Discovering the Baron (The Bluestocking Scandals Book 3) Read online

  “Thank you, Lord Essex,” she said, and he wondered, with some despair, if she had dressed in such an outrageous gown for him. Her bodice was cut so low that he could nearly see down it as he bent over her hand, the fabric clinging so tightly to her waist that there was little left to imagine. An odd twisting occurred within his stomach — one that nearly had him running for the closest chamber pot.

  It didn’t help matters when a long, bony finger poked him hard in the side.

  “Ouch,” he muttered, but then restored his smile when Lady Venetia looked at him quizzically. “Ah, that is, I hope you will do me the honor of the first dance this evening, Lady Venetia?”

  “Of course,” she said in her velvet voice, and Oliver didn’t miss his sister’s strangled sound as though she were gagging from beside him. “I believe they are starting a waltz.”

  Oliver heard the strains of music beginning and inwardly sighed. He would have far preferred a drink first, but best get this over with.

  “So they are,” he said. “To the dance floor we go.”

  2

  Celeste was grateful for one thing — she knew this house well enough to be entirely aware of just where the exits were through which she could escape. The Duke and Duchess of Wyndham lived in one of the largest mansions in London — it could hardly be called a house, in her viewpoint.

  She had snuck out of the ballroom through the parlor until she came to what most would call a conservatory, although she knew better. Her dearest friend Jemima, sister to the duke, had a laboratory hidden away in the corner of the large room, although tonight the vegetation was artfully arranged so that any who came this way would not stumble upon the secret that Jemima was much more than a beautiful woman — though that she was as well.

  But her friend’s laboratory was not Celeste’s destination. No, hers was beyond this room. She pushed through the garden doors, her feet in their kid slippers padding over the stone to the low balcony railing to overlook the rolling green beyond. The duke’s mother had insisted that when the house was completed, so were the gardens, for they would be the envy of all who saw them. Rebecca, the duke’s wife and the architect of the home, had complied.

  It was beautiful out here, of course, but Celeste was not entirely interested in the small fountains and lush florals stretching out below her.

  Instead, she turned around, leaned back against the railing, and looked up at the stars far above her, sighing with relief.

  Out here she found peace. The ballroom was loud, noisy, crowded, and she had spent long enough hiding in a corner with Jemima. She had seen her mother look her way, her expression changing to the calculating one that told Celeste she was determined to see her daughter upon the arm of a man with “Lord” in front of his name. Thus, Celeste had gone running, leaving Jemima laughing behind her.

  She let her gaze wander upon the sky above, searching out the stars that had always called to her, that were home for her. She ignored the cold stone of the balcony upon her back as she lifted a finger, tracing the pattern of the constellation.

  “Is there a shooting star tonight?”

  As Celeste tried to right herself in order to see who had disturbed her sanctuary, her feet got caught in her skirts, and she scrambled to catch hold of the balcony in order to hold herself up. Instead, however, she began to topple over backwards, and she let out a noise that could only be described as part-frustrated growl and part-scream as she tried to remember just how far away the ground was below the balcony.

  Luckily, it was rather close. As she tumbled, warm fingers brushed against her ankle — goodness, her mother would have a fit if she knew her daughter’s uncovered ankles had been flying through the air — but nevertheless she had pitched over backwards.

  She was still staring at the stars as she lay on her back, only now it was while lying in a curiously comfortable bed of some unknown greenery.

  “Miss Keswick!”

  Celeste frowned. She recognized that voice, but from where? Suddenly a face filled her vision, and she was grateful for the darkness of night around them, for she knew that her cheeks were likely filled with a spotted dark red blush — and not the becoming kind.

  “Lord Essex!” she exclaimed, attempting to move into a seated position, politely ignoring his outstretched hand, too embarrassed to take it. “How are you this evening?”

  How are you this evening? Was she pretending she was greeting him in the midst of the ballroom instead of the middle of the garden where she was unceremoniously attempting to extricate herself from a bed of greenery without tearing her dress or exposing more skin than she already had?

  “Miss Keswick, I am so incredibly sorry,” he said, finally reaching in and placing his arms around her despite her protestations, which paused as he lifted her out of the flora. He was deceptively strong and smelled divine, his cologne a spicy, heady scent. “I did not mean to startle you, and I certainly should have caught you before you fell.”

  “Oh, it’s entirely my own fault,” she finally managed as he righted her. “I should have been paying attention instead of allowing myself to become lost within the sky.”

  “Within the sky?” he asked, winging up an eyebrow, and Celeste’s embarrassment grew.

  “It’s—nothing. Forget I said anything.”

  “No, please, Miss Keswick, I would be most interested in learning more of what you were doing.”

  She looked at him in bemusement, but he wore no smile or mocking look.

  “Please?” he repeated, his expression so endearing that she couldn’t help but comply.

  “Oh, very well,” she said, ducking her head. “I was tracing my favorite constellation — well, constellations, for there are actually two of them, although I prefer to see them as one.”

  “Do you?” he asked, and she nodded. “Tell me of them — of it.”

