Her head spun. Her wits, she realized, had flown.
Not that she cared—not at that moment as warmth and a hunger she had never before felt yet instantly recognized flowered and unfurled within her.
This time, Rand held tight to their reins. This time, he’d braced for the potent lure of her response; he was determined to indulge both her and himself, yet still retain control.
He’d managed, more or less—passably at least—yet as the exchange spun out, kiss for kiss, and the lure of her lips, her mouth, her tongue, of the svelte, feminine body so vibrant and tempting in his arms only grew, and he sensed the rising tide of desire silently surging, he knew that with every second that passed, the inevitable drawing back would only be harder. More difficult—more of a wrench.
He had to end this, even though it went against the clamoring of his inner self. There was more than pleasure in this embrace; with no other woman had he found the sense of center—of being centered, of being whole and perfectly balanced—that he found in her arms.
She pressed against him, and his heart leapt, and his body hardened. He wanted her with a rapidly escalating passion—a passion that, until now, he’d endeavored to keep leashed.
If he didn’t end this...
His chest swelled as he drew in a steadying, fortifying breath. Clinging tight to his purpose, to what remained of his eroding will, he eased back from the kiss.
Inch by inch, lightening the pressure—releasing their senses to return to the world.
Felicia recognized his direction. In the same way she’d blithely followed his lead into the encounter, she accepted the necessity to follow him out of it.
Step by step, gently—accomplishing the inevitable drawing back without a hint of rejection on either part.
Without the slightest hint of anything other than wholehearted togetherness.
Even when their lips, at last, parted, they stood with their faces close, breathing the other’s breath, at close quarters, their gazes briefly touching from under lowered lids.
Finally, as if in orchestrated concert, they both drew deeper breaths, raised their heads, and, lowering their arms, drawing their hands from each other, stepped back.
The separation impinged, much as if she’d lost something she valued, then her wits cleared, and she focused on his face.
She took in the faintly smug smile that slowly curved his lips.
Not quite frowning, she moistened her lips and saw his eyes track the movement of her tongue. “What was that for?” She was suddenly very sure there had been some purpose that had prompted his sudden, unplanned action.
He raised his eyes to hers, then his smile softened. “That was to remind you that there’s more to working with me than cogs and gears and chasing saboteurs.”
“Indeed?” She arched her brows.
His smile deepened. Still holding her gaze, he raised one hand and lightly ran the back of one finger down her cheek...
She couldn’t quell a delicious shiver of reaction.
For a second, they both froze.
The moment held, fraught, the air between them charged, as if they stood on a precipice but couldn’t yet move.
His eyes on hers, he knew and sensed it, too. “Later.” He drew breath and lowered his hand. “After the project is completed and we’re free to think of only ourselves.”
With that, he inclined his head, then stepped back, turned, and walked away, leaving the room and heading toward the front hall.
Presumably back to the workshop.
Discovering she could, she drew in a long, deep breath and turned back to the peonies.
Very little thought was needed to conclude that he was correct. What with the engine, the exhibition, and would-be saboteurs, they had too much on their collective plate at the moment to think of other things.
Personal things.
Not that, all in all, they hadn’t just taken a step closer to what they both, quite clearly, desired in that sphere.
She humphed. “Men!” She picked up the vase, destined for the table in the front hall, and determinedly carried it forth.
* * *
“Thank you, Mr. Mayhew.” Felicia handed Mayhew a full cup and saucer for Flora, and he carried it to the older lady, comfortably ensconced on the sofa in the drawing room.
When Mayhew returned, Felicia handed him his cup, then sat back with her own and watched as Mayhew elegantly arranged his long limbs in the armchair opposite hers. She and Flora had been waiting in the drawing room when Mayhew arrived; the instant he had, she’d rung for the tea tray. That had also been the signal for one of the footmen to inform Rand, who had retreated to the workshop with William John after luncheon, that their visitor had arrived.
Felicia didn’t doubt that, by now, Rand was near, lurking out of sight—either in the front hall or more likely on the terrace given she’d left the doors propped wide. She sipped and waited for Flora to open the discussion.
Smiling in her customary, sweet fashion, Flora lowered her cup and said, “Dear Felicia tells me that you wish to draw more sketches of the Hall, Mr. Mayhew.”
“Yes, indeed.” His charm to the fore, Mayhew launched into an explanation of how the Hall in its rather unusual setting called to him.
Although Mayhew’s gaze flicked her way several times, Felicia kept silent and observed. Closely.
Eventually, Mayhew ran down, and Flora responded with a smiling “I can see you’re extremely devoted to your art, sir.”
Felicia seized the moment. “Is there any particular aspect you had in mind to sketch on this occasion?” She half expected him to own to a wish to sketch the house from the rose garden, or from some other angle that would give him a view of the workshop.
Mayhew smiled and waved toward the terrace. “The perspective from that side is by far the best. I would like to make several sketches from that direction.” He turned and glanced out of the open doors. “From farther down the lawn—toward the woods.”
“I see.” Flora smiled benignly. “I’m sure we can have no objection to that.” She cast a faintly questioning look at Felicia.
