That must be why his behavior seemed at times so contradictory. This reality show was putting strange pressures on all of them. But her mind kept turning to his skintight breeches tucked neatly into his shapely riding boots. “I feel for you,” she said.
She’d like to feel him, period, she thought. She could hardly contain her physical attraction to this man, and from the way he looked at her when they were alone, it seemed as if he felt the same way. They had chemistry all right—on steroids. The force of the attraction, she reasoned, was probably made all the more powerful by the restrictions of Regency etiquette. She couldn’t touch him, kiss him, or even hold his hand until he asked for her hand—in marriage. A flash of her untying his breeches came into her head. She would take hold of him with her leather-gloved hand and he would throb with need—
“I hope you’ll like the afternoon I’ve planned for us.”
“I’m sure I will.” He could be so thoughtful at times, so considerate of her feelings and her pleasure.
He slowed the horses to a trot and they stopped at the Grecian temple. Chloe began to feel another urge rising up in her. It was the simple urge to pee. It happened to her every time she was out in the middle of nature, it seemed.
When he offered his hand to help her out of the carriage, she cast an eye toward the weathered green dome of the Grecian temple on the hill. Behind the temple’s fluted columns, a picnic blanket had been laid out and sprinkled with red rose petals.
She reveled in the beauty of the scene. She never wanted to forget it. But one of the horses chose that moment to make a loud farting noise and a wave of the most disgusting-smelling air rose up around them. Just at the wrong moment, Sebastian whisked his hand away to cover his nose with his arm. “Arrgh,” he muttered, wincing.
Chloe made a move to lean on his hand that suddenly wasn’t there and stumbled out of the carriage. Meanwhile, the horse lifted its tail and dumped on the road. The pile stank and steamed. Both Sebastian and Chloe gagged.
Such were the hazards of driving by horse.
Sebastian escorted her toward the temple. Heavy clouds began to gather in the sky. Chloe needed to go to the bathroom, but didn’t want to leave.
A basket overflowing with dainty sandwiches, buns, and grapes anchored a corner of the picnic blanket. Grapes! And not a mutton leg, cow’s tongue, or pig’s head in sight. A stack of reproduction first-edition William Cowper and Wordsworth poetry books and a box of charcoal sticks and sketchbooks weighed down another corner.
“Well, what do you think of what Mr. Wrightman has arranged for you here?” Mrs. Crescent asked. She clasped her hands in obvious satisfaction.
“It’s perfect,” Chloe said, trying not to think about her bladder.
“Lemonade?” Mrs. Crescent asked as she held up a corked bottle.
Chloe leaned in to whisper to her. “I need to dash off to the ladies’ room.”
“You do? How unfortunate. Well, one never thinks of such a thing out here on a picnic. You’ll have to go in the woods—or walk over to Dartworth Hall. And remember, ladies don’t run, even to the ladies’ room.”
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Wrightman. I need to use the—facilities.” Under her breath she said to him, “Or lack thereof.”
He bowed. “Of course. I recommend Henry’s lab.”
Henry had a lab? As in science lab?
“See it right there?” Sebastian pointed to a little brick building that stood beneath a clump of trees. “It’s a lot closer than Dartworth. And he happens to have one of those newfangled water closets all the way in the back of the building. Don’t be long. I’ll be waiting for you.” He popped a grape in his mouth and plopped down on the picnic blanket. “Ugh, my tooth.” He started rubbing his jaw again.
Chloe knocked on the door of the lab, but nobody answered. When she opened the door, light from floor-to-ceiling windows spilled into the room, shining on a neatly organized wall full of books. A large telescope on a tripod stood in a window. Wooden plank tables had centerpieces of test tubes in wooden racks, a primitive stethoscope, a camera obscura, and pieces of what looked like a gas lamp. A journal stood open on one of the tables, and next to it a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Everything, every single thing, piqued her curiosity.
It was like a snapshot of the inner workings of Henry’s mind. If only she could get such a glimpse inside Sebastian’s. She spotted the initials WC on a door in the back and stepped onto what seemed like a back porch. There it was, a sort of wooden toilet, the first toilet she had sat on in almost two weeks. Who knew that the sight of a toilet could make her so happy?
Chloe was straddling the primitive-looking toilet bowl, hoisting her gown, when suddenly she heard boots clomping on the floorboards in the lab. “Mr. Wrightman?” She searched for the toilet paper. There wasn’t a basket of rags anywhere either. When someone pushed the door open, she put her hand up to stop the door from opening fully. “I’m in here!”
Whoever it was pulled the door shut again. “Miss Parker?”
It was Henry.
“So sorry. I had no idea you were in there!”
“It’s all right, Henry. But—do you have any . . . toilet paper?” she squeaked.
Chloe heard him scrambling, and what sounded like a tin of something fell to the floor. A moment later he handed her a bucket of rags.
Chloe used one of them. Now . . . Another nineteenth-century conundrum. What to do with it? None of this was in her rule book. She couldn’t exactly flush it down whatever this thing was. She pulled the handle, but it didn’t flush.
“Just bring them out here, Miss Parker. I’ll take care of everything.”
Chloe’s head pounded with embarrassment. She creaked the door open.
He held out a cloth sack to her.
Without looking at him, she stuffed the rag in the bucket and he took it outside to a tin trash container.
She followed him. What a gentleman to deal with all this! “Um, to make matters worse, the water-closet thingamajig wouldn’t flush.”
“I know! I’ve been working on it every spare minute, and still haven’t perfected that part of it yet. Here’s a washbowl for your hands.” He guided her toward an outdoor washbasin and handed her a large ball of what she recognized as very good soap. He wasn’t wearing a riding jacket, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, his cravat untied, and his shirt, a pullover white muslin with a long V neck, hung open. His hair was disheveled.
“Thank you for helping out a damsel in distress.” He had a delicious scent about him, an aroma of oil paints and turpentine, something only an arty girl would know and love.
“You’re welcome. I hope you’ll excuse my appearance,” he said as he raked his fingers through his hair. “I just came from doing some painting in the field.”
“Hmm,” she said out loud. “I—I mean, hmm, your lab looks interesting.” She peeked back into the building. “But I have to get back to my chaperone and your brother.”
“Of course.”
“Speaking of which, do you have something other than cloves for a toothache? Your brother’s in a lot of pain.”
He eyeballed a row of bottles from the doorway.
“He keeps rubbing his jaw.”
Henry stepped into the lab, then returned with a tiny bottle in his hand, containing a scant amount of liquid. “Two drops of this, mixed with a non-alcoholic drink, should help. But no more than two drops. It’s laudanum, and it’s powerful.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wrightman. I’m much obliged!” She took a few steps backward, turned toward the hill, and squirreled the laudanum in her reticule. “Why don’t we have a water closet like that at Bridesbridge?”
“The Bramah water closet? Chiefly because I haven’t figured out how to make it flush yet. As soon as it’s ready, I’ll have one installed at Bridesbridge. It’s taken me this long to work it out. Along with the shower.”