by Lisa Kleypas
Something Lilah would appreciate, Ivy thought absently. He sounded so sure of himself that she felt foolish for being alarmed.
Then another sound rang out above them. This time it was a grinding metal on metal, and a high, piercing shriek. Perhaps like a rope stretched to the point of snapping.
The carriage jerked to a stop with enough force that she bounced on the bench. “Please tell me that was supposed to happen.”
The duke did not answer. He faced the lever instead, feet planted wide as if bracing himself. A series of clicks followed the up-and-down movement of his arms. Lifting the lever up—click. Down—click. Again and again. His broad shoulders strained against the seams of his coat. His breathing became harsh. He expressed an oath. Then suddenly he turned, took her by the shoulders, and lifted her to her feet.
“Hold on to me,” he growled in her ear. His arms snaked around her waist and tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder. Then another marrow-chilling grinding sound ripped through the room.
Ivy clung to him. The first instant of their descent, her feet lifted off the floor. Time seemed suspended by a mutual intake of breath. The metallic shrieks grew deafening. Her feet returned to the floor, but her stomach was still elevated, held aloft by the force of their sudden fall. She remembered a similar feeling from when she’d raced down the hill in the gardener’s wheelbarrow. It had been truly terrifying and then exhilarating, but only after she’d awoken and found herself still alive.
She closed her eyes now, hoping for the same result.
The carriage jerked on a groan and the crack of splintering wood.
“First bumper,” the duke whispered, tightening his arms around her.
Another jerk followed. Groan. Crack.
“Second bumper. We’re slowing now.”
Slowing? How could he tell?
Another jerk. Groan . . . crack.
“Third bumper. Hold tight.”
The carriage jerked. Hard. Groan . . .
She waited to hear the crack. When it did not come and their descent paused, she lifted her head. The candle flame had flickered out, enshrouding them in darkness. “How many bumpers are there?”
“Four. We are resting upon the last now, but fear not, it is quite sturdy and not a great distance from the bottom of the shaft.” The nod of his head brushed her temple. “A survivable fall.”
She should have been furious. She should have railed at him for putting her life in danger. Yet right that moment, a cool, tingly feeling of exhilaration poured through her. I am alive, she thought. I’m alive, and his arms feel wondrous around me.
Ivy drew in a deep breath and tilted her head back. She absorbed every sensation. Her heart pounded hard, like horses galloping over a moonlit path. The air smelled cold, damp, and delicious. The superfine wool of his coat was warm and soft beneath her fingertips. And where he cradled her body against his stomach, hips, and thighs, it felt hot and right. She never wanted it to end.
He cleared his throat and shifted, drawing himself apart from her. He took the tantalizing heat with him, too. “I think perhaps we are out of danger.”
Since his hands were slowly leaving her waist, she supposed that was a hint to stand on her own and release him as well. On a disappointed breath, she did. Yet now she had that tingly feeling trapped inside her without any way to purge herself of it.
It was a dreadful feeling to keep inside. It made her feel edgy and irritable. Perhaps she was too old and out of practice to enjoy the elation after surviving an ordeal. Or perhaps if the duke would simply pull her into his arms once more, she might not feel this way.
“Regrettably,” he began, “it appears we are between floors.”
That meant they truly were blocked in. No! She was imprisoned here, when she would much rather run through all the corridors of this castle until she was bent over and breathless.
“It is my understanding that actual carriages are equipped with brakes,” she grumbled. “For what is a smooth ride if there is no way to stop it?”
In the moment that passed, he exhaled audibly. “Duly noted, Miss Sutherland. For your information, I did employ a brake. Unfortunately, the speed of our descent caused it to fail.”
The warmth vanished from his tone. Hearing him speak each word with cold, precise enunciation only added to her irritation. “Then perhaps it would be wise to design one that reacts to a rapid descent.”
“I am all eagerness to hear your design modifications. A scientist never has enough ideas on his own,” he drawled, not sounding the least bit eager.
