A Study In Seduction(61)

She wanted to. The urge filled her mouth like warm cream. She wanted to give voice to this man’s name, to listen to it flow through the thick, dusty air. She wanted to say it aloud, the sharp X sound slicing the elegant vowels like a knife through soap-soft leather. She wanted to hear the acute consonants scarring the liquidity of the word.

She loved Alexander. Loved the name’s imperfection, the melting of soft and hard sounds, the way it trailed off into a purr at the end. She could never think of him as Alex, could never cut short the silver ribbon of his name.

“Lydia.” In his deep voice, her own name acquired new depth, like poetry that only he had the power to explain.

In that instant, Lydia had the strange, profound revelation that if she were to say his Christian name, it would be like severing the rope leading her from a maze. She would be left within a complex yet utterly compelling labyrinth with nothing but Lord Northwood’s hands wrapped around hers and his breath on her skin.

She would not be able to find her way out. She would not want to find her way out. She would belong to him forever.

Her hands tightened on the abacus. His hands tightened on hers. She lifted her head, seeing herself reflected in the glossy dark surface of his eyes. Her voice was a steady, unfurling whisper.

“Alexander.”





Chapter Sixteen




Jane peered out the window at the man standing across the street. Something about him seemed familiar, though she couldn’t figure out what it was.

She turned away and paced. With Lydia gone, Jane didn’t quite know what to do with herself—Grandmama had taken her to the park this morning, but then had gone off shopping with a friend and left Jane in the care of Mrs. Driscoll.

Jane glanced out at the man again. He appeared tall and thin, his hands in his coat pockets, his hat pulled low over his forehead.

A knot pulled just beneath Jane’s chest. She wondered what Lydia was doing at Lord Rushton’s country estate.

She slid her hand into her pocket, where the locket key still rested. She hadn’t yet tried the key in any lock, though she knew of only one or two places where the little thing might fit.

“Would you like some tea, dear?” Mrs. Driscoll appeared in the doorway.

Jane shook her head and muttered that she wasn’t hungry.

She slipped past the housekeeper and went downstairs. Unaccountably, her insides began to twist with nerves. Before she lost courage, Jane crossed to the closed door of her father’s study and went inside.

The box sat on a shelf near the cedarwood desk. Copper, Jane thought as she ran a finger over the floral engravings. She’d seen the box numerous times, noticed the little lock holding it closed, though she’d never wondered about its contents. Until now.

She glanced over her shoulder, then inserted the key into the lock and turned. A faint click echoed through the room. She lifted the lid to reveal a padded velvet interior.

In an odd contrast to the rich-looking material, there was a worn brown envelope with frayed edges. A tattered string held the envelope closed. Jane picked it up and examined it. No writing or stamps marred the smooth exterior.

She hesitated. This was wrong. This was obviously private, or her father wouldn’t have locked it away.

Jane put the envelope back in the box and started to close the lid. She looked at it for a moment, her heart beginning to thump a heavy beat inside her head.

She had the sudden feeling that the contents of the envelope were of the utmost importance.

Her heart hammered more loudly. Before she could change her mind, she grasped the envelope again and tore off the string. Her hands shook as she opened the flap and removed a piece of paper, yellowed with age, the sheet divided into separate boxes, each enclosing a few words.

She studied the page, the scrawled, loopy handwriting that exceeded the boundaries of the printed boxes, only realizing after a moment’s perusal that most of the words were in French.

French. Her mother had lived in France for years… a convent or sanatorium run by Dominican nuns. She’d died there, too, so perhaps this was a certificate of death or…

Jane gasped.


“My father visited Russia several times at the behest of the czar,” Lord Rushton said, slicing into the filet with one stroke. “He always spoke of the country with great affection, and I often went along when I was a boy. He was quite pleased when I was appointed ambassador to St. Petersburg. Of course, that was a long time ago.”

Lydia could have sworn she saw wistfulness pass across the earl’s face before he gestured for a footman to pour more wine.