The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  The only consideration stopping him from pursuing her openly was the Throgmorton steam engine.

  If she didn’t view him in a complementary way, then pressing his suit before the project was successfully completed would make working together on the engine awkward. More, he didn’t know how she might react to a declaration from him; she might even back away from helping William John altogether, and that, he simply could not risk. There were too many people relying on them delivering the project on time.

  With her help, he was confident they would succeed. Without her help, he was no longer so sure. All he’d seen to that point seemed to prove that William John’s strengths alone wouldn’t be enough.

  So he would wait until they had the engine working and presented it at the exhibition. Then he would ask for her hand.

  He nodded to himself, pleased to have thought his way to that clear and unequivocal stance.

  Of course, waiting didn’t mean he couldn’t use the time to learn more of her. Indeed, for any number of reasons, it would be wise to gain some understanding of her complicated and convoluted relationship with inventors and inventing.

  They’d managed—entirely by chance—to get her into the workshop long enough for her to respond to their need and demonstrate her understanding.

  They’d opened a door they hadn’t known existed, and today, they’d managed to wedge that door open.

  That didn’t mean she couldn’t slam it shut.

  Today’s advance was no guarantee that he or William John wouldn’t, in some way, unintentionally step on her toes and prompt her to step back.

  She’d agreed to help them and clearly understood both why she needed to and what was at stake. But ladies could always change their minds.

  When it came to her and inventing, he felt like he was blundering in the dark—a feeling he didn’t appreciate.

  He’d started plotting a campaign to tease more insights from her when the soft swish of silk reached his ears.

  Surprised, he looked up—and realized that his wandering feet had set him on course for the entrance to the rose garden.

  Even as, blinking, he focused on the heavily shadowed arched entrance, now a mere yard away, Felicia, her eyes on the ground, walked purposefully out, under the arch.

  She walked directly into him.

  “Oh!”

  He’d had a second to halt and brace himself.

  She all but bounced off him.

  Before she could stagger back, he grasped her upper arms and steadied her.

  She sucked in a breath, and tension streaked through her.

  Ignoring the rush of physical awareness that raced over him, he ducked his head and looked into her face. “It’s all right. It’s only me—Rand.”

  She blinked at him, her eyes luminous in the semi-dark; the unexpected collision had affected her, too—in her wide eyes, he saw the same awareness that was prickling under his skin.

  Then she let out the breath she’d held in a soft exhalation; the line of her shoulders eased, and she raised a slim hand to her throat. She looked into his eyes with transparent relief. “My apologies. I wasn’t looking.”

  “No need to apologize. I didn’t see you coming, either.” Yet he’d realized in time that, had he wished to, he could have avoided the collision, but that was something he saw no reason to mention.

  “Well, then. Thank you.” She sounded faintly breathless.

  She stepped back, and, reluctantly, he released her and lowered his arms.

  She stared at him for a second; he cursed the shadows that fell over her face and prevented him from reading her expression.

  Then she tensed a touch and shifted as if intending to step past him.

  Before she could bid him goodnight and leave, he reached out, looped her arm with his, and smoothly turned her around, effectively anchoring her beside him as he stepped toward the rose garden. “Please—walk with me.” Pausing under the arch, he gestured down the flagstone walk. “It’s a beautiful night, and your roses are in bloom.”

  Short of wrestling free—something he felt fairly certain she wouldn’t do—she had little option but to fall in by his side. She humphed and dryly replied, “So I’ve noticed.”

  But her feet obligingly followed his.

  “Have you been strolling long?” he asked.

  “No. My room was stuffy, so I came out to get some air.”

  Greatly daring, he loosened the guard on his tongue. “Am I allowed to say I’m glad?”

  She looked down, then, in a plainly curious tone, asked, “Why?”

  His face shrouded by the deepening shadows, he grinned and gave her half the answer. “Because I’m curious. After our previous discussion in this garden, having learned of your antipathy to inventing and inventors and your very sound reasons for that, I was...shall we say, taken aback?...to realize that, regardless of your stance, you are very definitely an inventor, too.” He paused, his senses confirming she was listening, and that although she’d stiffened slightly at his reference to her talent, she hadn’t tried to halt or pull away. His voice even, his tone intrigued but not demanding, he went on, “If you’ll consent to sharing your thoughts with me, what I would particularly like to know is why you have, apparently doggedly, kept yourself out of the workshop and away from all inventing until now.”

  That afternoon, while they’d been working on the modifications to the pistons’ feed lines, William John had confirmed that he hadn’t known of his sister’s abilities, and that as far as he could remember, she’d never been a collaborator in any of his or his father’s inventions in even the smallest way—indeed, that she’d never previously shown the slightest interest in any invention whatsoever.

  Felicia narrowed her eyes, but as she kept her head bent and her gaze directed at the path before their feet, the gesture had no effect on the gentleman who had so adroitly claimed her company. Her senses, thrown into disarray by their collision, hadn’t yet completely settled. Her nerves were still flickering, all too aware of his powerful, very male presence so close beside her.