Caught in the act of raising her cup, Felicia inclined her head, sipped, then lowered her cup. “Indeed.”
“Actually, my dear Mr. Mayhew,” Flora said, “I was wondering if you’re acquainted with the Mayhews of Tonbridge. Gerrard and his wife, Kitty.”
Hiding an inner smile, Felicia listened as Flora embarked on just the sort of inquisition a widowed lady of her years might be expected to have an interest in; in truth, Flora rarely had the chance to air her interrogatory skills, but given they wished to know more of Mayhew, inquiring as to his family connections was potentially pertinent.
However, Flora uncovered no inherently suspicious connections, and, rather more telling, Mayhew suffered her questions with easy grace. His charm and ready-to-please air never faltered.
Felicia—straining her ears for any hint of an out-of-place intonation and, with her eyes sharply focused, searching for any sign of a mask—had reached the point of acquitting Mayhew of being anything other than the charming and easygoing artist he seemed, when a sudden pop! sounded.
The distinct and rather odd noise apparently came from outside, reaching them through the open doors. They all glanced that way, and Felicia realized William John must have the workshop doors open, or at least ajar. The noise had come from there, from around the side of the house.
She glanced back in time to see an expression she couldn’t read flash across Mayhew’s face. It was there and gone so quickly, she had no idea what it might have meant.
The instant Mayhew saw her looking his way, his smile returned, combined with an inquiring look.
She waved dismissively. “Just a pipe clanking. They sometimes do when the sun heats them.”
It hadn’t been any pipe, but a valve blowing. She recogniz
ed the sound. What the devil was William John doing? He was supposed to be finishing off and getting ready for the final tests, not blowing valves.
Felicia drained her cup. She saw Mayhew had done the same. “Perhaps,” she said, setting down her saucer and reaching for his, “you and I should go outside, and you can show me the view you’d like to sketch.”
“Excellent.” Mayhew rose and, with ready courtesy and his never-failing charm, took his leave of Flora, shaking her hand and promising to mention her to a distant relative who they’d agreed she might have met.
When Mayhew straightened and looked her way, Felicia waved him to the open doors and the terrace beyond, then led the way.
As she stepped onto the terrace flags, she swiftly glanced to her left, but if Rand had been there, he’d beaten a retreat. With Mayhew by her side, she descended the central steps to the lawn and started strolling down its length.
Mayhew, with his long legs, easily kept pace. After several moments, he glanced at her face. “I do hope you don’t think I’m”—he gestured vaguely—“taking advantage, as it were.”
Puzzled, she glanced at him. “No. You’re quite welcome to sketch the house.” You’re not welcome to interfere with our invention.
“Oh, right, then.” Mayhew’s smile returned, and he looked ahead, then pointed to the large oak at the bottom of the lawn. “I think the best spot will be somewhere around there.”
Felicia had been wondering where Rand was. She’d glanced at the woods bordering the lawn several times, but hadn’t seen him. Then from the corner of her eye, she fleetingly glimpsed a shadowy figure keeping pace along one of the deer trails.
He was too far away to hear their words, but close enough to watch and observe.
They reached the oak, and Mayhew halted. He turned and surveyed the house, then he embarked on a voluble examination of angles and light and shadow.
She listened and observed, yet not once did she glimpse anything incongruent in his actions or words, not even in his tone or his expression.
Mayhew was an artist intent on sketching the house. There wasn’t anything else—any hint of ulterior motive or mission—to be seen.
Was that because their imputed ulterior motive didn’t exist, or was it there, but he was glib enough not to let it show?
Could Mayhew be this superbly duplicitous?
Felicia eyed him and simply didn’t know.
Eventually, he fell silent. After several moments of staring at the house, now frowning slightly, he turned to her. “I don’t like to ask it of you, but to make this sketch the best it can be, I need something—some object—in the foreground to anchor the perspective and make sense of the view.” He caught her gaze. “You’ll have seen how I do that in some of those sketches I showed you earlier. The object in the foreground. Like the pump in the inn yard, or the signpost in one of the landscapes.”
She did remember and nodded. After a second’s hesitation, she asked, “What sort of object do you need for this view?” She tipped her head toward the house.
He drew breath and, with one of his most appealing smiles, said, “I would really like you.” He swung to gesture with both arms. “Sitting in one of those chairs from the terrace—the cane armchairs. Just there.” He waved at the spot, then looked toward the house, eyes narrowing as if examining the effect he wanted to create. His voice soft and low, he murmured, “If you have a flowy gown, something in a pale and lightweight fabric, and a parasol...that will do wonders for contrasting with the sharp lines of the house, throwing them into greater visual relief.”
Felicia consulted her instincts. Mayhew was standing only feet away, yet her instincts still did not see him as a threat; they never had. It was her mind that harbored suspicions of him.
And if she was sitting out here with him...he wouldn’t have any chance to wander closer to the house, to perhaps attempt to get into the workshop. Meanwhile, she would have an opportunity to further interrogate him in a setting and at a time when he might let down his guard.