She ignored his sarcasm. “A clamp of sorts would do the trick.”
He did not respond, leaving her in this battle alone. The silence seemed to drag on and on until she could no longer stand it.
“I do not like this confined space,” she said after a full minute. “I prefer to move about. Taking the staircase would have been a much better option.”
“And yet you accepted my invitation.” He scoffed at her. Scoffed!
“Do not make it sound, sir, that it is my fault we are in this predicament.”
“That was not my intention.” The accusation edging his tone did not convince her that he was in earnest. To her, he sounded as irritable as she was. But what could be his reason?
It was only then that she realized she might have wounded his ego. It was his ascending room, after all. And from what she had gathered from his aunt, he was rather proud of his modern contraptions. Not only that, but apparently he’d endured ample criticisms in his life.
A small twinge of guilt pinched her conscience.
“I’m somewhat impulsive, and you are rather persuasive. It is a dreadful combination,” she explained.
He murmured a sound of agreement.
Then they were silent for another minute or two in the darkness. She could feel that he was close, because the space in front of her was warm, but she dared not reach out for fear of clinging to him once more. “What do we do now?”
“Wait for Mr. Graves,” he said. “Someone from below stairs would have heard a crash and notified him.”
Sure enough, within seconds a man’s voice called down to them from above. “Your Grace! Are you hurt?”
“I am fine, Mr. Graves, though”—the duke hesitated—“I am not alone. Please fetch a ladder but with the utmost discretion.”
Mr. Graves summarily left, promising to return in due haste.
The enormity of what had happened was starting to settle upon Ivy. Sure, she’d survived the clutches of death, but what now? If anyone should find out she spent any time alone with the duke, her reputation would be ruined. Worse, Lilah’s would be tainted. No doubt Lady Cosgrove would ask Ivy to leave . . . and just when the party was starting to get interesting.
“I’m dreadful at waiting,” she said.
“Somehow that does not surprise me. Have you always been impatient and impulsive?”
“Even as a child, I’m afraid,” she admitted, nodding to herself. “I could not wait for the next footrace over the hill, or the next adventure. I could not stand to linger in bed when I was wide awake, even when it was before dawn. Nor could I tolerate being kept from my slumber when that was the only thing keeping me from beginning a new day.”
Caught in a memory, she continued. “There was one summer, many years ago, when my aunt, uncle, and younger cousin came to stay with us. She had a pet frog that she kept in a box by her bedside table. She had an absurd notion that if she gave him a kiss, he would turn into a prince, but she was waiting for the day when she had the courage to find out. Apparently, the sound of constant croaking did not hinder my cousin’s sleep. Across the hall, it had the opposite effect on me. Therefore, I decided to liberate the frog from his confines.
“In my own defense,” she said after a short pause, “I never thought the frog wouldn’t be able to hop from such a distance.”
“What was the distance?” the duke asked, his tone warmer and suspiciously amused.
“A third
-floor window,” she murmured. “Over a stone patio.”
Vale laughed, a hearty, rough-hewn sound that shook the small room. Automatically, she reached out for support and, as luck would have it, he was the closest thing to seize. His hand settled on her hip, steadying her. Gradually his laughter died, but she could still feel his warm puffs of air against her cheek. “Your cousin never had the chance to see if her frog was a prince in disguise.”
“Oh, he wasn’t. I made sure of it . . . just in case,” she whispered. The obvious path of her thoughts would be to remember the moment that she’d held the bleating, wriggling frog in her hands as she’d kissed that cold, wet mouth. Instead, Ivy could think only of how close she was to Vale. So close that she could stand on tiptoe and press her lips to his. And she would, too. She was certainly impulsive enough. However, Ivy didn’t want to break the spell.
The two kisses in her life had both yielded unpleasant outcomes. The first was the slimy frog, and the second was when she’d foolishly kissed Jasper, just weeks before his death.