  She shouldn’t have acquiesced, but her silly feet had followed his lead...just as her thoughts were now following his.

  Given that, invention-wise, he seemed intent on involving her as a collaborator, his question—his curiosity—was, perhaps, understandable. And while his wasn’t a question she’d ever posed to herself, she did know the answer.

  Raising her head, she looked down the path along which they were slowly strolling. She half expected him to press, but he remained attentively silent. Encouraging, but content to allow her to marshal her thoughts.

  More than anything else, that silent yet focused attention prompted her to speech. “When I was a young girl, I spent a great deal of my time in the workshop, along with William John. I expect my...talent, as you call it, stems from those days. From all the hours I spent listening to Papa talk through his work. Probably because, until recently, he’d always worked alone, he was one of those inventors who, when he was working, spoke his thoughts aloud.” She paused, remembering those days. “Instead of dolls, I had wrenches and spanners. And I still can’t embroider to save my soul. In place of the usual lessons a young girl learns, I was playing at building things with gears and levers. Mama loved Papa too much to try to curtail my time with him, and I adored—simply adored—the different world that existed downstairs.”

  She stared unseeing into the deepening darkness that cloaked the end of the garden. “But that time passed. William John and I grew older, and as we did, Papa focused on William John, of course. I was a girl, and increasingly, Papa paid less and less attention to me—and feeling cut out, I went down to the workshop less often. That meant I spent more time upstairs with Mama, and that made me aware of the...counter side of Papa’s obsession with inventions. As the months and years went on, I saw and increasingly understood the pressure Papa’s
obsession placed on everyone else, but on my mother most of all. Papa left her to manage everything. He cared for nothing but what went on in his workshop. By then, I’d stopped going down there. I simply couldn’t—not while knowing what him working down there was costing Mama.”

  She drew breath and raised her head. “I grew increasingly angry—and what you’ve termed my antipathy grew and grew, until ultimately, I turned my back on everything to do with inventing.” She paused, then went on, “If it wasn’t for William John—if it had been left to me—I would have closed the workshop after Papa’s death.”

  The long-fermented rancor elicited by her father’s behavior still pulsed in her veins.

  She tipped her head toward Rand and felt her curls brush his shoulder. “Given all that, it’s hardly surprising that I simply didn’t realize I...had any real ability in that sphere. Even after Papa died, the very last thing I would have thought of doing was going down to the workshop and offering my help.” She thought of it, then softly snorted and looked down. “Had Papa been alive...what happened two days ago would simply never have occurred. He never—ever—thought of me as a potential colleague. He had William John, and I was just a girl.”

  They’d reached the end of the path. The seconds they took to swing around to pace back toward the house were time enough for her to realize and acknowledge another truth. As they strolled freely again, she murmured, “In hindsight, me distancing myself from inventing was a mistake on both my and Papa’s parts. Had I participated in his work, even if only occasionally, I would have understood what drove him.” She drew breath and admitted, “It wouldn’t have changed how I felt about inventing, but... I would have understood him.”

  She frowned and looked down, suddenly aware that she now had regrets she hadn’t previously harbored. Nevertheless...raising her head, she stated, “I still firmly believe that people—especially those close to us, the people we love, our family—are in all situations and at all times more important than any invention could ever be.”

  His voice, deep and faintly gruff, rumbled across her senses. “Even as engrossed in inventions as I am, I entirely agree.”

  She glanced at his face, but the shadows were now those of full night, and she couldn’t make out his expression.

  Rand continued, “Inventions should help, not harm—not in any way, not even in their developmental stages. There is no other purpose behind inventing, so to cause harm while inventing...to me, that runs counter to any inventor’s purpose.”

  Her explanations and revelations had pushed him to consider his own views, to review his own feelings. How far would he go in pursuit of an invention if someone dear to him stood to be harmed, even if only emotionally? The answer was very clear in his mind. He couldn’t imagine allowing such a situation to proceed.

  “Thank you for trusting me enough to explain.” He glanced at her face and, through the dimness, met her shadowed eyes. “It helps to understand how you feel about things.”

  Despite the darkness, he saw her lips curve. “In that case, I claim turn and turn about.” She tipped her head, her eyes still on his. “What led to your interest in inventions? From what did such an esoteric interest spring?”

  When he didn’t immediately answer, she murmured, “It would help to understand how you feel about things.”

  That surprised a short laugh from him. “Very well.” He faced forward and wondered where to start. Then he knew. “I had no interest in inventions until six years ago.”

  When he didn’t go on, she prompted, “What happened six years ago?”

  She’d been open and honest—and brave—in telling him all she had. He couldn’t be less, do less. “Six years ago, my mother died. She fell to her death from an upstairs window while trying to escape being taken up for the attempted murder of my half brother, who was and still is the Marquess of Raventhorne. She tried to kill him so that I would inherit—a scheme I and my other brothers and sister had no notion of. She...was a master manipulator and had pulled the wool over all our eyes. Everyone knew she didn’t like Ryder, but that she would do such a thing...” He shook his head. “It was incomprehensible.”

