The difficulty with John’s brain was not just that he remembered everything—he could see every word he’d ever read and every expression on a person’s face—but that his mind continued to make connections between all the different pieces of information. Possibilities erupted like popping corn.
Today the endless ideas that plagued him were a discordant mix of Edward’s sister, potential applications of theoretical concepts in the recently published Chemistry of Europe, and Edward’s sister.
His habit was to fill his notebooks with these thoughts and ideas, annotations and lines, connections and questions. Each page would be rife with references to other pages in different notebooks. Only the act of purging his thoughts on paper ever brought him the quiet he craved.
But thoughts of Charlotte—her name, her likeness, the memory of her naked toes peeking out from beneath her nightgown—didn’t quiet no matter how many pages he filled. His journals, the existence of which could be subpoenaed in any court case relating to the intellectual ownership of his inventions, were becoming less the documentation of his engineering and more like a smutty novel.
There were kernels of genuine worth in there, though. To focus his mind on the development of ideas that might bring in a much-needed additional income stream, he tossed his latest journal on the floor by his desk, shrugged on his coat, and pulled his gloves from the pockets of it. He would see Fiona. Half of his ideas were about her matches as it was. If he was talking business, surely thoughts of Lady Charlotte could not intrude.
He glanced through the glass doors toward Wildeforde House. There was a door in the wall separating their two gardens that hadn’t been used in over a decade. Perhaps he’d remind Wilde of it. It would be quicker than constantly traversing the block.
The walk was brisk and invigorating, but he hesitated when he reached Wildeforde House. From the street, the residence seemed alive with activity. All the outside lamps were lit, creating a wide, sweeping, welcoming arc of light along the drive. A footman was brushing down the stairs, and as Simmons opened the door to ask the lad a question, John could see maids crossing behind him, arms full.
He should go. He would have to tame his thoughts on his own. He’d almost turned back, but his feet, illogical and unbidden, propelled him forward.
Simmons had the door open. “His lordship or her ladyship?” he asked as he took John’s coat.
“Fi, if she’s available.” If they were about to entertain, she’d be inundated with tasks.
Instead of leading John to Fiona and Wilde’s study, Simmons took him left, to a drawing room that overlooked the front garden. It was as unFiona-like a room as he could imagine. The wallpaper was pretty shades of yellow and pink, and a long bench that spanned the length of the room was laden with vases and intricate flower arrangements. Still-life watercolors hung on the walls and both chaise longues were adorned with tiny blush cushions edged with lace.
This was Charlotte’s room. The details all spoke to her nature: her love of pretty things, her attention to comfort, her kindness. He inhaled and caught the same scent of a summer garden that he’d smelled last night. It set off an unwelcome fluttering within him.
It had been a mistake to come here. Sitting on her chaise longue, enveloped in her smell, was hardly going to make him think of her less. But if he was honest with himself, perhaps this was exactly why he’d hurried to visit—his body could not continue resistance after a day of thinking about her.
“John.” Fiona’s voice yanked him from his musings. He looked up to see her standing in the doorway, her head cocked.
“You’re wearing a gown.” The only time John had seen her in women’s clothing was years ago. She’d had a single dress she wore to church on a Sunday. Tonight, she was clad in green silk, in a dress with flowing skirts and sleeves that would absolutely catch alight in a lab or snag on their half-assembled steam engines.
Fiona rolled her eyes and crossed to the chair in front of him, collapsing onto it casually, in a stark juxtaposition to the finery she wore. “Aye, the French ambassador is coming to dinner, along with half the House of Lords. So I’m wearing a dress.”
She looked…different. Gone was the earthy, raw, common-born engineer he knew. Instead, she looked every bit a duchess.
Their lives had irrevocably changed. The farmer’s daughter and the second son now a duchess and a viscount. Neither was where they should be—in a factory covered in a layer of coal dust, working with the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer to accompany them and the occasional trumpet of a steam train.
She didn’t look unhappy, though, in this new life. In fact, despite the gown and the elaborate hairstyle that the old Fiona would have groaned over, Fi looked whole. Joyous.
“I should go,” he said. “You’re clearly busy.”
