Outrageously Yours by Allison Chase Page A

hunched so intently over his work.
    Of course, her bout of clumsiness could be blamed directly on him, and on the heat of an almost kiss that had left her senses reeling, her lips tingling. Though she replayed the incident over and over in her mind, she could not quite fathom what had brought Lord Harrow leaning so close that their lips had all but touched.
    Did he trust her so little with his precious equipment? She didn’t believe that was the case, for then why would he have her here at all? An unsettling thought sent her fingertips to her chin. Perhaps he had noticed the lack of coal dust? His suggestion yesterday that she should shave rather than attempt to grow whiskers had been all the encouragement she needed to discontinue smearing the grimy powder across her face. A mistake?
    But no, if Lord Harrow suspected the truth of her gender, he would toss her out on her coattails, not kiss her.
    Such a silly notion. Of course he had not meant to kiss her. He thought of her as a university student named Ned, and not as a young woman who . . .
    Who could not stop wishing he had kissed her, whose lips burned with unquenchable curiosity at what his mouth would have felt like, tasted like. . . .
    “Have you encountered a problem?”
    With a startled glance over her shoulder she discovered Lord Harrow staring across the way at her from over a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched halfway down the strong line of his nose. She hadn’t seen him wear spectacles before, and found herself fascinated by the myriad contradictions they produced. He was at once scholarly and dashing, rakish and brilliant, a professor with the vigor and physique of a sportsman. . . .
    She held up the rescued bottle. “An unidentified compound, sir.”
    “No matter. Set it aside with any others you find and I’ll look at them later.”
    She didn’t mention that she had already thought of that. Turning back to her task, she felt his gaze lingering upon her. She dipped her quill in preparation of jotting down the next item, pressed too hard on the paper, and broke the nib.
    An hour later, her nerves settled thanks to the deadly dullness of her occupation, she stifled a sigh. She might as well have been home again, helping Mrs. Eddelson rearrange the pantry. The marquess’s endless supplies of minerals, oils, and resins could just as easily have been spices, sauces, and jellies, all strewn in together without rhyme or reason.
    Surely these cupboards could not have been sorted in months, not since . . . Oh, yes, since his poor wife had passed away.
    The more time she spent with Lord Harrow, the more absurd the rumors became. She perceived nothing at all “mad” about him. In fact, thus far she had detected none of the brusque ill humor he had exhibited during yesterday’s challenge. His seemed a generous if cautious nature, hardly the characteristic of someone conducting gruesome experiments on the sly.
    If Ivy was to venture a guess, she’d suppose his behavior yesterday morning had been another bit of trickery designed to encourage those rumors and deter the more fainthearted of the applicants. He was good at disguises, good enough to give her pause. How much longer before he discovered hers?
    A container at the back corner of the bottom shelf caught her attention, and Ivy bent over to retrieve it.
    “It’s growing late,” Lord Harrow said suddenly and with an oddly husky rasp to his voice. Holding a vial, she turned in puzzlement. He removed his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes. “Finish with whatever you’ve got in your hand and then you may go.”
    “Late, sir?” A glance out the window confirmed that the hour could hardly be approaching teatime. “And go where?”
    Focusing on the papers fanned across his desk as if they required his utmost attention, he gave a shrug. “I suppose you could unpack. Do you care for riding? My groom could saddle a horse for you.”
    Her eyebrows rose at a possibility she hadn’t considered. Victoria had