  “You’re close to your half brother—the marquess?”

  “Nothing so mild as merely close. That was why our mother’s treachery...hurt so much. Ryder’s six years older than I am, and I’m the eldest of the four children my mother bore our father. To the four of us, Ryder was our hero. He was the magnificent big brother who always took care of us. Even now, he’s our family’s rock—the one all of us would turn to for help, knowing he’ll always—always—gladly give it.” He felt his lips twitch upward. “Ryder’s our shield, and I suspect he’ll think of himself as that to his dying day.”

  She paced beside him, then softly said, “It must have been—must still be—quite something to have a brother like that.”

  He glanced at her, reminded that her older brother had never supported her; in truth, it was she who supported William John. Rand closed his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. “As I said, we’re more than close.” His thoughts rolled on, and he drew in a deep breath. “It was the aftermath of my mother’s death that set me on the path to becoming an investor who specializes in inventions. I was twenty-four when she died, and I’d...done nothing worthwhile with my life to that point.”

  He paused, letting an echo of those long-ago feelings, the strongest ones that had pushed him down his present path, ripple through him again. “I had never wanted to nor expected to inherit the marquessate. Managing a noble estate had never been of interest. But the shock of my mother’s death opened my eyes and made me ask what I stood for. What the name of Randolph Cavanaugh would mean to others—and I realized that, at that time, me and my name meant nothing at all.”

  He glanced briefly at her and saw she was watching him. “I came to that realization a few weeks after we buried my mother. I decided on that day that I would carve a place for myself in the world, so that the name of Randolph Cavanaugh would someday mean something.”

  “So that you would leave a positive mark on the world.”

  He inclined his head. “In whatever way—it didn’t truly matter how. So I started investigating what arena I might have a more-than-passing interest in and discovered the answer was investing. For several years, I stuck as close as I could to another nobleman—a connection of my sister-in-law, Ryder’s wife, Mary—who has long been an acknowledged force in investment circles. He was kind enough to teach me everything I needed to know. Through him, I stumbled into investing in inventions, and it was there I found my place.”

  He met her eyes. “Inventions—evaluating and assessing them, then working out what the most useful require to bring them to fruition—called to me. Captured me.” He held her gaze. “Possibly in the same way that you were drawn back into inventing when the chance—the need—was placed before you. Investing in inventions drew me in and held me as nothing else ever had.”

  They’d returned to the archway, and he led her beneath and out onto the lawns, now silvered by the light of the rising moon. “I like—no, I thrive—on the challenge of finding a worthwhile invention, then supporting the inventor logistically and financially to transform that invention into an established success.”

  Her gaze lingered on his face, on his profile, then she looked toward the house. “You bring passion and drive to an invention’s development. Trust me, for any inventor, that’s a boon in itself.”

  The dry words had him inclining his head.

  After a moment, she glanced his way. “It seems we share the experience of having been influenced by the actions of one of our parents to the point that our reactions propelled us down our respective paths.”

  He thought about that, then murmured, “Perhaps. But we differ in that, while my reaction to my mother’s scheming pushed me into investing in inventions—an occupation that fulfills me, and with which I’m increasingly
content—your reaction to your father’s shortcomings has kept you out of inventing and inventions, an arena in which you plainly are able to make real and meaningful contributions.”

  He didn’t say more. Didn’t elaborate on the contrast, but instead, left her to think it through and see that truth for herself.

  After several moments of considering his words, Felicia murmured an agreement. He was right. Inventing and inventions and the contributions she might make... The prospect elicited a response from deep inside that was nine parts eager excitement and one part pure desire.

  She wasn’t sure what she felt about that. Turning assumptions about herself on their head left her mentally dizzy—uncertain of her footing.

  They’d walked down the lawn and around to the terrace. As she raised her skirts and, still leaning on his arm, climbed the steps, she was aware of a certain expectation in the air—of this being a moment in time when her life was poised on the cusp of a new direction.

  Exactly what that direction might be, where it might lead, and what it might hold...that, she had yet to learn.

  Rand halted outside the drawing room door. She drew her arm from his and faced him.

  Through the enfolding shadows, he looked into her eyes.

  And she looked into his.

  Finally, he said, his voice deep and low, “It seems that both of us have, indeed, been working our way out of the emotional coils generated by one of our parents—working to define ourselves, to define our paths into the future.”

  “From all you’ve said, you’ve advanced further than I have. I’m...” She hesitated, but they’d passed the point of being cautious. “After the revelations of recent days, I feel I’m only just starting my journey.”

  It was a catharsis of sorts, to speak so openly to another who understood.

  Rand quietly asked, “Did you enjoy it—helping William John see his way to solving his problems?”

  She blinked, then nodded. “Yes, I did. It was...invigorating. As if I was stretching a muscle I hadn’t used in years.”