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Returning to the house, she passed by the bushes that flanked the terrace and noticed Mr. Audley and Captain Harrington speaking with two older gentlemen. She was ten feet away from them, and they were talking quietly, but a welcome breeze carried their voices to her.

“Mark my words, gentlemen,” said Mr. Audley, “Lady Chastity will die an old maid, surrounded by her test tubes and beakers. No man in his right mind would saddle himself with a wife who cares more for her experiments than her wifely duties.”

“A shame, really,” said Captain Harrington. “She comes from a good family, but she’s wasted her chances with her eccentric behavior. She’ll be a cautionary tale for young ladies everywhere.”

The words struck her like a blow. Dorian must be so ashamed of her. She truly was the laughingstock of the entire party. Tears burning her eyes, she hurried inside before she committed yet another social atrocity. How much better it had been before, when she was invisible, minding her business. And what was so wrong with focusing on chemistry and science anyway?

“Chastity, wait!” a male voice called after her. “Chastity!”

She ignored him, hurrying inside and away from judgment and prejudice.

She would never win this bet. Never show to herself and to Lucien she could be both feminine and a scientist. Her research would forever be hidden in the depths of Whitechapel. She’d forever be a spinster and a secret scientist and nothing more.

No man would ever look at her the way Lucien looked at Lady Bustleton or any of the other beauties who fawned all over him.

8

“Chastity,” Lucien said, feeling slightly out of breath as he chased after her.

Chastity, who had been sitting on a carved chair, rose abruptly, turned her back to him, and laid her hand on the door handle about to flee.

“Wait,” he said.

The chamber was cool and shadowed compared to the glaring sunlight outside. The absence of a breeze caused perspiration to bead upon Lucien’s skin. The sitting room was large and opulent, one of those elegant chambers in an enfilade, each room leading gracefully to the next. Gilt-framed paintings and portraits adorned the walls. Along one wall stood a series of glass-fronted cabinets, each housing carefully curated historical artifacts. A Roman gladius, Greek pottery, Egyptian scarabs, and a Celtic torc.

He couldn’t see her face, and she didn’t say anything. Lucien’s chest felt tight. Of course he felt bad for her—they had grown up together. And leaving in the middle of the game, chasing after her in front of everyone…well that was just him being a good friend.

He walked closer and stopped half a step away. His hands rose to take her by the shoulders, turn her to him, and bring her to his chest, but if anyone found them like that, she’d be compromised.

So he hovered over her, held away from her by silly rules, while she stood with her head bowed, her shoulders slumped as she released a trembling breath.

“What happened?” he asked. “Clearly, you’re out of sorts.”

“Nothing that wouldn’t be expected,” she said. “I should not be allowed to speak in polite society. You were right to challenge me on this. I will never receive a marriage offer from anyone, let alone someone as respectable and perfect a gentleman as Lord Wardbury.”

Lucien let out a breath. He did not want any lord to call her his betrothed and especially not his wife, but he hated seeing her this way even more. He looked over his shoulder at the open door. No one was coming to ask him to return to the game. He laid his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her towards him.

“Gracious! You’re crying!” He cupped her face and wiped her tears with his thumbs. “Did someone say something to you?”

He brought her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. She wept in his arms, shuddering. He stroked her hair in its tight chignon, her back. He felt her tears wet through his shirt, her hot breath on his skin; her body felt so tiny in his arms.

His cock started to wake up. Blast, what was wrong with him? The woman was crying, and he was getting aroused?

He pressed his cheek against the top of her head, and now her scent was in his nostrils: vanilla…clean soap…and her, the delicate aroma that he could describe only as floral. His body was wrapped around hers, and he could feel her slight breasts. And if he really wanted…if she gave him any sign that she wanted it…he could lean down to her face and find her lips…

Lucifer. He really was a horny dog.

“What happened, Star?” he asked her.

She froze and looked up at him, and his heart broke at the sight of her red eyes, her runny nose, and the tears dampening her cheeks.

“You haven’t called me that for years,” she said softly.

“What are you talking about? You’ve always been my star. Brilliant. Bright. Born to shine.”

She bit her lip.

“When did I ever stop?” he asked, unable to look away from her eyes.