She waved a hand. “Stay. I’m nae as busy as ye’d think. Charlotte has it in hand. I just need to show up and be agreeable. What brought ye here?”
“I have an idea, a way to cut the amount of material needed for the match heads by two-thirds.”
Fiona’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward. “Tell me. But tell me over dinner.”
* * *
It was the second night in a row that John had dined with his peers. Unlike the sharp edges of the previous night’s conversations, where he’d found himself deflecting pointed comments about his work and cutting remarks about how wonderful Walter had been and how John must surely be concerned at being the lesser viscount, tonight the conversation ran gently. Dare he say pleasantly?
The guest list had clearly been curated for a purpose—in among the lords were ambassadors from several European countries with which the government was trying to negotiate treaties. Every Wildeforde had their role. Edward and Fiona talked political and social influence with the men in attendance. Charlotte’s politicking was more subtle; she worked on the women in attendance. Her conversation was more indirect, but there was no doubt that over breakfast the following morning her true value would be felt.
In stark contrast to the company at his earlier foray into society, those in attendance did not have the same derogatory attitude toward industry. They worshipped Fiona, constantly asking about her latest project and what she thought of this innovation or that recent development.
Once the attendees twigged that Lord Harrow was the John Barnesworth, the man whose safety improvements to Hedley’s steam engine had accelerated the adoption of rail travel, curious questions were lobbed in his direction. It was talk he was comfortable with and he barely tripped over his tongue at all. Before he knew it, dinner had become drinks in the drawing room—the men choosing to stay with the women.
John hung at the edge of the room, propping up the wall while the rest of the assembly found places to sit and listen to Charlotte as she sang and played the piano. The pages of sheet music were turned by the eager son of the Spanish ambassador. There was a look of adoration on the boy’s face as he gazed down at her. John couldn’t blame the lad. Her voice resonated with the collective sighs of her audience, creating an energy that quickened his breath and heightened his senses.
He didn’t know how it was possible, but when she smiled, the entire room fell away, as though whoever she was smiling at was the only person who existed. When that smile reached him, his heart pounded.
So focused was he on the woman in front of him, he didn’t notice her brother join him until Wilde was leaning against the wall facing him, arms crossed.
“She’s exceptional, isn’t she?”
John nodded. “Indeed. The young Señor Di Osma seems entirely besotted.” He was not jealous of the boy, even if he had a flash of yearning to be the one turning her pages.
“She looks happy, don’t you think?”
“She does.” John didn’t think he’d ever experienced the joy that was in her expression. The lightness of it, its carefree aspect, was completely foreign to him.
“She’s in her element, hosting events like this,” her brother continued. “Char needs people the way most men need air. It sustains her. It drives her. If she were ever to be removed from society, she would likely wither away. Do you understand?” Edward’s expression turned hard. There was nothing in it that reflected their decades of friendship.
John felt a red-hot wash of shame engulf him as understanding struck. Wilde was warning him off Charlotte.
Of course he was. Wilde knew him for who he truly was, every flawed molecule of him. No one understood John like he did, and if his oldest friend thought him an unsuitable match for his sister, then clearly he was. It stung, but it wasn’t a surprise; it just reinforced what he already knew.
Ladies like Charlotte belonged with real lords who could navigate society’s turbulent waters, not sink beneath them. She belonged with someone who was attuned to the social whirl, who could play host to her hostess rather than skulking at the edges like a blasted wallflower.
She was sunshine, and he was a dull winter’s day. She was joy and life and laughter, and that vivaciousness was foreign to him.
She loved people and he could barely manage basic conversation without insulting someone or stumbling over his words and clamming up. Even if the thought of her had followed him about all day, they were clearly not a concept that would work in practicality.
She needed someone else. She needed a man more like Walter.
His stomach turned at the thought. She needed a man like Walter, but kind. Regardless, that man was not John.
He met his friend’s stony stare. “It’s understood. It’s not a thought I’d ever entertained.”
Wilde nodded, glimpsing no sign of John’s lie. “Good, because I fear she is not so rational about the matter. She’s always gotten too damn close to her projects. To save you, she may well sacrifice herself.”