  “Perseus and Andromeda,” she said, pointing up to the sky. “See the bright star, there? Then follow it around and you will see her. He is on the other side, and the two of them circle the northern hemisphere together.”

  She looked down at him, seeing he still seemed interested so she continued.

  “The legend is that Andromeda’s mother, Cassiopeia, boasted that she was the most beautiful woman in the world — even above the gods. So Poseidon, god of the seas and brother of Zeus, who felt his sea nymphs were the most beautiful, created Cetus, a great sea monster, and decreed that Cassiopeia must sacrifice her only daughter, Andromeda, to this terrible beast. Andromeda was chained to a large rock in the sea and left there for it. However, as Cetus approached, Perseus arrived, having just defeated Medusa, whose head he carried in a bag. When Perseus saw the beautiful young woman, he drew the head of Medusa out of the bag. When the sea monster saw it, the creature turned to stone. Perseus then freed Andromeda and took her home as his queen.”

  She finished the story with a smile on her face, but then made the mistake of looking at Lord Essex, who was staring at her with the strangest of expressions, one she couldn’t quite make out. He likely thought her addled, she realized, and she straightened.

  “I — ah, forgive me, I shouldn’t have rambled like that. In fact, I think I will be returning—”

  But she stopped when he reached toward her. For a second, she wondered if he was going to draw her close and kiss her. But instead he plucked something from behind her ear, then held it out between them. “A leaf.” He showed her and then let it flutter to the ground. “You look rather like Andromeda tonight.”

  Celeste was lost for words for a moment as she stared at him. His eyes, the irises so dark that she couldn’t determine if they were navy or umber, were crinkled at the corners, his lips turned up in a small smile.

  “You knew!” she finally exclaimed. “You knew that entire story.”

  “I did,” he confirmed, his smile widening now. “But I have never heard it told quite like you just did, with such wonder and emotion. I knew you were a woman of science, Miss Keswick, but I never realized you were
a romantic as well.”

  “Oh!” she said, covering her mouth with her hand. “I’m not sure that I would be called a romantic. I just… I love the story, as well as the thought that the stars are always with us, wherever we may be.”

  “True words, Miss Keswick,” he said, and she was caught by his eyes once more. Onyx, she decided, that’s what they were. She was so lost in their depths, for they were as dark as the night sky. She had spent time in his presence before, but it was always within polite company. He was a handsome man, to be sure — every woman who saw him must think the same — but never had she allowed herself a moment to think that he might hold any attraction or regard for her, and so she had kept herself from such romantic, as he put it, thoughts regarding him.

  Or anyone, really. She had resigned herself to the fact that she would likely live out her days as had William Herschel’s sister, Caroline — known for her work and the assistance she provided her brother, but never finding love for herself. Celeste’s love was the stars above, and her affection would have to be maintained for the family she already had.

  For gentlemen were not particularly inclined to be interested in a bluestocking such as she. Any interest they initially showed quickly fled when she opened her mouth about her work or her aspirations. No man desired a wife of science.

  Celeste and Jemima had consoled themselves with the thought that, at the very least, they would always have each other.

  Romance was for others, or in the pages of the books Celeste allowed herself now and again as an escape.

  She shook her head before allowing any thoughts of Lord Essex to intrude. She began to list all of the reasons why he would likely never even want to see her again, let alone harbor any romantic thoughts toward her.

  First, he was one of the most handsome, charming gentlemen she had ever met. She hadn’t much experience with men of the ton, but she assumed he was one that many young women would be interested in. Whereas she… well, she was not exactly the paragon of loveliness. She had bright red hair, freckles that were not merely scattered becomingly across her nose but rather covered her entire face, and a complexion that was near to translucent until she blushed — which was often — and then she turned a shade of red that would make a tomato jealous.

  Second, she had met him before, when she had made no blunder whatsoever, and he had clearly been unenamored.

  Third, she had just waxed on about the stars and her love of all things celestial. No man of his ilk would think anything of a bluestocking who would prefer to spend her days staring through a metal cylinder or making calculations on pages before her.

  Fourth, he was a baron, while she was nothing more than a common woman whose father had made money through importing and exporting. While she was proud of her father for how hard he had worked and for making something of himself, she knew that most within the nobility would think nothing of it.

  Fifth and finally (she always thought lists should be in denominations of five), she had just made a fool of herself in front of him. He was likely internally laughing at her and desperate to find a way to extricate himself from this situation.

  “Miss Keswick, what are you counting?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts, and she dropped her hands suddenly when she realized she had been counting on her fingers. She fisted her hands into her skirts to keep them hidden from view as her face burned anew.

  “Nothing,” she said immediately, and he smiled knowingly but didn’t press her.

  “While I have enjoyed this interlude with you, it would not be seemly for the two of us to be found out here together. I would escort you back into the ballroom, but that certainly wouldn’t do. So tell me, Miss Keswick, would you like to remain here awhile longer, or would you like to be the first to return?”

  Just as she had thought. He was more than eager to be rid of her company.

  “I, ah, I shall return and leave you to your own time alone,” she said hurriedly. “I needed a moment away from it all, and I have been out here long enough. My mother will be positively livid that I— I’m sorry, you likely have no care for all of that.”

