Page 16 of Tall, Dark & Wicked
Breathtaking. Beautiful.
Her heart thudded so loudly she could barely hear herself think. Eager to change the subject from her relationship with Simon, she cleared her throat and asked, “What are you doing?”
His lips resumed their usual semi-frown. “Do you know anything about geology?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, pea-wit that I am.”
“I should apologize for saying such a thing. Incredibly unfair of me.”
“Yes, you should. Apologize, that is.”
“I was upset about something else and you, Perfect Petra, got in the way. If I do apologize, will you decide I’m not a monster?”
She cocked her head as if considering his request. “I suppose that’s fair. Go on.”
A mischievous look entered his eyes, offering Petra a glimpse into the boy he had once been. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.” He turned back to the table. “Back to geology. Not the most interesting or popular of subjects, I suppose. Puts most people to sleep. And certainly not something taught to proper young ladies such as yourself.”
“I assure you I will attempt to grasp the basic points.”
“Geology is the study of the earth. Rocks. Minerals. Tin. Lead. My father adored anything to do with minerals and became quite a student of the science, though he never studied the subject formally.”
“But you did,” Petra said as she walked toward the samples, pretending interest. She was so aware of Morwick, big and vital, in the room with her, she could hardly think, even if she reallyhadfelt true interest in the rocks spread across his table.
“I did. But then I had a disagreement with several of my fellow students. Oxford declared they no longer wished me to remain at their institution.”
Petra lifted a brow. “Brawling, no doubt.”
His eyes narrowed. “What would you know of that?”
“A bit more than I know of geology,” she replied. “So you are looking for minerals? In the cave?”
“Surely you know the story of the Pendleton fortune? The entire family brags about the source of their wealth on a consistent basis. The current Lord Pendleton’s father became quite famous when he found the third largest deposit of calcium fluorite in England. It’s very rare.”
“Fluorite?” Petra stepped closer and the edge of her skirts brushed against his boots—shocking behavior for a demure young lady such as herself. Mother always told her allowing your skirts to swirl around a gentleman’s legs was brazen.
Yes, but Mother is ill today.
“Blue John. Used for jewelry. Vases. Other frivolous but expensive bits and pieces to litter a proper gentleman’s home. I don’t care for the stuff myself.”
“I’m familiar. I didn’t realize Blue John had another more proper name. Your cousin, the duke, has a mantle made from Blue John in his drawing room. It’s quite beautiful.” The fireplace in the Dunbar townhouse was oversized and took up a vast portion of one wall. The mantle probably cost a small fortune.
“Nick is a snob. My cousin likes others to know how obscenely wealthy he is.”
Surprised at him saying such a thing, she looked up to see there was no malice in his words. “Are you always so full of mockery?”
The lopsided tilt to his lips appeared again. “Nearly always.”
“Simon,” she ignored the look he shot her at the use of the name, “did mention his father found Blue John and what a shock it was to all concerned.”
“Indeed. Brushbriar and Somerton share a border. The Blue John was found very close to the boundary, barely a quarter mile from our property. My father was convinced there must be fluorite on our land as well. He searched for such a discovery nearly every day during the last year of his life. I’m sure the search for fluorite indirectly caused his death. At any rate, Pendleton’s Blue John will keep you in silks and satins for the rest of your life.”
“Silks and satins can become rather tiresome,” Petra said lightly as she moved toward the wall where a drawing of a large peak, drawn in charcoal, hung. The detail was exquisite down to the sprays of heather and the curve of the gritstone. A tiny signature in the lower right-hand corner read ‘Morwick’.
“This is beautiful. Is it your work?”
“No, I’ve not an artistic bone in my body. Father was the artist. He didn’t do portraits or people at all, only the outdoors. Sometimes animals, but not often. That drawing is of Mam Tor, the largest peak in the area.”
“I’m happy to know he didn’t do portraits,” she said thinking of the painting of the woman and the dog she’d seen earlier. “What does Mam Tor mean?”
