I Thee Wed (4 page)

L
ONG after the Blayne household had gone to sleep, Orion tossed and turned in his luxurious bed. One would think that the perfection of hospitality and service in Blayne House would be peaceful, but there was a portion of Orion's mind that remained suspended in expectation.

In Worthington House, “too quiet” was usually a portent of disaster. Too quiet meant that the twins were hard at work on something that was sure to explode. Too quiet meant that Attie was silently plotting something rather interesting and likely highly destructive. Too quiet meant that Elektra was in a dangerous sulk, or that Iris had inadvertently poisoned Archie with turpentine in the teapot again and that Orion's brothers were searching through London for a physician who would not require payment anytime soon . . . or ever.

Orion considered this restlessness objectively, as he did everything. He was familiar with the concept of adaptation, where a subject could become so accustomed to even the most awful environment that the thought of safety and sanity was
actually alarming in its unfamiliarity.

Surely that explained his inability to embrace sleep. It was simply that he was not yet fully adapted to his fresh surroundings. The newness would wear off, and soon he would forget about his alarming reaction to her . . . er, it. The house. Blayne House.

Francesca.

Think on something else.

He could think about the incredible laboratory, where he could pursue almost any sort of research he could conceive of. Sir Geoffrey even had a telescope, in a farmhouse located in the high country of the Yorkshire Dales, that Orion could use to peruse the stars!

First, he would maximize the opportunities offered by the marvelous equipment in the laboratory. Even the most meager items held within were of stunning quality.

His thoughts lingered on that strange moment when Sir Blayne had fixed his fury on his niece for allowing a stained bit of glassware to invade the pristine room. Now that Orion thought about it, she had looked very much like his sister Callie did when she'd sometimes taken the blame for one of Attie's bits of mayhem.

Whom had Miss Penrose been protecting? Miss Judith Blayne? It seemed unlikely that Judith would ruin a beaker. A lady of Judith's demeanor would not likely cook a chicken, much less an experiment!

She'd certainly had nothing to do with the bland fare at the table this evening. With the exception of some very fine bread, everything had been overcooked and flavorless. Not that Orion much recalled the taste of the food. His mind had been fully occupied with . . . other matters.

He sat up in bed, fueled by an unaccustomed twinge of unease as he remembered.

Orion had been seated at Sir Geoffrey's right hand, the seat of honor. He'd felt oddly as though he were being courted,
which set him on edge. Every Worthington knew to eye all free offerings with suspicion, because nothing in life came without strings attached.

What would Sir Geoffrey expect in return?

Then Orion had forgotten everything at the sight of Miss Francesca Penrose leaning forward to poke disdainfully at the pheasant on her plate. The candlelight had turned her dark sable hair to midnight and the warmly tinted skin of the tops of her full breasts to shimmering gold. Orion had been riveted by the movement of her body as she took each breath, as she turned to speak softly to her cousin a few times, as she let out a long sigh of disappointment while she listlessly pushed her food about her plate.

Every time the dining room door opened to admit another servant with another tray, the draft carried the scent of orange-blossom soap and freshly bathed woman across the table to further disrupt Orion's ability to concentrate on, well, anything.

Miss Judith Blayne must have looked very nice as well, but for the life of him, Orion could not recall what she had worn or anything she had said. Instead, imprinted on his memory were the way the dark green fabric of Francesca's gown had clung to her rounded hip when she'd twisted in her chair and the way her smoky gaze had turned to him again and again, though she'd obviously tried to keep her eyes downcast.

She'd frowned at herself, a tiny crinkle between her dark brows, when she'd caught herself glancing at him from under her thick lashes yet again, and Orion had known that she was as perplexed by him as he was by her.

He wasn't stupid. This was what physical attraction meant. He'd thought he'd understood it before, but he'd had no idea of the sheer disturbing power of it. None of his intellect could help him as he found his trousers becoming uncomfortably tight. Quite frankly, he felt rather betrayed by his body—and
worse, by his own mind!

