Page 18 of The Botanist’s Improper Bride

“Yes. She’s friends with my cousin, Miss Letitia Carruthers, so I got to know her when we were younger. She’s well-versed in chemistry and has some interest in botany, which is obviously a boon, considering my own studies.”

She shook her head, obviously delighted. “Miss Dalton, a secret bluestocking. I never would have guessed.”

Trevor dipped his head, reminded once again that Seraphina was much better at putting on an acceptable society façade than he was.

“Well,” she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully, “if what you say is true, then I would imagine you have better than average odds of persuading her to marry you. It’s my experience that intellectuals tend to enjoy the company of other intellectuals.”

“But surely half the ton wants to woo her,” he protested. “I’m not the only gentleman who enjoys academic pursuits, and I’m a great deal more awkward than most.”

Lady Sophie’s smile faded. “You’re charming. Anyone who doesn’t think so is a fool.”

He looked down, uncertain what to say to that. She was stretching the truth, but it was nice of her to do so.

She harrumphed. “You don’t believe me. I doubt I’ll talk you around, so I’ll just give you a suggestion. Most suitors will treat Miss Dalton like a beautiful prize to be won. She’s not an object, though. She’s a person, so if you treat her as one and prove that you care about her mind as well as her face, I’m certain she won’t be able to resist you.”

“Thank you, Lady Sophie. That’s helpful.” Her words lessened the overwhelming sense of inadequacy he’d been battling since he’d arrived in London.

Yes, he needed to learn the rules of courting, but she was giving him permission to be himself within those confines.

It wouldn’t be difficult to treat Seraphina like an intelligent person when that was exactly what she was.

He bid Lady Sophie goodbye, hurried over to his carriage, and continued the journey back to Wembley House. As soon as he arrived, he went straight to his bedchamber, closed the door, and slumped against the wood, shutting out the noise and smells of the city.

Good lord, he hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with so many people again tomorrow.

CHAPTER 7

London

June, 1825

An open mind.

That was the single most important trait for her future husband, so Seraphina jotted it near the top of the piece of paper, underneath the heading Seraphina’s Husbandly Criteria.

She glanced out the window, noting that the sun was going down and the streets were emptier than they had been half an hour ago. A tall, dark-haired gentleman strolled arm in arm with a pleasantly curved blond woman, and her heart gave a pang at the way they angled themselves toward each other as if no one and nothing else existed.

Sometimes, deep in her soul, she thought she might want a relationship like that, but it didn’t seem likely, so it was easier to focus on the thing that she knew brought her joy: using chemistry to help others.

Refocusing on the task at hand, she noted down four more items on her list.

Kindness.

A modern perspective about women.

A generous nature.

Status.

Criteria 1 through 4 were intended to ensure that her future husband wouldn’t prevent her from continuing her production of quinine or conducting further chemical experiments to come up with a safe and consistent way to extract the active medical ingredient from willow bark.

Criterion 5 was purely because her father would pressure her to marry Mr. Emerson if any other prospective husband was of lower status, and she couldn’t take the risk.

There was a knock at the door, and Seraphina called out for the person to enter.

Bessie strode in, carrying a tray of food. “I’ve been told to remind you that you need to begin preparing for the Blackwell ball as soon as you’ve eaten.”

She set the tray on the desk beside Seraphina’s list but looked away quickly, not allowing her gaze to linger. Bessie wasn’t nosy. It was one of the traits Seraphina appreciated about her.