Lintern Abbey. Grant need not come, but please allow Naomi and Lady Janine to attend. You might not have been able to save my hide in Spain, but you can help me now by simply sending your ladies to my party.”
The lump of Marshall’s tongue moved behind his lips. He held Jordan in a fierce stare. “You will return my sister to me in the same condition in which I send her to you,” he said in a low, dangerous tone. “Anything less will be your skin.”
Jordan nodded once. “That I will, Marshall. I swear it.”
Marshall turned Amadeus away without bidding Jordan farewell.
As Jordan watched the retreating view of Marshall’s back, he had the sinking feeling he may have signed on for more than he was prepared to deal with. Though the French threat was undeniably the more important matter in the grand scheme of things, Jordan couldn’t help feeling excited by the prospect of having Naomi Lockwood under his roof for a few weeks. He could take the opportunity to explore the attraction he’d sensed blossoming between them. After all, the French might miss Lintern Abbey altogether, giving him plenty of time to further their acquaintance.
Damnation! His mind was already wandering. With a vicious snarl, he pulled Phantom in the opposite direction and dug his heels into the horse’s sides. He tore hell-for-leather down Rotten Row, attempting to pound his priorities back where they belonged.
Chapter Four
It occurred to Naomi — as she examined the illustration of an infant’s head emerging from his mother’s body — that she really was allowing her unfettered curiosity to get out of hand. But the books she read were so
interesting
, and the information she learned sometimes proved to be valuable, as it had when she’d rightly advised Isabelle to lie on her left side to stop her pains.
She sat in the window seat in her bedroom, a refuge from the household’s bustle as preparations were made to decamp to the country. Turning a page, she inhaled at an illustration of the newborn infant, his umbilical cord trailing from his belly back into his mother. “Thank goodness for French obstetricians,” she murmured. Continental sensibilities, being rather less restrained than English, proved to be quite a boon in matters such as medical texts. She doubted she could find such a frank examination of pregnancy and childbirth penned by an English doctor.
Just as well she’d held on to this book all these years, she reflected. She’d come into possession of it when she was just eight years old. Her mother, Caro, had suffered a mid-pregnancy stillbirth. Father was sitting in Parliament, Marshall at Oxford, and Grant at public school. Naomi was the only one Caro would allow to tend her. She’d stolen the book out of the midwife’s bag, frightened and desperate to understand what was happening to her mother and how she could help. The text was beyond her rudimentary French skills, but with the help of a French dictionary she’d spent hours each night working her way through the book, increasing both her command of the language and her comprehension of Caro’s plight.
While the experience had stripped away some of her innocence, it had been the moment when she’d first felt the satisfaction of being useful. It had also given her a taste of the power of information, of knowledge. She’d been hunting it ever since — in secret, of course. A genteel young lady was not supposed to know about placentas. But she did. A polite miss ought never to have read a brazenly sexual poem like Donne’s “The Sun Rising.” But she had.
And more. Much more.
But all in secret.
Aunt Janine already wore the brand of bluestocking for the Lockwood clan. An eccentric aunt was one thing. It lent the family an exotic flair. Being regarded as an eccentric oneself, however, was an entirely different matter. Naomi found herself in trouble enough with this Snow Angel business — she had no desire to add Overly Educated to her list of
The lump of Marshall’s tongue moved behind his lips. He held Jordan in a fierce stare. “You will return my sister to me in the same condition in which I send her to you,” he said in a low, dangerous tone. “Anything less will be your skin.”
Jordan nodded once. “That I will, Marshall. I swear it.”
Marshall turned Amadeus away without bidding Jordan farewell.
As Jordan watched the retreating view of Marshall’s back, he had the sinking feeling he may have signed on for more than he was prepared to deal with. Though the French threat was undeniably the more important matter in the grand scheme of things, Jordan couldn’t help feeling excited by the prospect of having Naomi Lockwood under his roof for a few weeks. He could take the opportunity to explore the attraction he’d sensed blossoming between them. After all, the French might miss Lintern Abbey altogether, giving him plenty of time to further their acquaintance.
Damnation! His mind was already wandering. With a vicious snarl, he pulled Phantom in the opposite direction and dug his heels into the horse’s sides. He tore hell-for-leather down Rotten Row, attempting to pound his priorities back where they belonged.
Chapter Four
It occurred to Naomi — as she examined the illustration of an infant’s head emerging from his mother’s body — that she really was allowing her unfettered curiosity to get out of hand. But the books she read were so
interesting
, and the information she learned sometimes proved to be valuable, as it had when she’d rightly advised Isabelle to lie on her left side to stop her pains.
She sat in the window seat in her bedroom, a refuge from the household’s bustle as preparations were made to decamp to the country. Turning a page, she inhaled at an illustration of the newborn infant, his umbilical cord trailing from his belly back into his mother. “Thank goodness for French obstetricians,” she murmured. Continental sensibilities, being rather less restrained than English, proved to be quite a boon in matters such as medical texts. She doubted she could find such a frank examination of pregnancy and childbirth penned by an English doctor.
Just as well she’d held on to this book all these years, she reflected. She’d come into possession of it when she was just eight years old. Her mother, Caro, had suffered a mid-pregnancy stillbirth. Father was sitting in Parliament, Marshall at Oxford, and Grant at public school. Naomi was the only one Caro would allow to tend her. She’d stolen the book out of the midwife’s bag, frightened and desperate to understand what was happening to her mother and how she could help. The text was beyond her rudimentary French skills, but with the help of a French dictionary she’d spent hours each night working her way through the book, increasing both her command of the language and her comprehension of Caro’s plight.
While the experience had stripped away some of her innocence, it had been the moment when she’d first felt the satisfaction of being useful. It had also given her a taste of the power of information, of knowledge. She’d been hunting it ever since — in secret, of course. A genteel young lady was not supposed to know about placentas. But she did. A polite miss ought never to have read a brazenly sexual poem like Donne’s “The Sun Rising.” But she had.
And more. Much more.
But all in secret.
Aunt Janine already wore the brand of bluestocking for the Lockwood clan. An eccentric aunt was one thing. It lent the family an exotic flair. Being regarded as an eccentric oneself, however, was an entirely different matter. Naomi found herself in trouble enough with this Snow Angel business — she had no desire to add Overly Educated to her list of
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