His normally finely tuned instrument of intellect would not remain fixed upon matters of serious consideration, but instead kept sliding sideways into fruitless wondering about what it would be like to dig his hands into that thick, dark hair in order to pull her down on top of him in a deep, probing kiss. Would her round breasts compress softly against his chest when he held her close? Would her body take him deep into her hot, wet center?

Sir Geoffrey spoke to him several times, and he must have answered the man, although he could not recall anything he'd said. He should thank Elektra for her annoying lessons in civil deportment, for he'd apparently managed to deliver an acceptable array of banalities at reasonable intervals.

Sir Geoffrey had dismissed them all after dinner, promising “great things, young man, great things!” on the initiation of tomorrow's research, then taken himself off to his study to “review and reflect” upon the work until that point.

Miss Judith Blayne had said something suitably hostesslike about Orion's chamber, but all Orion could clearly recall was the way Francesca had given him one last smoldering glance over her shoulder as she'd accompanied her cousin from the room.

Or maybe it was he who had smoldered. He could not be sure. He'd never felt so aflame before!

Who is she?

Orion replayed, for perhaps the fiftieth time, Sir Geoffrey's introduction.

“The daughter of my half brother, Francis Penrose. Francesca has recently joined our household from her mother's family in Bologna, Italy.” Her good fortune in that family charity was implicit in Sir Geoffrey's tone.

Orion was not sure why. There was marvelous science taking place in Bologna. The university there had been a center of discovery for hundreds of years: electricity, physics,
chemistry, all the topics Orion wished to explore in his lifetime. He'd learned to read Italian at the age of fourteen simply to delve into the worlds of such great minds as Professora Laura Bassi and the scientist-monk Lazzaro Spallanzani without the blur of translation getting in the way.

Francesca had seemed a bit too earthy, with her tumbled hair and flour-dusted dress, to be familiar with the goings-on at the University of Bologna. It was a pity, really. There was so much astonishing discovery happening in the world right now.

Sir Geoffrey might know more about biology and chemistry than he himself did, but Orion was beginning to suspect that his mentor had become rather too comfortable in his lush laboratory. Adversity refined one's instincts, and change kept the mind flexible. That was why he was here, after all.

Not to think about women, no matter how rich their voices, or how glowing their skin, or how lush their lips . . .

Orion abruptly tossed aside his opulent coverings and planted both bare feet on the floor. It was warm, covered by a soft carpet, nothing like the icy, mind-clearing sensation of the floor at Worthington House. Orion twitched against the comfort of his environment for a moment, longing for some bracing, near-freezing water in his washbowl, for a stimulating draft from an ill-fitting window frame, or a sudden, alertness-spiking crash from another part of the house. He felt slightly suffocated, as if the luxurious walls of Blayne House were closing in upon him, forcing him to breathe stale air. Dragging a dressing gown over his trousers and bare chest, Orion went in search of something cold to drink.

*   *   *

F
RANCESCA PROPPED HER
chin upon her fists and willed her dough to rise faster. She imagined that the many thousands of little yeast beasties could understand, for she deeply
believed that they were alive, so she thought the least she could do was encourage them.

“Grow,” she breathed coaxingly. “Swell. Multiply.”

Nothing much seemed to be happening. She couldn't imagine why. She had proofed the yeast, which was actually descended from her own batch she'd brought from Italy in a small clay jar in her reticule. She'd thought she ought to carry it herself, or some idiot sailor or driver or innkeeper might leave it sitting in the sun, where it would grow itself to death!

But Italian yeast beasties didn't seem to care for the English chill and damp. Each generation had become less and less active. It worried her enough that she thought she ought to have another little conversation with them. She bent forward, wrapping her hands around the large pottery dough bowl to warm it.

“I want you to be strong,” she crooned. “Spirited. I want you to come alive in my hands.”

*   *   *

“G
ET BIGGER
.”

