"I know." Even with his coat on, he was cold. He was close enough to hear her teeth chatter. He reined in a lunatic offer to sweep her into his arms and warm her up. It didn’t help that he crouched mere inches from graceful hips and a nicely rounded rump. "Forgive me, I’m going to have to tear your dress."
"Do it."
His shoulders tensed as a cold dribble of water ran down the back of his neck. "People might notice."
"I’ll make repairs in the retiring room before I return to the reception." She paused. "Or go back outside and wait in the carriage."
"Very well."
In the silent garden, the sound of ripping fabric was loud. Loud and too damned evocative to a man who might resent the girl’s effrontery, but who couldn’t help wanting the woman.
As if they had a chance of getting together. What a disaster that would be. If he did manage to inveigle his way into her bed, she’d take notes on his performance. Once they were done, she’d give him chapter and verse on where he went wrong.
The minute she was free, she staggered. As Hamish rose, he reached out to catch her. For one dizzying moment, he clasped Emily Baylor to his chest, and she wasn’t bossy or prickly or difficult. She was soft and supple, and she smelled sweeter than a flower garden in high summer.
"Oh…" she gasped, lifting her face in surprise.
The light from inside revealed shining eyes and lush red lips parted on a breath. As she struggled to find her balance, her hands tightened on his brawny arms.
Then after too short a time – too long a time, rather, he should say if he had an ounce of sense – she let him go.
"Thank you for releasing me." Her gratitude sounded grudging.
"Emily…" He remained lost in the extraordinary moment when he’d held her.
She stepped away, and her tone became all business. "You still have to withdraw your paper."
His enchantment dissolved into the much more familiar and much more comfortable irritation. "Because Queen Emily of the Royal Society decrees it?"
She made a growl of annoyance deep in her throat. "Because it’s flawed."
He caught her hand and hauled her back toward the French doors. The urge to kiss her retreated. The rain was getting heavier, the wind whipped about them, and the ground under his feet was slick and muddy.
"All right, show me the calculation. I’ll prove you wrong, then we can go back to the party, and you can eat humble pie while everyone showers me with congratulations."
Another of those growls. After ten years, the sound was familiar. "You’re so full of yourself."
"This is my night. And you’re doing your best to ruin it."
They were back inside the anteroom now. "I’m doing my best to save your worthless hide, you great conceited clodpoll," she snapped back.
She lifted the now soggy pamphlet detailing the discovery that would make his reputation. He snatched the paper from her and turned to the calculation. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware that she folded her arms over that very nice bosom. Less nice was the brazen superiority in her regard. That expression always made him want to kiss her into trembling acquiescence.
Perhaps he hadn’t abandoned all thought of kissing her after all, God rot him.
It took him a few seconds to control his temper long enough to make sense of the rows of figures.
When he did, humiliation crawled through his belly like a slug through a lettuce patch. Humiliation and chagrin and disbelief.
Hot color flooded his cheeks, and he raised his eyes to his bugbear. "Damn it, Emily…"
"I’m right, aren’t I?"
He sucked an audible breath in through his nose. "Yes, you’re right, devil take you. Feel free to crow all you like."
"It could happen to anyone, Hamish. You still discovered the comet. You just have to adjust your figures."
Hamish was so mortified, he hardly noticed that this time, she sounded neither triumphant nor belligerent. She sounded relieved, as if she really cared that he didn’t go out there tonight and make a fool of himself. "I have to destroy that pamphlet."