I Thee Wed Read Online Free Page A

them were involved in scientific pursuits. Real science, they reminded her often. Physics, chemistry, botany, and biology. They did not cook, or garden, or dance, unless it was at some university function. Even then they would rather analyze the patterns in the music than simply enjoy it.
    Francesca loved science, too, but mostly she loved life! No matter how fascinating the research, no matter how interesting the professor, she had found herself thinking about the first buttercups of spring, or the last mushrooms of autumn, or of dishes she had made, or longed to make.
    Giocosa
, they had called her.
Apatica
. Playful. Lackadaisical.
    That wasn’t entirely true. She studied hard and she earned her place as a biologist, but did that mean she could not have any fun?
    She was too English, they told her. Just like her father.
    When Francesca had suggested that she take an extended journey to England to meet her father’s family at last, her aunts and uncles had been disturbingly quick to agree with the notion.
    So she had written to her father’s half brother, Sir Geoffrey Blayne, esteemed British biologist-inventor, to secure an invitation. One had not been immediately forthcoming. It had taken several letters, each laden with increasingly obvious hints, to prod Uncle Geoffrey into extending a grudging summons.
    Francesca had been on the next coach from Bologna to the seaport of Livorno. She’d been so excited during the crossing, she could scarcely eat. It was all she could do to choke down a mere three meals a day instead of five! At last, she wouldbe understood and accepted. She was so very English, after all. She would be allowed to pursue knowledge in her own way—nay, she would be encouraged to do so!
    Sir Geoffrey’s first words after “Welcome to London” had been “Women have no place in the laboratory.”
    *   *   *
    A S O RION CLIMBED the stairs behind the Blayne House footmen, he mentally calculated the air volume of the trunk versus the time elapsed since it left the Worthington residence, factoring in the probable remaining contents.
    No, it was no good. He lacked vital information, such as precisely when the substitution had taken place and, more important, the resting respiration rate of little sisters.
    The footmen deposited Orion’s belongings in an admirably careful manner, which normally he would not care one whit over, and asked if he required assistance in unpacking.
    When he waved his hand at them abruptly, they bowed and left, unperturbed by his rudeness.
    The latch of the shabby trunk was stuck fast. Numbers ran through Orion’s head, probabilities of relative humidity, rusting rates, years—decades!—since the forging of said latch, even as he swiftly searched the chamber for a lever of some sort.
    The bedchamber hearth provided a finely wrought poker, which Orion applied vigorously to the recalcitrant latch without regard to the possibility of marring either the poker or the trunk.
    The latch gave, as he’d known it eventually would. The only fact that remained unknown was if it would give in time. He kicked the heavy lid up with more applied force than was probably necessary. It nearly swung shut again. He caught it and lifted it again with his hands.
    Then he stood and glared down into the trunk, sick with relief. “That was poorly calculated. You nearly ran out of air.”
    Pale, scrawny limbs unfolded from the depths of the trunk.A figure sat up and pushed back a mussed mop of auburn locks. Freckled, green-eyed little Atalanta Worthington looked nothing like dark-haired, blue-eyed Orion, except when it came to the intensely analytical gaze they shared.
    She took a deep breath, apparently unalarmed by her brush with suffocation. “You’re right. I forgot that Other People waste so much time blathering in foyers. I shall be sure to factor that in next time.” She wrinkled her nose. “Or drill an air