  “Nothing to apologize for, Miss Keswick,” he said. “I enjoy listening to you talk.”

  He was being polite. He had to be. No one enjoyed listening to her talk. Even her friends, who allowed her to go off on her tangents, watched her with courteous smiles on their faces until she remembered herself and the fact that they had no interest in how to calculate the distance between stars or the speed of a comet.

  “Goodbye, then, Lord Essex.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Keswick.”

  3

  Oliver smiled as he watched Miss Keswick hurry back through the garden doors. He had escorted her up the stairs to the balcony from which she had tumbled — he admonished himself again for startling her — and then she had returned before anyone had found them out here together.

  He should have thought of the risk much earlier, but the truth was, he was so enjoying his time with her that he had forgotten himself.

  Celeste Keswick. He leaned back against the balcony, assuming much the same stance he had found her in. He had spent some time with her previously, at the odd dance or dinner party through their mutual friends. He had come to know the Duke of Wyndham through Gentleman Jackson’s, and had been invited to his events time and again. He had enjoyed Miss Keswick’s company but hadn’t thought much of her beyond that. She was, as far as he was aware, an innocent young woman, and at the time, he had no thoughts for any young ladies that he would have had to call upon in an official capacity.

  Now, however… things had changed, and a part of him wished he had noticed Miss Keswick much sooner.

  He had no idea she had such interest in the stars. He looked upward at the constellations she had described. He, of course, was already well aware of the legend of Perseus and Andromeda. But he had never heard it told quite like Miss Keswick had told it. Somehow, the story had come alive through the passion in her voice and the rapture on her face as she spoke. He had been mesmerized.

  How did a woman like her develop such an interest? Had she had an overzealous tutor at some point? Keswick… now that he thought on it, the name had some familiarity, though he couldn’t quite place it. Whatever the case, she had intrigued him. What would it be like, speaking of such matters with a woman — one who cared as much as he did?

  He would like to return to the ball and ask her to dance, only so that he might find out the answers to his questions, but to do so would cause her to make assumptions about his interest in her — assumptions that while they might, perhaps, have some truth behind them, could never be brought into being. Not anymore.

  As he began to walk toward the door, he stepped on something, and he looked down to see a necklace lying there, strewn across the stone terrace. He bent to pick it up, and when he saw the moon pendant, he knew it could only belong to one woman. He placed it in his pocket, resolving to find a time when he would be able to surreptitiously return it.

  For the chance of anything further between the two of them had faded when he had finally told his mother to go ahead and make the decision for him.

  Of course, that didn’t keep him from looking for Miss Keswick when he re-entered the duke’s ballroom, laughing, as he always did, when he looked up at the ceiling to see his friend’s own likeness looking down at him, his fists locked in an eternal battle with an unknown opponent. The painting had been Wyndham’s wife’s doing, and to this day Wyndham’s mother despaired of it whenever she walked into the room.

  He caught the red of Miss Keswick’s hair first. Her head was bent in conversation with another gentleman, and a twinge of jealousy twisted in his stomach until he realized it was Lord Dorrington, husband of one of Miss Keswick’s close friends.

  But whomever the man in question was, what right did Oliver have to be jealous? Miss Keswick was an acquaintance — she wasn’t even a friend!

  “Who are you looking at?”

  He started when his sister�
�s voice rang loudly in his ear, and he turned to find her face just inches from his.

  “Good gracious, Alice, you don’t sneak up on a man like that,” he said, frowning, and she returned his look.

  “You’re quite on edge,” she said, tilting her head in study of him before her gaze hardened. “Why?”

  “I am not on edge,” he muttered.

  “You are,” she insisted. “You’re typically quite jolly to any and all in your acquaintance, and right now you are being downright surly. It’s not like you. Now, who were you looking at?”

  “No one.”

  “Hmm,” she pursed her lips. “It must not be Lady Venetia, for you would admit to that. As it happens, Ollie, I don’t think you much like her.”

  “I like her well enough,” he said with a shrug, looking around to ensure that no one was listening to their conversation. Why did his sister have to speak so loudly? “Did I not dance with her as soon as I arrived?”

  “You did,” Alice acknowledged, though it was clear she didn’t believe it to be sufficient evidence.

  “Oliver,” his mother called out as she joined him. “Why have you been ignoring Lady Venetia all evening?”

  Oliver took that as his cue to seek out the card room, which had temporarily been fashioned in the parlor — a far safer space, he thought, than one with all of the women who seemed to be questioning his thoughts and motivations when all he truly wanted was to be at home with his work. Or conversing about it with Miss Keswick.

  Near the end of the night, he did keep an eye out for her, however, for a practical reason — he had to return her necklace. He caught her just as she exited the ballroom. A couple who must be her parents trailed behind her but fortunately had paused for a moment to exchange greetings with another guest.

  “Miss Keswick,” he said, and when she turned to his voice, he was shocked by the intensity of her green stare. He didn’t know if it was the reflection of the candles from the chandelier above them, or a glazed sheen of tiredness that had overtaken her, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing eyes so captivating before.