Page 65 of Counting on Love

Chapter Eighteen

Lady Georgiana Stewart had just made an unimaginably arrogant statement about her own mathematical abilities. Yet the scholarly gentleman sitting before her did not shy away, grimacing with distaste. He smiled.

It was not only the turn of his lips, but the way his sky-at-dusk-blue eyes suddenly appeared to be lit from behind, crinkling at the corners—it took her breath away.

He said, “I won’t get in your way. Just tell me what you’ll need.”

“Oh.” At best, she’d expected him to hand her a stack of ledgers and fire off a plodding set of instructions, then breathe down her neck. Because what else could she have expected him to do? But this man, this unbearably marvelous, sensible man, ceded control over a problem. With a smile. To a woman.

It came to her all at once. A revelation: This is the one.

Her mind began reeling back to every interaction, every moment they had shared since he’d frightened her awake and they contrived to lie to their loved ones. She had known then. And later, when he took it upon himself to put that horse out of its misery, and when he had watched her do sums in her head and been impressed rather than appalled. Rather than intimidated.

Well, no. It was easy to look back and believe she had known all along, but she knew she hadn’t. And she couldn’t be in love with him. She had known him for less than a week. But she could love him, given time.

At once came the horrified realization that she would love him, given time.

She could not marry Lord Taverston.

Georgiana stepped away from the bay window, praying her face had not betrayed every thought in her head, every emotion coursing through her body.

Think, Georgiana. Think.

He had asked her what she needed to proceed. She needed two things: a course to follow and a course to appear to be following. An alibi.

She pulled a Radcliffe novel from the shelf, opened it, and stared blankly while she gathered herself, then returned to the desk.

“I will sit here.” She pointed to his chair, and he quickly stood. “I’ll sit in the light, with the curtain mostly closed, and pretend I’m reading if anyone approaches.”

“Have you read it?”

“Of course not.”

“The Italian is Olivia’s favorite. I’ll jot down a quick summary. Just in case.”

“You’ve read it?”

“As I said, it’s Olivia’s favorite. Regrettably, she needed someone to gush to about it.”

Georgiana sighed, feeling for him. “Why are you assigned all the worst jobs?”

He looked amused, so clearly he didn’t realize she was referring to shooting the horse. The two were not exactly comparable.

“When we are finished,” she said, trying to sound casual, “will you let me borrow your Woodhouse?”

“Yes.” He shifted his gaze aside. “Or if you’d like, I’ll read it with you.”

He was offering to tutor her. Not in a condescending way. Merely carefully. It would mean continuing to meet in secret.

She slid into his chair. “Have you a clean sheet of paper?”

He produced one. Then he pushed the inkwell closer and handed her an odd metal-pointed pen.

“I’ve never used one of these.”

“They’re very clever. A schoolfellow gave it to me. He’s working on a patent.”

“Hmm.” She set it down. “I think we would be very fortunate to discover any patterns if we just pluck out ledgers at random. I’d like to approach this somewhat differently. I have some questions, but they may seem intrusive.”