Chapter Text
“How do you think the crumpets got in here?” he demanded. “I rigged the butler mechanicals to come through the library and put food in here. I had an escape plan and everything.” He was practically pouting, planting himself in the doorway and crossing his arms over his waistcoat, and she found herself torn between finding it ridiculous and adorable.
“And you were going to eat all of that by yourself?” she arched an eyebrow.
“Yes.” he mumbled, having the grace to look sheepish.
“Well, the library's big enough for two people. I won't bother you if you don't bother me. And don't even think about eating the ginger cake.” she added quickly when she saw him eying the tray. Jemma flounced back to her window seat, picked up her book, and furiously tried to concentrate. But he kept on stealing curious glances at her with those blue eyes and she kept on looking back. Those awful, wonderful blue eyes, she thought, and promptly wondered what was wrong with her. She had never been the kind of girl who waxed poetic about anything that wasn't under a microscope, and certainly not about grumpy Scottish lords who thought they could get away with claiming entire libraries. She raised her book higher, reading the same sentence for the twelfth time.
“What are you hiding from?” he asked abruptly.
“Who says I'm hiding? Maybe I just like libraries.” she said at first. Then he started looking at her. And kept on looking. And looking until she sighed and put her book down. “Maybe—just maybe—I was avoiding my mother. And boredom. And another hour of standing against the wall listening to the same pieces of gossip over and over and knowing that no one's going to ask me to dance. What about you?”
“The Season is entering its final months and the debutantes are out in full force...did you see the article in last month's Tatler? London's Top Ten Eligible Bachelors?” he winced. All of a sudden she recognized him—there had been a quite elegant etching of him alongside the article. Leopold Fitz, Duke of Hamilton, owner of vast estates in Scotland, well-known inventor, and number nine on the Tatler's list of eligible bachelors.
“My younger sister read it aloud to all of us, but I don't quite remember your section of the article. How did it go again?” She tilted her head to one side and gave him her best innocent smile. She remembered the article perfectly well, of course—somehow she'd gotten the idea that seeing Duke Leopold Fitz flustered would be a delightful prospect. Maybe he'd even blush.
“I only have it memorized because people kept quoting it at me My sisters found it quite amusing,” he said grimly and shut his eyes, tipped his head back, and let his voice go up an octave or two into a perfect impression of Lady Featherstone, the Tatler columnist famous for assessing each season's new crop of bachelors like a herd of cattle. “Number nine: Leopold Fitz, Duke of Hamilton. Dear reader, you may question the placement of Lord Fitz upon this list, especially considering this season's plentiful array of such charming young bachelors as the dashing Lord Aston and the delightfully rakish Lord Martin, who are indeed never seen apart.” He switched back to his normal voice. “The reason that they're never seen apart is that they're conducting a torrid affair while they build steam cars. Sometimes even on the cars.” Fitz quickly changed back to Lady Featherstone. “His Scottish temperament is well known, after the unfortunate croquet game at Lady Chesterton's garden party, and rumors of his unusual tastes in the bedroom have spread far and wide. Yet I would urge aspiring debutantes to consider his own brand of prickly charm, his renowned intelligence, and extensive estates and fortune, and to remember that the unusual may become most pleasant. The perfect choice for an adventurous and enterprising young lady, ready to take on the role of the beauty that tamed the beast.”
“Quite the ringing endorsement. What did happen at that croquet game?” Jemma leaned forward, book forgotten. Yes, she admitted, he was too grumpy to be charming, his hair too messy to be handsome, and although he was presumably quite clever, she'd seen little evidence of it yet. In short, he was absolutely none of the things that she ought to like. But the duke was something so much better: he was interesting, with his tinkering with butler mechanicals and his strikingly accurate impressions and his stubborn way of looking at people. (And the blue eyes that she was most definitely not thinking about.)
“Lord Cavanaugh was too busy flirting with Lady Grace to take his turn in croquet. I politely waited for nearly twenty minutes, like any gentleman would, so then I finally took his turn for him and sent his ball flying into the lake. Along with three wickets, four mallets, and the refreshment table. I'd been developing a new, more effective, steam-powered mallet,” he explained. “It needed a practical trial, so I brought a prototype along to the party in the hope that I'd be able to work out some of the problems. Unfortunately, the prototype is now at the bottom of Lady Chesterton's lake.”
“Do you still have the blueprints? If you sent them to me, I might be able to spot some of the problems,” she offered.