With an angry swipe of his hand, Jasper wiped her kiss away in front of her. “No, Ivy. That is not done,” he scolded. “A young woman does not kiss a man. If his passions are stirred, then he will kiss her. I have given you no indication that you stir mine! And now your actions have disappointed us both.”
Thinking about that now, Ivy took a step back. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but it couldn’t be helped. The duke’s pleasant grasp disappeared. Unfortunately, she forgot about the bench directly behind her and she stumbled against it. Reaching out, she braced her hand against the wall—then felt a sharp prick pierce her thumb through her glove.
She drew back on a hiss.
“What has happened?” As if he had no trouble seeing in the dark, the duke returned her to his embrace.
Like before, she felt the heat of his hands on the bare flesh below the sleeve of her dress. For a breathless moment, she forgot the question. Then when the pad of her thumb began to throb, she remembered. “I touched the wall. I think . . . I have a splinter in my thumb.”
“Then we must remove it.” Already his hand shifted to cradle the elbow of her left arm, as if detecting which hand she was protecting. His fingertips brushed the exposed flesh above her glove. “This one?”
Her breath caught in her lungs. The thrill-seeking, impatient aspects of her nature wanted to strip off her glove and toss it to the floor so that she could feel more of his touch. Now. Her pulse began to purr in her ears, swift and hot. Yet it was the quieter and more prudent part of herself that spoke. “Yes, but it is likely nothing.”
Of course, she said the words without trying to free herself. She might have even turned her arm in order to feel his finger travel down the same path as last night.
“Hmm,” he murmured. “I am of a nature that certainty is paramount.”
He delved beneath her glove, his movements gradual and cautious. The heat and slight roughness of his flesh elicited a flood of tingles throughout her body. Her flesh, blood, and bone all quivered in unison. He took his time, slowly drawing the soft leather down her arm, baring her flesh, inch by inch. Every subtle shift felt like a new caress. Even though the reason for his thorough examination was likely to keep from alarming her, for some reason, she had the sense that he was enjoying this.
Then one of his fingers traced the same path as last night. The touch was so reminiscent that she suddenly knew it had been no accident. That knowledge sent another rush through her, fluttering low in her stomach.
“This room is too dark. You’ll never be able to”—the glove slipped from her fingers—“find it.” A soft mew of surprise escaped her. She felt naked, as if he’d stripped far more than her glove from her flesh.
His hand cupped her elbow, and another grasped her wrist. His thumb slipped naturally into the center of her palm. Unable to help herself, she rolled her hand forward, rubbing against his touch. The hand at her elbow skimmed upward to capture her, gently holding her hand immobile.
“Your skin is incredibly delicate, soft as orchid petals,” he said, his low voice rougher now, hoarse as he gradually lifted her hand upward. “These gloves are too thin to offer a proper amount of protection.” His heated breath coated her palm. If not for the evident concern in his tone, his suggestion might have riled her. Instead, it warmed her.
“Ah. That explains it. You were bothered by my ill-fitting glove last evening,” she teased, her voice nothing more than a purr in her throat. More than anything, she wanted to curl her fingers closed, hold each breath he released into her palm, and keep them. But he held her hand open, exposed to him. It made the sensation almost unbearable.
“Bothered? Yes, but not in the way you mean.” His throat issued a rumble of amusement that licked her flesh. “I notice that you are wearing the same pair this evening.”
“I only brought the one pair—likely ruined now.”
“The flesh beneath is far more important.” And then, he pressed his lips to her palm.
Ivy gasped but did not pull away. She was too eager for more. “What are you intending to do?”
“A purely scientific examination,” he said as his lips grazed her, trailing a path from the center of her hand up the slender length of her thumb. “Our mouths are quite perceptive. Have you ever noticed how infants first put things to their mouths in order to unlock the object’s mysteries? The same principle works in this circumstance. If you have a splinter, I will be able to detect it easier this way.”
