Page 4 of Tempting the Bluestocking
Edward had no expectations for himself in terms of a marriage or courting a proper lady given the state of his finances, but he would need to ensure that his new occupation did not cause any further embarrassment to his family’s reputation and standing.
Glancing about Hugh’s drawing room, he pictured himself living in such comfort. He imagined gracing Caroline with the sort of dowry that would see her married well, and perhaps even financing a Grand Tour for Jacob. He’d fuck a hundred ladies if that was what it took to make those imaginings into reality.
Turning to Benedict, Edward smiled. “I’m in.”
Chapter 1
London, two weeks later …
Throwing open the door to the study adjoining her bedchamber, Clare Dunnaby heaved a sigh of relief. A servant had thought to start a fire in the hearth in preparation for her arrival home, and it went a long way toward warding off the chill clinging to her. It had been a miserably cold and foggy morning, but she’d been looking forward to inspecting the newest exhibits at the British Museum for weeks now. Rain and cold be damned, Clare had been determined not to suffer from boredom while cloistered away indoors. Tenacity was her middle name, and she was often known for going against all prudence when it came to whatever she wanted most at the moment.
Actually, Cecelia was her middle name, but had she been able to apply a moniker to herself, she would have chosen Tenacity to sit wedged between her first and last name. Armored with resolve to enjoy her outing—along with a pelisse that buttoned to the throat and a cumbersome umbrella—she’d taken the walk from Bedford Square to the museum. Such weather was good for a hearty constitution, her aunt often told her, but while Clare often found light summer showers enjoyable, today’s inclement conditions left much to be desired. She peeled off her gloves while striding closer to the fire, tossing them atop the nearest available surface without bothering to notice how they fell.
The housekeeper would swoon in a dead faint if she trod into Clare’s private domain, but Aunt Helene ordered the servants to keep out. The room had been transformed into a study of sorts, filled with tables, desks, and shelves which contained the assortment of items related to Clare’s intellectual interests. She was unforgivably absentminded and, as Aunt Helene affectionately called her, an irredeemable sloven. It wasn’t that she enjoyed making additional work for the chambermaids, or even that she had no care for her belongings. It was simply that her mind never ceased working long enough for her to give thought to anything beyond whatever held her attention.
And, at the moment, the thing capturing her interest was the parcel lying on her writing desk. It had been delivered during her outing, and the moment sensation returned to her numb fingers she would tear it open. She’d been waiting for the parcel for months now, and could hardly contain her excitement over what might be inside.
While the heat of the fire seeped through the layers of her clothes, she set to work making herself comfortable. Fumbling with the buttons of her pelisse, she peeled the damp garment off and flung it in the direction of the coat tree in the corner of the room. It fell into a heap, just missing its target and landing amongst a cloak and a spencer she’d forgotten to pick up and return to her lady’s maid for cleaning. Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, she tried again for the coat tree, smiling as she made her mark, sending the headwear spinning before it settled on its perch.
Her fingers now warm enough that they no longer felt like rigid icicles, Clare went to her desk while running them through hair cropped to chin length. In her youth, the locks had fallen to her waist in a heavy tumble of glossy black waves. However, she no longer had the patience to sit while her maid combed, brushed, and styled it. Clare found that the shortened hair freed up much of her time for more important things—such as her study of botany, her collections, and her books.
Before settling into her chair, she located the bell-pull and rang, desirous of a hot drink and something to nibble on as she whiled away the hours before dinner in her study. That done, she reached for her parcel, barely able to contain a wide grin as she tore through the brown paper. Inside, she found a plain box with a folded and sealed letter resting on top. Despite wanting to get to the contents of the box, she opened the letter first. Upon the stationary inside, she found the familiar handwriting of her dear friend, Gillian Young.
Dearest CeCe,
Do forgive me for taking so long to write. Our arrival in Cornwall preceded a whirlwind of activity as we settled in with Randall’s associates. Then, the excavation began and my daylight hours have been spent at toiling and discovery. The weather has impeded our work some days, but the moment the soil is dry enough we go right back to our site and resume our work. We’ve unearthed quite a few interesting specimens, a few of which I have enclosed samples of for your collection.
I do apologize for the shortness of this letter, but am certain you understand. We’ve only a few days left before we begin our travels again, and I hope our next destination proves as diverting as this one has been.
Thank you so much for including the pressed blossoms with your last letter. The cluster of Delphinium gypsophilum Ewan was my favorite. I look forward to your next letter, though it might be best for you to withhold it until I can apprise you of where we will travel to next, along with the address.
Randall sends his warmest regards.
Your friend,
Gilly
P.S. - on the back of this letter you will find a list of the specimens I sent for your collection.
Setting the letter aside, Clare slid the box closer to her and paused, allowing the anticipation to build before she would permit herself the satisfaction of knowing what lay within. She tried not to think on the inclusion of Randall’s greeting in Gillian’s letter. Her friend’s elder brother had expressed an interest in her a year ago, before the siblings had embarked on their journey of geological exploration. He had even invited her to join them, likely in an attempt to appeal to her intellectual tendencies, knowing he had little chance of appealing to her romantic ones.
It wasn’t that she had no interest in the opposite sex, only that she’d had yet to find a man who could capture her attention as easily as a good book, a scientific essay, or her beloved plants. She found it ever so ironic that one of the only men not repelled by her pursuits—on the contrary, he seemed drawn to herbecauseof them—and Clare felt absolutely nothing but sibling-like kinship toward him. She and Gillian had been friends for so long, the other woman felt like the sister she’d always wanted, making Randall more like a brother to her than anything else. She only wished the man would finally realize this and turn his attentions elsewhere.
She’d turned down the invitation, for she would not leave Aunt Helene alone for the world. Besides that, she had also hoped time and distance would turn Randall’s attentions away from her and toward some other woman—one who would feel affection for him in return. It would seem that was not yet the case.
Shrugging aside those thoughts, she slowly opened the box, her breath catching at the sight of the specimens laid inside. The door to her study opened and footsteps approached, but she couldn’t be bothered to look up as a maid sat a tray of tea and biscuits atop the stack of books resting on one corner of the desk. No one needed to ask why she’d rung, for all the servants knew that a summons from her study meant someone was to bring her tea and then promptly exit without disturbing her. The maid did that now, leaving her to contemplate the collection in peace.
She absently nibbled on a biscuit while taking up each stone and comparing them to Gillian’s list. There was a triangular hunk of beige and black speckled cassiterite in quartz, a small jade green slab of iridescent quartz, a jagged bit of cuprite sporting swirls of aquamarine and deep red, and a multifaceted piece of sky-blue chalcedony.
Forgetting about her refreshment, she fumbled about the clutter of her desk until locating her magnifying glass, needing more than the assistance of her brass-rimmed spectacles to properly study the stones.
Lifting the cuprite until its surface gleamed in the light of the taper resting nearby, she peered at it through the glass. She was so engrossed by the contrasting swirls of aquamarine and red that she hardly heard the knock upon her door. Without bothering to answer it, she turned the stone over in her hand and studied it from a different angle. The door swung open despite her refusal to urge the person to enter, and she didn’t bother to look up—knowing that after tea had been delivered, only one person would dare enter her domain without permission.
Aunt Helene’s familiar rose-oil scent wafted up her nostrils the moment before she spied the woman in her periphery.
“Aunt,” she murmured, laying the cuprite back into the box and selecting the chalcedony.
“CeCe, dear … how was your trip to the museum?” her aunt asked, leaning against the corner of her desk.
