I Thee Wed by Celeste Bradley

words. Of course, almost immediately she regretted giving him her attention.
    â€œAs it happens, I don’t think very highly of Lamarckism.” His tone was dismissive. “The entire concept that we are all just a jumbled mix of our parents’ physical traits—”
    â€œAnd personalities,” she corrected automatically, her ire rising.
    â€œAnd personalities,” he allowed, though his frown deepened, “is incompatible with the ideal of the individuality of man.”
    â€œAnd woman,” she prompted.
    He tilted his head, as if puzzled by her addendum. “Yes, of course. And woman.”
    Francesca gazed up at Mr. Worthington while cradling the bunny Herbert—er, the Laporidae specimen—in her arms. Was the man before her handsome? Most certainly. But lest she forget, he was also so very arrogant! “You do not think studying inherited traits is worthwhile science?”
    â€œScience is discovery. Knowledge. What you are doing is no more than counting bunny toes.”
    She sniffed. “Tell me, Mr. Worthington, what study are you engaged in that is so very important?”
    â€œI—rather, Sir Geoffrey is trying to separate alkaloid compounds from plants using solvents.”
    She tilted her head. “Why?”
    He blinked. The reason was so obvious that for a moment he didn’t know what to say. “Because . . . because no biologist has ever managed to do it!”
    â€œSo, say you managed to separate the compounds. You stand in the center of the laboratory”—she pointed to a spot on the floor—“with a beaker of nice, pure compounds in your hand.”
    Orion frowned. “Yes,” he agreed cautiously.
    â€œWhat is it for? What are you going to do with it? Is it meant to be a medicine? To be a poison? To shine shoes?” She folded her arms and glared at him. “What good is knowledge without action? Pure research without higher goals amounts to selfishness. What use is a trained mind if not to better the world?”
    He sputtered. “Knowledge betters the world!”
    She spread her hands. “Yet, how will separating plant compounds help mankind?”
    He narrowed his eyes. “How does counting bunny toes help mankind?”
    Oh, the gloves were off now! Her eyes narrowed. “Your hair curls. Does your father’s hair curl?”
    His eyes narrowed. “By chance, yes.”
    â€œYou are tall. Is your father tall?”
    His jaw worked. “Many men are tall.”
    â€œYour eyes are blue.”
Like twilight in deep summer . . .
She shook off the distraction. “I’ll wager that your mother has blue eyes, but your father has brown.”
    He looked startled. “How did you know that?”
    Little Attie had told her, when Francesca had grilled her about her own physical traits, but she was enjoying his discomfiture too much to admit it now. So she merely smiled archly. “Science,” she pointed out, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
    She would, of course, explain herself at some later date. Probably, anyway. She might forget.
    He recovered quickly enough on his own. “There are onlya limited number of eye colors in all of humanity. They are bound to repeat, even when randomized.”
    She shook her head. “Nothing is random, Mr. Worthington. The constellations hold their patterns as they move across the sky. All cherry blossoms have five petals. We are indeed a jumble of inherited traits—” She held up a finger to halt his protest. “Unique jumbles, I’ll grant you, like a handful of dice cast again and again, coming up with different combinations every time.”
    He drew himself up, which made him loom over her, which in turn made her belly quiver in a most distracting way. His glower deepened. “I. Am. Nothing. Like. My. Parents.”
    With that pronouncement, he turned and stalked away.
    Of course, he didn’t