Like a young lady to a netherworld monster.
Charlotte finished playing and gave her hand to Di Osma, allowing him to help her stand. The boy’s chest puffed forward as they stood in front of the assembly, Charlotte dipping into a curtsey.
When she stepped away from the piano, she was joined by half of the guests. Her laughter drifted across the room. She truly was in her element surrounded by the highest of haute ton and acting as a general in her brother’s political battles.
This life was as far from John’s one-bedroom cottage in the wilderness as it was possible to get, and ultimately, that was where he wanted to be.
And Charlotte would wither away there.
* * *
As the evening wound down and Charlotte no longer needed to flit from person to person to ensure her guests were happy and engaged, she was able to give more of her attention to John, who was currently sitting with Fi and the French ambassador.
He stood as she joined them, offering his seat.
“No, it’s fine,” she said. “I’ll have to get up in a moment, anyway.” Lady Brostward would soon leave, and as Edward’s hostess, Charlotte would need to pay her regards.
John nodded but didn’t smile or look her in the eye as he did so. A thread of unease wove through her. They’d been friends last night. Now he acted as though she were barely an acquaintance.
Just his friend’s younger sister.
Charlotte perched herself on the arm of Fiona’s chair. The conversation, which had paused the moment she arrived, leapt back into life. Charlotte could understand none of it. Something about ignition temperatures.
Fiona bit the tip of her thumbnail before shaking her head and then wagging her fingers at John. “No, I agree. I think if we were to replace the antimony sulfide with white phosphorus the flame would be steadier.”
John sat for a moment, his body language mirroring Fi’s. He tapped his fingers against his lips as he considered Fiona’s words. “On its own, it’s not combustible,” he said eventually. “But if the striking surface contained elements of red phosphorus in addition to glass?”
The French ambassador, who almost always ended his visits to Wildeforde House in deep conversation with Charlotte’s sister-in-law, nodded his agreement. “That might work. There was a paper in Philosophical Transactions that suggested something similar.”
John clicked his fingers. “Yes! Fi, you have all that’s needed, don’t you? We could start trials tomorrow.”
The more they went on, the more Charlotte’s discomfort grew. She knew she was not the most intelligent woman. But generally, she could understand the thrust of a conversation, could follow along with it, or she at least had enough information to pretend to follow.
She couldn’t even pretend right now. The entire conversation went completely over her head.
“Fi, you’re a genius,” John said, raising his glass toward her.
Fi waved him off. “Nae. I simply had an excellent teacher.”
Charlotte’s discomfort morphed into full-blown jealousy. Fiona was so at ease in this kind of conversation. She was the most intelligent woman Charlotte had ever met, and while Charlotte adored her sister and was so grateful that Edward had found love with a kind and thoughtful woman, tonight’s conversation was a reminder of all the ways in which Charlotte was lesser.
She was the daughter of a duke, cousin to the king, and had had more proposals than she could count on her fingers, and yet she would never be able to discuss what made the universe work. She’d spent her entire life doing exactly as society expected of her—she’d had governesses and finishing schools and endless hours of practicing what she ought—and still she’d somehow found herself uneducated. Her head was full of people and gossip. Try as she might, she would never change the world as her sister had.
John glanced at her briefly and then looked away. He must think Charlotte a complete idiot, given how little she contributed to the conversation. She had been awfully stupid to think a woman like her could ever be loved by a man as intelligent as him. He needed a wife like Fiona, someone who could converse on the subjects that interested him.
The discomfort became too much. Fi, John, and the French ambassador were so deeply engaged in conversation they didn’t even notice when she stood. Rather than interrupt them, she quietly made her way to the door where Lady Brostward was preparing to leave. Edward was already there.
She gave the grande dame’s fingers a squeeze and kissed her quickly on the cheek, pushing aside all her feelings to once again play the part of the perfect hostess.
The rest of the guests took that as a sign and one by one they left, until eventually, it was just four of them. Edward and Fiona sat together on the chaise longue, swirling patterns on each other’s limbs with their fingertips. It was clear the night was over and that her brother and his wife wanted to go upstairs.
