by Delphine
ALSO BY DELPHINE
WRITING AS
LYDIA STORM
Moonlight On Diamonds
Cleopatra's Secret: Keepers of the Light
Praise for Lydia Storm
“Storm has written a book brimming with twists and turns.”
– Romantic Times Book Reviews
"Embrace of the Vampire plays the vampire/victim dynamic to the hilt and packs a substantial erotic punch!"
– Entertainment Weekly
“This is a book you will not be able to put down.”
– You Gotta Read Reviews
“Moonlight on Diamonds is a pleasure to read, with layers of mystery that will keep you guessing to the end.”
– Long and Short Reviews
“Anyone who loves a good thriller involving jewel thieves and romance would LOVE this book.”
– Between the Lines
“Moonlight on Diamonds was like an interactive game of Clue…full of surprises all around.”
– Romance Junkies
“If you like humorous characters, impossible odds, and a twisted plot, you will find lots to love in Moonlight on Diamonds!”
– Manic Readers
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Clockwork Countess
COPYRIGHT 2012 by Nicole Coady
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Thomas A. Padovan
Baby's First Shakespeare
11 Mcmaster Street
Ballston Spa, NY 12020
Publishing History
First Edition, 2012
ISBN: 978-0-9847957-2-7
Published in the United States of America
Clockwork Countess
Delphine
CHAPTER ONE
Soft billows of steam swirled around Rowan as she stepped off the train onto the lonely platform. The train let out an earsplitting screech into the dark country air as its engines churned back to life and the great iron machine chugged out of the station. Rowan clutched her threadbare satchel to her, holding the few possessions she refused to be parted with. The Countess’s letter had indicated all was to be provided for her upon Rowan’s arrival at Heartwycke Park. It had not taken much penetration to understand that anything she deemed to bring with her would be considered far too shabby for what they intended.
Rowan peered through the wisps of gray as the steam began to clear. Her eyes were drawn to the silhouette of a man who stood staring at her from the entrance to the deserted platform. Goose bumps prickled her skin under the intensity of his gaze. She glanced nervously at the departing train and then back at the tall figure as he stepped forward into the glow of the gas lamps.
He was a striking figure, dressed in the dark cloak and well-tailored clothes of a gentleman. Grasped in one hand he carried a silver-headed walking stick baring the strange features of a wide-eyed owl. His tousled hair fell across his brow and the black smoldering eyes of a gypsy prince sent a shiver of anticipation through her.
Rowan struggled to take a deep breath and compose herself as he approached but her stays were laced too tightly. All she could do was gulp and tuck a lock of flaming red curls more firmly beneath her somber mourning bonnet.
“You are Miss Brompton?” he enquired politely.
She nodded. “Yes, you must be from Heartwycke Park?”
He gave her an elegant bow. “I am your second cousin, Roderick Heartwycke. We are very pleased you have agreed to come to us now in your…” he paused for a moment and his formality eased. “I’m truly sorry to hear of your father’s passing. I lost my own father not so long ago and I know how difficult it is.”
Moved by the sincerity of his expression and the kindness of his voice, Rowan blinked back tears. “Thank you, Mr. Heartwycke.”
“You must call me Roderick,” he insisted, “as we are distantly related.”
“Yes, of course. I’m so used to being addressed as Rowan anyway. At the theater people are not so formal as in Society.”
“I can imagine.”
She looked up sharply, ready to do battle at any perceived insult, but she saw only the same kind eyes looking down at her. For a moment she just stood there, held by his gaze. It had been such a long time since anyone but her father had looked at her with anything like compassion or spoken a sympathetic word. So long since anyone had seemed even remotely like a friend. To her horror, his considerate manner made her tear up even more and she swallowed hard to keep down a sob. Grateful for the veil that shielded her features, she quickly glanced away and fiddled with her satchel.
“I’ll see to your trunks and we’ll be on our way then.” Roderick offered his arm to guide her from the station.
She bit her lip. “This is all I have.”
For the first time he smiled and his face transformed from a brooding mask to the dazzling brightness of an angel. “Well, that will make lighter work for my coachman. Between you and me, Meriwether is getting older now. I’ve begged the man to retire but he won’t hear of it. Consequently, I end up hauling everything about myself to spare his back!”
Rowan smiled too. “That’s very kind of you to consider your servants. Far too few people do, you know. But don’t you have footmen to assist you?”
His face darkened again as they reached the coach, the family crest of that strange silver owl emblazoned upon the glossy black exterior. “Our staff have much to endure at Heartwycke, and as we crave privacy, we keep household retainers to a minimum.” His frown deepened as he turned to her. “Heartwycke is not a cheerful place. It is…" he paused and seemed to think better of what he had been about to say. "At any rate, I imagine you will not be there for long. By this summer you will be out of mourning and off to London for the Season. You’ll make some sort of suitable match I imagine and be done with us.”
