by Juliana Gray
“We have strayed, Lady Morley,” said the duke, his words striking her ear in precise notes, “rather far from the point at hand. Are you meeting Burke here tonight?”
“I’m not under any sort of obligation to answer your question. Why don’t you ask him?”
“He’s not here, at present.”
“Isn’t he?” She cast about in confusion. “But I thought you said I was meeting him! Dear me. What a dreadful muddle. Perhaps I got my times mixed up. Or perhaps it was the seventh tree, twelfth row instead of the twelfth tree, seventh row. I burnt his note, you see, in the fireplace.”
Wallingford folded his arms and regarded her steadily. “Well played, madam. I commend you. My friend Burke, I must concede, is an exceptionally lucky man.”
“Mr. Burke is twenty times the man you’ll ever be.” She folded her own arms. “Your Grace.”
“So I perceive,” he said softly. His fingers tapped against the dark wool of his jacket. “What now, then, Lady Morley? We seem to be at an impasse. Do we await his arrival together?”
“Do as you like, Wallingford. I shall continue with my walk.” She started forward, in a direct line from the way she had come, brushing past him with only a foot to spare.
His hand reached out and snared her arm. Up close, his features emerged from shadow, familiar and severely handsome, fixed on hers. “A shame, Lady Morley,” he said, his voice still soft, “to waste this lovely evening.”
She shrugged off his hand. “I don’t intend to, Your Grace. Good evening.” She walked on a pace or two, and then stopped and turned back to him. “Tell me, Wallingford. Why does it mean so damned much to you? Can you not simply let people do as they please? Can you not simply look to your own affairs for happiness?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “No. It appears I cannot.”
* * *
The flagstones beat cool and hard underneath Alexandra’s slippers when, an hour or so later, she slipped down the rear hallway to the little staircase in the back of the library wing.
The castle was quiet. She’d waited until the last sound had died away, until the door to the gardens had ceased opening and closing, until the muffled noises of booted heels on stone had ceased to echo through the hallways. And then she’d waited another half an hour, just to be certain.
Even in her fury, she showed patience.
It might, of course, have been an accident that Wallingford had appeared in the orchard instead of Mr. Burke. Perhaps the housekeeper had muddled the messages, or perhaps Wallingford’s presence had been coincidental. The peach orchard, after all, was rather an obvious place to arrange an assignation; she was probably fortunate that she hadn’t tripped over any number of trysting couples as she made her way through the trees.
On the other hand, Mr. Burke might have been sending her a very clear message.
Regardless of what had actually happened, she refused to rest tonight until she’d reached the bottom of it. Her reasons, of course, were entirely practical. Mr. Burke must be brought to understand that he couldn’t treat the Marchioness of Morley in such a cavalier fashion, and that dodging appointments with ladies smacked of cowardice. More importantly, their earlier kiss must be explained away in rational terms, and firm rules established to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.
No, her eagerness to meet him had nothing at all to do with the happiness that sang through her veins at the sight of him. That was entirely beside the point, and best ignored.
She ignored, too, the delicious thrill that snaked through her body as she crept up the staircase. A clandestine activity naturally produced an excited physical response, in order to heighten her senses against discovery. Nothing at all to do with the anticipation of seeing Mr. Burke in his bedroom, perhaps half-clothed, perhaps even in the bed itself, perhaps with his hair charmingly tousled and his eyes half-lidded and his chest . . .
You are angry, she reminded herself. You have grievances. He failed to keep an appointment.
She reached the top of the stairs and peered around the corner into the darkened hallway, lit only by the glow of the full moon outside. It stood empty, doors closed, shadows settled comfortably into the corners, holy and blessed just this day by Don Pietro and his beautiful young server. Rather sinful of her, presumably, to desecrate the hallway’s state of grace so quickly, but it couldn’t be helped.
The door to Mr. Burke’s room stood almost at the top of the staircase, just a few feet away. She stepped over to stand in front of it and raised her hand for the fateful knock. For an instant she hesitated, as a terrible thought occurred to her: What if she’d been mistaken? What if—God forbid!—it hadn’t been a mechanic’s smock on the shelf? What if it had been one of Wallingford’s white shirts?
Rubbish. She knew a smock from a shirt. Besides, Wallingford’s shirts were always rigidly starched, and the garment on the shelf had carried a distinct droop.
She tapped the door. Solid wood, of course, and quite heavy. Unlikely Mr. Burke could hear such a fainthearted sound, particularly if he were already half-asleep.
She tapped more smartly and listened, ear to the door. Through the wood she could hear, just barely, the sound of the castle as it groaned and shifted its old stones through the night. Comfortable, inanimate noises, and nothing at all like the rustle of a man rising from his bed to answer a midnight knock.
Well, then. There was nothing for it. Alexandra reached one hand toward the old brass handle and pushed.
The door swung open, unlocked, carrying Alexandra with it. She staggered into the room, nearly falling to her knees on the worn braided rug covering the stone floor.
“I beg your pardon,” she whispered, gathering herself, smoothing her dress. “It’s only me. I tried knocking, but . . .”