She’d already observed that, when they were working, artists and inventors were much alike; they became absorbed and forgot about the wider world and, indeed, most else.
She looked at Mayhew and met his eager, almost childishly pleading gaze. “All right.” She nodded. “I’ll sit for you.”
She wouldn’t be alone with him; she felt absolutely certain Rand would be only as far away as the nearest cover.
* * *
After weathering Mayhew’s abundant gratitude and making arrangements for him to return at two o’clock the next day, Felicia walked him back to the forecourt and waved him on his way.
He was now driving a gig, hired from some inn during his travels, she assumed; she hadn’t recognized the brand on the rear panel.
Once Mayhew had rattled out of sight around the curve in the drive, she looked around, expecting to see Rand emerge from the woods. When he didn’t, she walked around to the south side of the house and climbed the steps at the end of the terrace.
Stepping onto the flags, she saw Rand waiting, leaning against the balustrade outside the drawing room.
Unhurriedly, she walked toward him, very aware of the way he watched her as she approached. His gaze appeared dark and intent, ruthlessly focused, and something powerful lurked behind the molten caramel of his eyes.
The touch of that gaze felt delicious and left her faintly breathless.
Nevertheless, she summoned a slight smile and, with it curving her lips, she halted beside him. He straightened from the balustrade. She placed her hands on the stone coping and looked down the lawn.
He settled beside her, idly glancing in the same direction before he brought his gaze to her face. “Anything?”
“He reacted to the valve blowing.” A sudden thought occurred, and she slanted a glance at his face. “Did you arrange that, by any chance?”
He shrugged. “We wanted to test Mayhew—I asked William John to fake something minor.”
She humphed. “Well, Mayhew reacted, but as I wasn’t warned, I only caught the tail end of his response.” She frowned as she replayed the moment in her mind. “There was something in his eyes...but I can’t say what it was. It might have been nothing more than surprise, yet it seemed rather more calculating.” She shook her head. “Other than that, there was absolutely nothing in his behavior to point to—no hint of awareness of the invention and not a single sign he has any designs on gaining entrance to the house.”
She looked up and briefly met Rand’s eyes. “It’s intensely frustrating. On the one hand, I feel ready to declare him nothing more than the artist he purports to be—and I really don’t think there can be any doubt that he truly is that. But whether he also intends to tamper with the invention...as to that, I’m still in two minds.”
She fell silent, frowning out at the lawn.
Rand looked down the green expanse to the oak tree and strengthened his hold on his temper’s reins. “I heard you agree to sit for him tomorrow. What the devil possessed you?”
Somewhat to his own surprise, his tone suggested that, while her agreeing to sit for Mayhew very definitely didn’t meet with his approval, he was prepared to hear that she had some logical and rational reason for doing so.
The glance she threw him, the light in her green eyes, suggested she’d heard and interpreted his words in just that way. A faint smile curved her lips as she proved him right. “If I’m sitting for Mayhew, then he, in turn, will be sitting before me, under my eye the entire time. He will have no opportunity to sneak away anywhere.” She paused, then, meeting his eyes, admitted, “I’m leaning toward accepting that Mayhew is simply an artist, and his appearance here at this time is, indeed, nothing more than coincidence. However, it would be best for us to settle our suspicions of him once and for all, so if he reaches the point of finishing his sketch without doing or saying anything to suggest an interes
t in the invention, I plan on mentioning the workshop and, possibly, the engine, and seeing if he rises to more specific bait.”
He narrowed his eyes on hers. “What if he professes an interest and asks to see it—workshop or invention?”
She held his gaze and lightly shrugged. “I’ll play it by ear.” Her chin firmed. “Regardless, it’s time we knew for certain whether or not Mayhew poses a danger to us. William John will be running the final tests tomorrow, and the exhibition is only days away—if Mayhew is intent on sabotage, we need to flush him out.”
He didn’t disagree and couldn’t argue. He held her gaze steadily. “I’ll be in the woods, as close as I can be. I’ll be watching Mayhew’s every move.”
Her smile bloomed, warm enough to banish all his fears. “Yes, of course. I was counting on that.”
CHAPTER 10
At three o’clock the following afternoon, Felicia was seated at the far end of the south lawn in one of the cane armchairs from the terrace; her back was to the house, and her parasol was raised, artfully shading her face.
Before her, Clive Mayhew sat behind his easel, his entire focus on the sketch he was creating with swift, sure strokes.
Felicia wasn’t even sure he saw her as an animate entity.
It had taken a good few minutes for him to direct her into the correct pose. She’d been sitting with her shoes flat on the grass, her head raised a fraction and tilted to her left, with the parasol riding over her left shoulder for the last thirty minutes.
About them, the summer afternoon stretched, somnolent and lazy. The air was weighted with the smell of freshly cut hay, the sweet scent wafting under the hand of an oh-so-gentle breeze. Insects—bees in the kitchen garden, perhaps—droned in the distance, while nearer to hand, the occasional bird chirped in the thick undergrowth beneath the wood’s trees.
The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh Page 18