Page 88 of One Night with an Earl

“Absolutely not. I know my place in society, and he most certainly knows his duty to his earldom.”

“But you still plan to be with him, don’t you?”

Ana felt the hair on her neck rise. For a heartbeat, she wondered if Penelope knew of her plans to sneak out of the house late that night to meet Oliver once more.

Impossible.

The girl couldn’t know.

Their situations were entirely different. Ana knew precisely why she was meeting the earl again, knew it deep in her bones.

The hackney came to a stop at the end of their street. It was where she’d directed the driver to drop them off and they would walk the remaining way home so as not to arouse suspicion. If asked, they had strolled the park.

Penelope handed back a soggy handkerchief and opened the door herself without waiting for the driver. “I don’t care what you or my mother say. I’m not giving up on Timothy. Not ever.”

She leaped from the hack and ran home.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“What on earth is that contraption?” Oliver eyed the newest mechanical device in the duke’s ballroom.

“It’s a way to measure weight,” Warwick said.

A wooden seat was suspended by chains, and adjustable blocks of metal weights were positioned on a horizontal bar. Depending on how one considered the device, it could pass for a child’s swing or a medieval torture device.

The Duke of Warwick rubbed his chin as he sized up Oliver. “Come sit. I’m guessing you are fourteen or so stone.”

Oliver tried not to gape. “You stopped working on the steam pistons for this?”

“I’m not giving up on the pistons, just temporarily shifting focus. I find it helpful for the creative mind. As for this device, it’s a gift of sorts. I’m improving the basic spring scale to accommodate the weight of a person. Once I perfect these weights, I plan on delivering the scale to Gentleman Jackson’s. The boxers want to know their weight.”

On second thought, it was a good idea. Corinthians sought a fit physique, and pugilists desired to match men of equal or similar weight in the ring.

Oliver sat in the chair, and it sank a few inches beneath his weight. “Well?”

Warwick adjusted the weights on the horizontal bar until they were perfectly balanced. “Fourteen stone, seven pounds, close to what I had guessed. You’ve been diligently working in the boxing salon.” He wrote the number down in a notebook.

It was true. His time in the ring helped him focus and ironically, at the same time, distracted him from thinking of Ana.

“How much do you weigh?” Oliver inquired. The duke was taller and more heavily muscled. More than a few of his inventions required lifting heavy mechanical parts.

Warwick shrugged. “Another stone. Or two.”

“That much?” Oliver teased. There wasn’t an inch of fat on the muscular duke.

Warwick smirked. “I don’t have the lovely Miss Gardner to inspire me.”

At the mention of Ana, his humor fled. Warwick was one soul he could confide him. “She came to me dressed as Lady Scarlet.”

Warwick set down his quill and cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? I take it you were pleased?”

This time, Oliver’s grin was wide. “Very.”

Warwick slapped Oliver on the back. “Good for you. Will you tell the empty-headed trio of dandies?”

“My brother’s friends? Never. They don’t know Ana’s true identity, and I have no intention of informing them.”

“Careful, friend. You are not like them.”