“Shall I walk you out, my lord?” she asked John.
Edward gave them a sharp look which, judging by the way John’s features drew in tight, had subtext she could only guess at.
Nevertheless, John rose and offered his arm. They walked in awkward silence to the front door, where Simmons handed John his coat and gloves. As he dressed, Charlotte couldn’t help feeling incredibly foolish. She’d had a child’s tendre for John for so many years, but tonight showed that if they weren’t talking about his predicament, they had very little to say to each other. They had so little in common.
Simmons finally handed John his hat.
“I hope you had a lovely evening,” she said.
“It was very agreeable, thank you.” Again, he barely looked at her. Was that where this friendship had ended up? Last night they had been a perfect pair, playing in total synchronicity, and tonight he could barely spare five words for her.
“Will I see you tomorrow, then?” She cursed the hope in those words. She shouldn’t want to see him again. That way lay heartache, clearly. But her desire to see him prevented her from keeping her mouth closed. “We could walk Newton again. We could think of new ways to extricate you from your abominable engagement.”
John sighed and finally looked her directly in the eyes. “Lady Charlotte, I cannot marry you.”
“Oh.” Her heart dropped. If only the floor would do the same and swallow her whole. She fought back humiliated tears. Had her foolish infatuation been so obvious?
She pulled together enough of her shattered pieces to at least appear whole, because a Wildforde never showed weakness. “Thank you, Lord Harrow.” Because really, what else was one to say when a proposal you never even made got rejected? All the suitors she’d turned down had managed a brief if ill-felt show of thanks for her time.
John ran a hand through his hair. The way he tugged the ends of it caused strands to escape from their queue, standing out at all angles. “I don’t plan on remaining in England. As soon as I can free myself from my brother’s debts, I will hire stewards whom I trust to oversee the title and its affairs and I will return to America.”
“Oh.” The evening was getting better and better. He was leaving. That hadn’t been a possibility she’d considered, and her shattered pieces fractured further.
“Well, good night then.” She thought she saw regret in his expression, but that was likely just the blur of tears. She smiled tightly and then turned on her heel, hastening back to the drawing room, trying not to let the footmen she passed see how broken she was.
She’d been foolish to hold on to hope. Edward had refused his blessing for a match; it had become clear she and John had nothing in common; and he needed a bride with a larger dowry than she could give. Still, there was some small part of her that had thought it could all work out.
She hadn’t realized that once he’d settled his affairs, she would never see him again.
In her room, Grace had already lit the lamps and closed the curtains. Charlotte should leave them like that, despite the temptation to go to them and pull them aside just slightly. Just enough to see whether he was in his study.
No. Closed was better. She didn’t want to see him ever again. She didn’t think that she could handle the embarrassment.
Grace helped her change from her dress to her nightgown, unpinned her hair and brushed out her curls, working in silence. That was one of her most valuable traits—she was whatever company Charlotte needed. She was a gossip when Charlotte had news to share, and a fortress of silence when Charlotte needed company but not conversation.
The long, rhythmic strokes of the brush were comforting. When Grace finished braiding Charlotte’s hair and tied it with a ribbon, Charlotte almost asked her to stay the night as she used to.
But Grace had her own life now, outside of tending to Charlotte. She had Swinton, who no doubt expected Grace to join him in their room.
Charlotte climbed beneath the covers and the lady’s maid snuffed the lamp, leaving Charlotte truly alone.
She lay in bed for the better part of an hour, resisting the temptation to go to the window. Eventually, it was too much. She kicked off the bedclothes and padded her way to the window, only opening the curtains a crack—just enough to see if John was there.
He was leaning against the glass door, his head resting against his arm, his arm resting against the window. From this distance, she couldn’t see the nuances of his expression, but she could see his hand clenched by his side.
He was in an impossible situation—trapped through no fault of his own. Faced with a choice between seeing his people suffer and shackling himself to Luella.
He was a good man. He would choose the happiness of his tenants over his own feelings, which meant that unless Charlotte could find another way out, he would marry Luella, and Charlotte’s archnemesis would have the one thing Charlotte had ever coveted.