Orion hadn't expected to find the kitchen occupied at all, much less by a shapely nymph in a nightdress and wrapper, who kneeled upon a tall stool and embraced a big white bowl.

She was talking to it.

Some might find that strange, but Orion had Iris Worthington for a mother. Iris had been known to wander the house in her nightdress while conversing enthusiastically with a potted palm. She said the plant liked to tell jokes but had little sense of humor. She laughed only out of politeness.

Hence, a half-dressed girl breathing endearments into a bowl was not even spectacular enough to cause comment.

No, it wasn't that she was talking to the bowl—it was what she was saying to it.

“Grow in my hands,” her low, musical voice urged. “My hands are so warm. Can you feel them wrapped around you?
I want you to swell, and enlarge. Be strong. Grow until I can feel you get—” She hesitated, then continued in murmured Italian.
“Dura come una roccia
.
”

Orion translated in his mind and felt his knees weaken.
As firm as a rock
.

Oh damn
.

Orion felt his blood begin to pound in his ears. Then it seemed to leave his brain entirely as it pooled thickly in his loins. As his cock hardened, he leaned his forehead against the cool plaster of the wall, all the better to absorb the intensely pleasurable sound of her warm, liquid speech.

“Venire, mia cara . . .”

Come, my darling . . .

Orion suspected that he had never sported such an erection in his entire healthy male life. It strained against his trousers as if it had a mind of its own, a mind determined to fall into those small, warm, caressing hands.

That would be . . . nice. Astonishing. Quite possibly life-threatening, if his pounding heartbeat was any indication of the danger he was in.

“Lievitare per me . . .”

Rise for me . . .

He wanted her. He wanted her hands upon him, holding his cock, squeezing him. He wanted her mouth under his. He wanted those lush, deep rose lips on his mouth . . . and on his cock. He wanted to fill his hands with her, with those creamy, golden-tinged breasts, with her curving hips, with her rounded thighs while she straddled him, enveloping his cock with her sweet hot—

“I don't think this is going to work.”

He heard her sigh deeply in disappointment. He could sympathize. His cock had obeyed her every throaty command and was now swollen, risen, hard as a rock and ready to come for her.

Now what do I do?

*   *   *

F
RANCESCA SLID DOWN
from her perch on her knees on the stool. Her yeast beasties were not long for this world. She patted the bowl mournfully. “That's all right. I'm sure I shall get along famously with English yeast beasties as well.” With an effort, she hefted the big crockery bowl full of flaccid dough and lugged it to the scullery. Beneath the large stone sink was an enormous pail the cook called the “pig bucket.”

The Blayne household did not keep a pig, but presumably the cook wasn't referring to Sir Geoffrey. The cook probably sold the scraps to some farmer and pocketed the proceeds.

She dumped the bowl and dusted her hands together. Tomorrow she would go to the baker's and beg a starter colony of English yeast. At least today she'd had that one last batch to serve the new assistant, Mr. Worthington.

Not that he'd seemed to appreciate the crusty goodness of her bread. Whenever she'd glanced his way, he'd been absently forking up the painfully bland food while staring at her. Not that she'd glanced his way often. Only three or four times.

Per minute.

She twisted a corner of her lips at the accuracy of the accusation. Yes, but that was only because he was very easy to look upon!

In truth, she'd been riveted by him. Everything about him tugged at her attention, from the way his large hands handled the cutlery with precision to the flexing of his chiseled jaw as he chewed. His dark blue eyes had seemed almost black in the candlelit dining room, and they had scorched her skin like coals when he'd looked at her.

She'd felt his gaze on her face, heating her flesh, and on her neck, making her shiver, and falling upon the exposed upper skin of her bosom, warming her like Mediterranean sunlight.

Francesca paused just before leaving the kitchens, tightening the belt of her wrapper and reminding herself that she
thought Mr. Worthington to be rude and arrogant in his manner and speech.

A man that attractive? Who requires him to speak?

She shushed her biological imperative, smoothed the neckline of her nightdress, and strode from the kitchen.