He sounded so confident that it was impossible to argue. Then again, she doubted she would have argued regardless. Her eyes drifted shut as he brushed his lips over the pad of her thumb. It was no longer throbbing. Likely, her injury had only been a small depression from the head of a nail and had not broken the skin. She’d suffered enough stumbles to know the difference. Yet she couldn’t seem to find the words to tell him.
IF NORTH WERE a man given to foolish romantic notions, then he might have imagined that fate had a hand in placing Ivy Sutherland at his party. Of course, he was not such a man.
His momentary lapse in rational thought, not to mention his actions, stemmed from an escalation in his pulse, he was sure. Not to mention, the heightened sensitization of his nerves was the likely result from the sudden plummeting of the elevator. It was all perfectly understandable.
So why, then, was he finding it difficult to release her?
He brushed a kiss over the flesh of her thumb, examining her closely. The sweet citrus scent that he’d noticed from her hair last night was here as well. A low, hungry sound growled in his throat. In response, she rolled her wrist once more, pressing her thumb to his mouth, inviting him to draw her in. He did, reveling in her gasp and the feel of her body molding against him. His hand splayed over her back while his tongue explored her unmarred, silken flesh.
Under the circumstances, his actions were quite reasonable. How else would he be able to detect a splinter, here in the dark? Of course, Mr. Graves would likely arrive with the ladder at any moment and North could examine her then . . .
However, everything inside of him was compelled to hold her this closely and to press his lips to her. Any part of her. Every part of her.
Unfortunately, Mr. Graves chose that moment to arrive with the ladder.
The commotion heard overhead was enough to remind North of his position in society, not to mention his purpose for hosting this party. He was supposed to be proving his formula, not allowing his baser instincts to wreak havoc with his careful plan.
As the sound of footfalls began to near and a sliver of lamplight bled through the seam in the hatch on the ascending room’s roof, North set Ivy apart from him. She, however, kept her thumb to his lips, curling her impossibly soft hand around his jaw. What else could he do but press one more kiss to her palm?
“I detected no splinter or the faintest mark on your flesh.” He should know, he’d been quite thorough.
As if his statement jolted her, she drew back q
uickly. “Oh, yes. Of course. I am quite . . . relieved, as I ought to be, and not the least bit disappointed that further examination is unwarranted.”
North grinned as her words tumbled out in a rush. A ready quip was on his lips, but to release it would be to extend their flirtation and venture into dangerous territory. This wasn’t merely a physical attraction, after all. She was clever, too. A brake clamp that reacted automatically to a rapid descent? He should have thought of that himself. But if he had, his fall with Miss Sutherland would have been all too fleeting.
If logic hadn’t conquered his romantic notions earlier, hearing proof of her brilliant mind might have sent him over the edge.
Fortunately, Mr. Graves lifted the hatch before North could reach for her once more. Lamplight spilled down into the small chamber, illuminating Ivy’s bright eyes and flushed cheeks. Any other woman might have become pale and drawn from the harrowing fright. Not Ivy. Instead, she seemed even more vivacious.
“Miss Sutherland, I should like to introduce you to Mr. Graves,” North said, standing at her side. He noted that she kept her hands at her back, one gloved and the other bare. By chance, the other glove was tucked neatly into his own pocket. “You may not realize it, Graves, but you are standing in the presence of a genius. Miss Sutherland has come up with an impressive idea for a braking system for passenger elevators such as this.”
Graves possessed a single, thick black eyebrow, and it rose at this information. “My sister’s boy would love to hear of it, miss. He is forever making inquiries about His Grace’s inventions,” he explained to Miss Sutherland. “Young Master Otis dreams of being a master builder and inventor someday. And if it would keep Sir safe, then I would like to learn of your idea, too.”
“By all means. Although I’m afraid my genius has been overstated.” She glanced up at North, her expression tender. “I have far more knowledge of falling than of preventing it.”
Mr. Graves assured her with a nod. “Sir has a sense about these things.”
Right now, North wasn’t certain he had a sense about anything, because he wished they were still trapped.