later, Helena bustled in with the post.

  “Two for you,” she said with a bright smile, handing Minerva two letters.

  Minerva smiled at the familiar extravagant loops on the first letter. Kitty. She put it aside to read later, picked up the second, and her heart skipped. The writing was a near illegible scrawl and suddenly her heart was thudding in her chest. She turned it over, sliding a trembling finger beneath the seal to break it.

  The British Museum. 21stJan. 11am.

  IdB

  Minerva let out a shaky breath and allowed a smile to break over her mouth. Arrogant devil. For all he knew, she had plans. Trust him to arrange something last moment and expect her to drop everything. Except then she wondered if he did expect that. Perhaps he believed she’d not come, and that would be proof that he’d been right, and she wasn’t serious. She frowned, wishing she knew which it was. Was the fear she sensed in him real, that aching vulnerability, or was it because she was foolish and sentimental, and she wanted to believe it? Was he as cold and hard and emotionless as he wanted her to believe?

  She traced her hand back and forth over the scrawled words. He hadn’t invited her back to his house. If he’d done that, she’d have been clearer about what he wanted. It would have been unambiguous. A public place, though? If she had a chaperone, that gave her security, and him no chance to have his wicked way with her. If all he wanted from her was physical, why would he suggest such a thing? Her smile widened.

  “Why do you look like the cat that got the cream?” Helena demanded, green eyes cool and suspicious.

  Minerva bit her lip. “Helena, how to you fancy a trip to the British Museum this afternoon?”

  Chapter 8

  Dear Bonnie,

  I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. Minerva has begun an affair with Mr de Beauvoir and there’s no talking her out of it. You were there when Minerva met him, what do you think? What should I do? She’s a grown woman and I am so tired of the restrictions upon us it seems I should be the last person to object. Yet I am afraid she will get into real trouble. I don’t know what his intentions are towards her, but I know her mother will do all in her power to stop it if he tries to marry her.

  Oh, but Bonnie, what if he doesn’t?

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Helena Adolphus to Mrs Bonnie Cadogan.

  21st January 1815. The British Museum. London.

  “My brother will lock me in my room and throw away the key,” Helena muttered. “And then your mother will set fire to it.”

  “Oh, hush. No one will even know.” Minerva glanced behind her towards Helena’s maid. “At least, not if Tilly is as loyal as you say she is.”

  “Oh, she is,” Helena replied, smiling fondly at the young woman trailing behind them. “She’s a darling. Would walk through fire if I asked her to. You don’t come across such loyalty often. I’d not part with her for the world.”

  Minerva nodded, pleased to see Helena returned the loyalty. It was easy to believe the beautiful heiress was just what she seemed: spoiled, wilful, and demanding. It took time to see beneath the hard exterior, and she didn’t let many people get a glimpse.

  “Oh,” Minerva said. Her breath left her all in a rush at the sight of the tall, severe figure lingering in the shadows of the room. “There he is.”

  At that moment, Inigo turned and saw her too, and she saw him stiffen like a hound catching the scent of fox. Why she’d thought that she didn’t know, but it seemed apt, even if the hound was reluctant to give chase and the fox was hellbent on destruction.

  Minerva lifted a hand to her hair, unaccountably nervous in the circumstances. He’d seen her bare breasts, for heaven’s sake! He’d touched them, kissed them. That thought sent desire pooling low in her belly and heat rushing to her cheeks.

  Helena gave Minerva a long hard look, stared at Inigo, and then back to Minerva.

  “You two had better stay away from naked flames,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s very intense, isn’t he? He looks ready to eat you in two bites.”

  It didn’t help Minerva’s blush any, and Helena looked increasingly concerned.

  “And you look like you’d let him. Honestly, Min, have a care.”

  “I will, I will,” Minerva said, nodding, not meaning it.

  She wanted to be the flame, to set him alight, to be the focus of his attention.

 

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