“Surely, it can’t be as bad as all that?” she said with a mock smile, attempting to make light of his gloomy description.
But his face settled into a grim line and a haunted expression flickered in the depths of his eyes. “You may judge for yourself.”
He held out his hand and she placed hers in his firm grasp. Even through her glove she could sense the warmth of him as he held her securely in balance while she negotiated the steps into the coach. His grip was so comforting and solid, she was reluctant to let go, but feeling foolish, she quickly released him and sank back into the luxury of midnight blue cushions.
As he climbed in after her, the warm light of the coach’s running lamps flickered across his face and she was struck again by his dramatic looks. He could earn a fortune on the West End stage as a matinee idol, she mused. What a Hamlet he would make! But then that only brought back memories of her father and the great acclaim he had garnered before his own too brief candle flickered out. She turned towards the window to hide her emotions as Roderick settled across from her.
With the crack of his whip, old Meriwether sent the storm gray stallions cantering and the coach swayed along the cobbled streets of the sleepy village.
“You’re shivering.” His voice was like deep velvet in the darkness and she was acutely aware of the low masculine tones, the unmistakable good breeding of aristocracy in his voice. Though her father had insisted she study with his vocal coach, and everyone at the theater swore she spoke with the perfect cadence of a lad
y of the ton, she felt she had never quite lost the lilt of her native Ireland.
“I am quite alright,” she insisted.
“Don’t be silly,” he unfolded a thick fur-lined blanket. “It gets beastly cold in the country this time of year.” He moved to sit at her side, draping the cozy blanket carefully across her shoulders, his warm fingers tucking her in, protecting her from the chill mists rising from the damp earth outside.
She felt the gentle, firm pressure of his hands through the silky fur, his face was shrouded in shadow, but the force of his presence so close to her in the dark enclosed space made her pulse race. She could feel his strong thigh pressed against her own as he leaned in to arrange the blanket more securely. She felt herself instinctively angling closer to his warmth, to his magnetism that seemed to draw her in. His hands went quiet on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes through the black tulle of her veil. The carriage rocked them back and forth as they sat staring at one another, unable to break away.
Slowly, as if it had a will of its own, Rowena’s hand reached up to pull back her veil and she was exposed to the full heat of the yearning kindling in his gypsy eyes.
Her breath suspended. Time slowed as the dark wood whirred past and the sound of the horse’s hooves clattering on the road seemed like the rhythmical round of an eternal clock.
Rowan hardly understood what was happening, as drawn inevitably to one another as if by some prearranged ordainment, their lips brushed softly in the darkness. She inhaled the scent of him––horses, pine boughs and a shade of bergamot soap as he kissed her again, the tentative warmth of his lips sending tingles of pleasure all the way to the tips of her toes. She leaned into him, wanting more of this lovely heady sensation.
The swaying of the carriage rocked them gently together as his embrace tightened around her, his lips pressing more urgently against hers. Her mouth opened under his, like a rose blooming in the sunlight, opening to the warmth of his tenderness, the ardent longing that called to her as their kiss deepened into something luxurious and blissful, his tongue awakening hers as they brushed together. Sweet and warm as melted caramel.
With a deep groan, his hands encircled her waist and he pulled her against him, running his palms up the length of her back to cup her head firmly as his kisses strayed from her lips to the tender flesh of her throat.
Her eyes fluttered back at the trail of fireworks his kisses sparked across her skin. When he reached the collar of her high-necked mourning dress, Roderick paused, but she found herself wantonly pressing her taut breasts against him, hungry for something she did not understand.
His breath came in ragged pants as he claimed her sweet lips again, kissing her with a passion that erased all reason. She clung against him, her blood pumping in her ears, her body filling up with heat. She felt his fingers roaming down the back of her gown, unhooking the little fastenings that held her strict black dress in place. Suddenly her bodice felt like a prison she couldn’t escape quickly enough, as he slid her gown down her white shoulders to her waist exposing the fullness of her aching breasts beneath the barest whisper of her muslin chemise.
Rowan sucked in her breath as his hand cupped her generous flesh, his thumbs circling the tips of her nipples through the thin muslin until she cried out in pleasure and felt a warm tingling in her sex, a rising heat that longed for more. Moved purely by instinct, she leaned in closer, straddling him, so she could feel the hard bulge of his arousal even through his trousers and the layers of her petticoats.
She felt his strong hands encircling her corseted waist, holding her slightly away from his body, his breath coming in short ragged bursts as he looked up at her with a fire raging in his eyes. “We shouldn’t be doing this…”
But she couldn’t bear for him to stop. Every primal urge in her screamed out for his heat and his touch as she arched her back, exposing the full ripeness of her breasts to his view, the stays of her corset only accentuating the heavy fullness of her creamy flesh beneath the almost transparent chemise.
