So here he was.
Where was she?
From an inner jacket pocket, he pulled out a pencil and a new notebook. He’d started to record scientific observations about the flora of Cressmouth.
So far, the entries bore little resemblance to his detailed studies of healing plants in the Chelsea Physic Garden. Instead, it had become a diary of horseflesh. Although Eli had no desire to ride any of the bloods, he could admit Duke was indeed an impressive animal.
Eli kept a list of the geldings, mares, and yearlings, and had documented Miss Harper’s comments on the care and feeding of her charges in wintry climes.
What he would do with such information was murky at best. If wishes came true, he would never need to enter a stable again. But Eli felt useless when he wasn’t researching. He was so used to annotating and cross-checking and curating observations for review that he didn’t know what to do without a notebook and pencil in his hands.
At this moment, one of the most respected chemists in London was awaiting Eli’s final plans for an important project. He was to have submitted them this week.
Eli’s frustrated sigh crystallized in the winter air before being carried off by the wind.
Botany had been his obsession for as long as he could remember. Everything he did was for the betterment of humanity as a whole.
Father’s approval was always short-lived at best, but if Eli succeeded here with Miss Harper, the marquess had promised to fund an entire year of research. If he failed, the chance was lost forever.
He could not let that happen.
Eli was a hair’s breadth from an important medical breakthrough that would save countless lives.
He would do anything to save lives. Even agree to the marquess’s terms. Any personal sacrifice was worth the cost, if the value to others was greater.
Not that he was making much progress today. Eli had been losing sensation in his extremities for the past half an hour, and there was still no sign of Miss Harper.
He scooped the fallen carrot bits up from the frozen ground. Perhaps not too frozen. He’d witnessed the horses bury their nostrils beneath the snow and lift their heads, chewing. Thick, resilient fronds of phleum pratense thrived despite the cold. It deserved further study. He tossed the carrot absently over the fence, and made notes in his book as he walked back to the house.
When he entered, Miss Harper was lugging a leather trunk down the corridor.
“There you are,” she said, as if he hadn’t been waiting outside for her since dawn. “This arrived for you.”
He took the unfamiliar trunk from her in confusion. “It’s not mine.”
“Of course it’s not,” she said. “It’s full of practical clothing for up to a fortnight in Cressmouth. I’m not certain the riding boots will fit, but try them on and see. Once you’re wearing something suitable, we can head out to the stables.”
Rather than carry the trunk into his guest chamber, Eli set it down in the middle of the corridor and unlatched the lid.
Two pairs of riding boots, with and without spurs, lay next to three tall stacks of neatly folded men’s attire.
Unlike Eli’s normal habit of grabbing whatever would be most comfortable for a day spent crouching around plants, this treasure trove appeared to have been nicked from the wardrobe of Beau Brummel himself.
Expensive silks of every color, buttery soft doeskin breeches, bright white shirts and neckcloths, jackets for every possible occasion. These clothes weren’t for an unassuming scholar, but for a rakish dandy.
He unfolded the topmost item. It was a beautifully crafted waistcoat, lined with cashmere luxurious enough to keep the wearer warm in any weather.
“Where did all of this come from?”
“The Duke of Nottingvale.” She waved a hand as if this detail were neither here nor there.
He dropped the waistcoat.
“You want me to wear the Duke of Nottingvale’s clothes?” he choked out in disbelief. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. “Why would the Duke of Nottingvale send you his clothes?”
“They’re not his, precisely. They were prototypes for a fashion venture that will become all the crack in the spring. The hems are designed for ease of taking out or letting in, so I guessed at your size and asked the tailor to adjust the seams accordingly.”
This explanation raised more questions than it answered.
“You asked… the tailor?”
“He’s betrothed to the duke’s sister.” She tilted her head and squinted at Eli. “You’re built less like an idle gentleman and more like a farmhand.”
“Yes. Well.” Eli wasn’t any of those things. He cleared his throat. “When I was younger, I sneaked off to join the laborers. I hoped my physical exertion would build muscles like theirs. My father wanted me to race competitively, but who ever heard of a bulky jockey?” He flexed one of his arms and shrugged. “The habit stuck, though I’m now more likely to box or swim than chop down trees and dig trenches.”
Her gaze was startled. “Do you dislike horses?”
“I didn’t say I dislike them.” The beasts terrified him. “I would simply rather not ride one. Ever.”
Not the thing to admit when attempting to win the favor of a celebrated horsewoman.
“I’ll help,” she said, her voice soft. “You’ll never win Duke’s acceptance—” Or her hand in marriage, was the implication. “—but I cannot allow you to leave here believing horses are the enemy.”
Eli had been raised to believe the Harpers were the enemy.
A pair of Janus-faced, manipulative, backstabbing deceivers. Father had made it a point of pride to outdo his bitter rival on each of those scores. The feud had carried on for decades.
Until now.
The clothes were a lovely gesture. Miss Harper had helped him despite neither trusting him nor wanting him.
When Eli looked at Miss Harper, he didn’t see a foe to be vanquished. He saw a strong, compassionate, clever woman, talented and unforgettable.
He didn’t want to hurt her.
He wanted to kiss her.
It was a terrible idea. They’d tried it before. While the kiss itself had been exquisite, it had all gone to hell thereafter.
He’d vowed that this time, there would be no kissing unless he was certain they had a future.
If he crossed that line, his heart was the one that would break.
“Thank you,” he said, and reached for her hand.
Touching her skin was almost as terrible an idea as kissing her. Luckily, Miss Harper would be intelligent enough to slap his face for this impertinence.
Instead, she let him lift her hand.
Now what? His blood raced hot. Holding a woman’s hand was the precursor to kissing her fingers. Or whirling her into a waltz. Or pulling her to his chest and covering her mouth with his. There was nothing he wanted more than to taste Miss Harper’s lips.
All very, very, very bad ideas.
But he didn’t let go.
Her skin fascinated him. The back of her hand and the tops of her fingers were impossibly soft, the skin creamy and silken as though pampered with expensive creams.
The pads of her fingers, less so. They were not calloused, but tough and strong, like Miss Harper herself. They warned that here was a woman not afraid to take off her gloves and vanquish problems with her bare hands.