Page 50 of To Dance with a Devil

“Your mother was very kind to me,” Bonnie said, when finally they were calm enough to speak again.

Jerome stroked her hair. “I’m glad,” he said. “She was furious with me for the way I’ve behaved, but she said she thought I’d changed, and that it was your doing.”

“Me?” Bonnie exclaimed, astonished.

He chuckled and tightened his hold on her. “I know. I can’t think where she got such a harebrained notion from. Though perhaps it is true, after all. You’re such a madcap creature it forces me to be the sensible one. Me! Can you imagine?”

Bonnie stared at him, unblinking. “No,” she said, deadpan.

“Well, you have to admit, I’m not as bad as you.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“You are far more badly behaved than me!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

Jerome decided there was only one way to settle this argument, and tickled her.

Bonnie squealed and shrieked at the top of her lungs. Jerome suspected the entire household would be scandalised, and they’d jolly well better get used to it.

Chapter 17

Dear Mr de Beauvoir,

I have recently discovered that the first lady to ever attend a lecture at the Royal Society was the Duchess of Newcastle in 1667. Pepys recorded the shocking scandal of this dangerous experiment and I can discover no evidence that it has since been repeated. I find this strange as you obviously have no problem in believing the female mind capable of scientific discovery, else you would not have recommended the book by Jane Marcet. Why have you not encourage female scientists to take their place? Why is it so forbidden for a woman to even take an interest in such subjects as science and biology?

I wonder what would happen if I attended one of your lectures at Somerset House?

― Excerpt of a letter from Miss Minerva Butler to Mr Inigo de Beauvoir.

25th November 1814. Church Street, Isleworth, London.

“Oh my God.” Inigo stared down at the letter in his hand, a flicker of something that he refused to acknowledge warming his heart whilst a far stronger rush of panic burst to life in his chest. She wouldn’t.

Yes, she would.

No matter how many times he assured himself she’d never get through the door, there remained the unshakable belief that Miss Butler would manage it, somehow. She’d be there at one of his lectures, and either she’d cause the most almighty scene or creep in somehow and he’d likely not know it… which meant he’d be a bag of nerves at every lecture he gave for the foreseeable future. Oh, this was intolerable.

Stop being such an idiot, he scolded himself. You are a grown man, a man of science and thirty years of age, by heaven. You will not become hysterical because a chit of a girl has decided to plague you with her… her…

A memory of soft, pink lips pressed to his arose in his mind no matter how he tried to keep it at bay. Along with it came the memory of her scent—something sweet like vanilla, and purely feminine—and the dark, dark blue of her eyes. Prussian blue. Oxidation of ferrous ferrocyanide salts produced Prussian blue. It was not a natural colour for eyes but then she was an unnatural creature, too bold, too daring, too… beautiful for a man’s sanity, for his sanity.

He shook his head, aggravated by his fanciful notions. It had been the light in the room, that was all, that and the fact she’d disturbed his equilibrium so badly he was remembering it all wrong. Her lips had not been as sweet and intoxicating as brandy laced syllabub, the feminine scent of her had not clung to him for hours, days afterwards, and her eyes had not been that impossible shade of blue. He was imagining it all. Lust had disordered his mind and, if he had any sense, he’d pay a visit to a certain house he knew of and make use of the ladies within so he might rid himself of such base, if natural, urges.

Nonetheless, he must put a stop to this nonsense at once.

Moving to his desk he snatched up a fresh piece of paper.

Miss Butler,

Please put any ideas of attending one of my lectures at Somerset House firmly out of your mind. Not only will you not get through the door, but you will cause a scene that will no doubt be painful to both of us.

Inigo hesitated, his pen poised over the paper. Surely, rather than torment himself with wondering if or when she might appear and cause him embarrassment, it would be as well to take control of the situation? For if he knew when she was to appear, he would be prepared for it, no nasty surprises, and that was the only reason for arranging such a thing for her. No doubt she would be bored out of her mind and her silly infatuation for him would shrivel up and die.

Yes, that would be best.