“Why should I send you my blueprints when I don't even know your name?” he said and crossed his arms over his waistcoat (a shade of blue that matched the eyes she was decidedly not noticing) again, clearly waiting for something. “That was supposed to be a clever ploy to get you to tell me your name, since a formal introduction would be a bit odd now,” he muttered.
“Miss Jemma Simmons, daughter of Edward Simmons, Baron of Stafford as decreed by her Majesty Queen Victoria for his services in designing the royal airship fleet.” Jemma straightened her spine and stood up, dusting off her skirts. Her family's title might be only a few years old, their lands practically non-existent, and their money new in every way, but they'd earned it honestly and they'd worked at filling their coffers while the heirs to ancient titles gambled their fortunes away. “If you're going to look down your nose at me, now would be the time to do it.”
“I...I quite admire your father's work actually. I've found his studies on alternative materials for the frames of airships to be astute, forward-thinking, and thrifty.” He dropped down into a surprisingly elegant bow. “Leopold Fitz, eleventh Duke of Hamilton. But if you start calling me Your Grace, I'll start scowling, so you'd better call me Fitz.”
“Fitz.” She tested out the sound of it on her tongue. Short f, sharp t, drawling z, and it rolled off her tongue like she'd been saying it for years. “So how long were you planning on occupying the library?”
“Until everyone forgets about that article,” he replied. “I actually had to bribe the editor a shocking amount not to put me higher on the list when the rumors didn't work.”
“So are any of them true?” Now, when she thought about it, some of the rumors that had gone around about him were quite scandalous. She blushed, recalling the memorable tea when one of her more daring fellow debutantes had recounted her supposed encounters with Fitz in a carriage, conservatory, and, most memorably, in the antechamber of a men's fencing club at midnight.
“The truth is a complicated thing.” Fitz shrugged and her heart sank for no reason at all when she remembered the most common rumor of all: that he hadn't married because he preferred men to women. It was simply ridiculous, that everything should suddenly dim a little because of a simple rumor about a man she had just met. If it happened to be true, she would simply accept the fact, wish him happiness, and continue with what could quite probably be a lovely friendship. If it happened to be false...she didn't expect anything like that from him, and so it would be of no consequence. Absolutely none at all.
“I suppose it is.” She nodded and a stiff silence fell between them until he blurted out something, too fast for her to properly hear it. “Sorry?”
“I've just realized that I read some of your articles. In the journal of the British Royal Society of Biologists? They were quite good,” he offered and eagerly crossed to sit by her. “I was actually wondering if you might tell me more about your work on amphibians...” All of a sudden, everything made sense between them again and she plunged into a detailed explanation of her work, sensing that for once someone might be able to keep up with her. Fitz proved himself to be a perfect listener, leaping in to ask questions at the right moments, following her train of thought from point to point without her ever needing to stop to catch him up, and following up on the ends of her sentences as if he knew perfectly what she was going to say next. When she finally stopped speaking, she was pink-cheeked from breathlessness and brimming over with excitement. She would have to look up some of the studies he'd mentioned, cross-check some of her evidence, and-- “I've got a sea serpent in my loch,” he added casually and her mind jerked to a halt.
“A sea serpent? A real live sea serpent?” she breathed.
“According to my tenants, yes. I've yet to see it myself.”
“What did they say its skin looked like? Did it have scales or smoother skin? What color was it? Do you think it could have been related to those giant skeletons that were discovered near Bristol?” Her questions spilled out faster than he could answer them until she finally stopped, blushing again (when had she become the kind of woman who blushed?), and blurted out an apology. “People are always telling me that I ask too many questions.
“No need to apologize. I think that you ask the exact right amount of questions,” he said firmly “I'm giving a house party in a few weeks and I know that we just met, but I'd quite like you to come—we could investigate the mysterious serpent if you like?”
“It would be my pleasure.” Jemma dropped a polite curtsy and tried to remember her manners and keep the unladylike grin off her face.
“I should probably get back before my sisters come looking for me. I'll send an invitation round in the morning?” Fitz had a distinctly ungentlemanly grin on his face too, like a little boy who'd found a new friend in the nursery, she thought. He turned to go to the door and he was nearly there before he dashed back, grabbed her hand, and kissed it. “Sorry, I nearly forgot my manners,” he gasped out. “It was—it was quite wonderful to meet you, Miss Simmons.” He was gone before she could say anything back, but the imprint of his mouth on the back of her hand lingered for the rest of the night.