Cursing, he pulled the muslin from her breasts so he had full view of her rosy nipples and brought his mouth tantalizingly close to her skin. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her exposed flesh and it only made her hunger for the feel of his mouth, his tongue.
She grasped at her own breasts, squeezing them and offering her body up to his lips. “Please…” she whimpered, pulling his head closer, running her fingers though his soft dark hair. He responded with the tip of his tongue, teasing at her taut nipple until the throbbing ache between her legs was unbearable. She brushed her tingling flesh against the bulge in his breeches and his eyes shot open.
“Rowena, no...” but his hand was cupping her generous breast, his tongue swirling circles around her rigid nipples as she brushed her aching body against the firm bulge nudging at her sex in a way that drove her completely wild.
“Dear God…” he moaned, his mouth nuzzling the swell of her soft body as his hands slid up under her petticoats to caress the smooth skin of her calf and then up the inside of her thighs, his fingers setting off a tremor of pleasure through her whole body.
She moaned, pushing herself more fervently against him, the friction of his hardness against her damp sex, even through the layers of petticoats and her bloomers, was maddening. He was kissing her again, hot and sweet, one hand pinching almost painfully at her swollen breast, the other moving farther up the inside of her thigh as she swayed against his arousal. Something was building in her, something wild and unstoppable. She thrust urgently against him when the carriage came to a clattering halt.
“We have reached the gates, sir,” the coachman called out.
Roderick held her steady, forcing her to stop. She felt a quiver of unsatisfied desire wrack her womb even as her mind began to clear. She pulled back blinking, her breath coming shallow and fast against the constricting corset. Dazed, she looked down at Roderick. In the shadows of the carriage it was difficult to read his expression.
Gently, but decisively, he lifted her from his lap and placed her on the velvet cushions. “Forgive me, this was…please forgive me.” She could hear the horror in his voice as he brushed past her, and before she could say anything, he threw open the door and stepped out into the woodland night.
Still half drugged with passion, Rowan pulled up her chemise and did her best to refasten the back of her dress, something she had become quite adept at since she had not enjoyed the services of a maid for some time. Impatiently pulling her disheveled hair back into place, she poked her head out the coach window. The cold night air was like a slap in the face, bringing her back to her senses.
Dear God, what had she been thinking behaving in such a wanton manner? They had barely said hello before she did everything in her power to manifest her fear that the Heartwyckes would think her nothing more than a common burlesque girl, with the poor breeding and morals to go along with the profession. She put her hands to her burning cheeks, mortified at what she had done.
But the sound of metal grating and cogs churning arrested her attention. Looking up, she dared to open the coach door and lean out further to see what could possibly be creating such a racket in the middle of the dark forest road.
Before them stood the medieval stone walls of Heartwycke, marking the boundaries of the estate’s parkland, but the gate through which they must pass was like nothing she had ever seen before. An elaborate construction of metal cogs and springs, like the inside of a monstrous clock, mechanized into the twisted metal emblem of a silver owl, churned and spun and whirred as Roderick inserted his silver-heading walking stick into the keyhole, setting the gate in motion.
Rowan jumped as the clockwork owl gave a rusty screech and the cogs and wheels slit apart, making way for them to pass.
Roderick turned back to the coach, and with a stony expression, stepped inside, taking his seat at the far end of the interior.
“I’ve never seen anything like that in my life!” Rowan exclaimed, turning her head to stare o
ut the window as the coach passed through the clockwork owl’s gate. “Where on earth did it come from?”
“I built it,” said Roderick.
“You?” She stared at him in astonishment. “How on earth did you know how to construct such a thing?”
“I was a fledgling professor of mechanical science at Oxford before…” he turned away and seemed intent on studying the rows of skeletal winter trees out the window as they flew by. “At any rate, we prefer our privacy at Heartwycke and the gate ensures that. No one without a key can enter the park.”
They rode on in tense silence as the coach jostled them along the rutted parkland drive.
“Do you continue to maintain an interest in science?” she asked finally, trying to relieve some of the awkwardness between them.
“No,” said Roderick, his face still turned away from her.
Feeling completely at a loss, Rowan shrank back into the cushions for the remainder of the ride until the coach turned a corner and Heartwycke Manor came into view.
The imposing medieval hall rose up from the evening mist crawling along the base of the weathered stone towers. The arched leaded windows glowed with gaslight, revealing a glimpse of wide vaulted galleries and thick jewel-toned drapes. The soft moon-glow glimmered against the crawling ivy which clung to the ancient manor house.
Rowan had always known her mother’s girlhood home was a grand estate but Heartwycke Park seemed more like a castle to her than anything else.
“You have a tower,” she exclaimed, unable to keep a bit of excitement from her voice. “How romantic!”
“We don’t use those rooms anymore. That wing of Heartwycke has been locked up.”
Before she could ask anymore, the coach came to a stop and Roderick sprung out, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll collect you in a moment after I’ve assisted Meriwether with the horses.”