Her words trailed off. The room—tidy and immaculate, its single trunk sitting at the end of the bed and its books stacked in perfectly leveled order on the shelf, altogether unlike the comfortable disorder of the workshop—was quite empty.
THIRTEEN
Lady Morley appeared in Finn’s workshop doorway just after daybreak, sooner than he’d expected. “Good morning, darling,” he said. “Tea? I’ve just started the water.”
She stood stock-still and stared at him.
“Did you sleep well?” he continued. “I confess I’m a wreck. Spent the entire night here, fitting in the new battery and putting the motor back together.” He ran a hand through his hair and felt the ends stand up stiffly beneath his fingers. “I expect I’m a less than salubrious sight. Do sit down; you’re looking pale.”
Her eyes widened farther. With one hand she clutched at a shawl of light green India cashmere about her shoulders, the first sign of movement since she’d stopped in the doorway. “Pale?” she repeated hoarsely. “Pale? Darling?”
“I tried to find you last night, once bloody old Wallingford took himself off, but you’d quite disappeared, and I was too electrified, so to speak, to go to bed.” An understatement, of course, but how could he describe to her the sense of elation he’d felt at her words to Wallingford last night? How those simple words—Mr. Burke is twenty times the man you’ll ever be, Your Grace—had revealed a shining magnificent truth, her true regard for him, as clearly as if they’d lifted a veil from before his eyes. How they’d charged him with confidence, with determination, with purpose.
He could no more have gone quietly back to his room and slept than he could have gnawed off his own right ear.
Though, just now, she looked at him as if he were doing exactly that. He stepped toward her and took her hand and led her to the chair. “Sit, darling. You’re alarming me.”
“Alarming you? Alarming you?” Her voice rose in pitch, directly up the scale to land in some impressive octave well beyond its usual range. “I went to your room, last night, did you know that? You weren’t there. Darling? I sent word for you to meet me in the orchard, to talk about this . . . this madness . . . and instead . . . Wallingford!” She poured all her meaning into that
one word, spitting it out with unbridled loathing.
“I was there, darling. I heard it all.” He looked down at her tenderly, at her beautiful face, the faint lines of fatigue just visible around her eyes and mouth. Her scent crept into the air around them, soap and lilies and morning air. “It took all I had not to march out from behind that tree and wrest you away, but I thought . . .”
“You thought?”
“I thought you might perhaps not want me to do it.” He reached out with his thumb to brush her cheekbone. “I thought the decision should be left to you. Whether Wallingford should know.”
Her face, already pale, seemed to lose its color altogether, though her eyes glowed brown and enormous. “Should know what?” she breathed.
“About this.” He bent his head to place a gentle kiss on her mouth.
He felt her surprise, felt the slight tentative movement of her lips under his, the pressure of her fingers as her hand slid up his chest to his shoulder, coming to rest on his neck, her thumb just grazing the lobe of his ear.
“This,” she said, breathlessly. She pulled back. “This isn’t right, Mr. Burke.”
“Finn.”
“Mr. Burke. We’ll be found out, and everything will be ruined . . .”
“No, it won’t. Wallingford and his damned silly wagers and tyranny.” He put up his other hand and cupped her face between his palms. “I won’t be bullied away from here, and neither will you.”
“Please. I can’t take any sort of chance. Neither can you, for that matter. You’ve your automobile, and your race.” Her voice faltered. “We can’t . . . how can it go on, if we’re . . . if we . . .”
“Sweetheart. Alexandra.” He stroked his thumbs against her skin and pressed another kiss on her lips. “I put together an entire automobile last night. Have you noticed?” Another kiss. “There she sits, ready for trial.” Against the tip of her chin, the line of her jaw. “This in no way prevents me from working effectively. Quite the opposite.” He drew back and smiled into her blurred eyes. “You inspire me.”
“This isn’t fair. I came here to tell you what a cad you are.”
“A dreadful cad,” he said, kissing her again. “Though twenty times better than Wallingford.”
“A hundred, but it’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” He lifted the shawl from her neck and placed a kiss along the delicate skin of her collarbone.
“That there’s too much to be lost if we’re discovered . . .”
“Nonsense. Wallingford can go to the devil. Send him there myself, if I have to.”
“. . . and too little to be gained otherwise.” Her hands tightened at his neck, and she spoke into his ear with an intense whisper. “I’d be dreadful for you. You’re so marvelously good, so pure and straightforward, and I’m weak and vain and mercenary . . .”
“You’re not,” he murmured, against her neck. “You pretend to be, but you’re not. If you were really mercenary, you’d have seduced Wallingford by now.”
She laughed. “You’ve got bags more money than Wallingford.”
“But he’s got position, grand houses, a title. You’d want that, if you were really ambitious, and not just pretending. Besides, you’ve a fortune of your own.”
She began to speak, but he lifted his finger and held it gently against her mouth. Her eyes squeezed shut, blocking him out.
He spoke in a low voice. “When I saw you approaching last night, I thought at first you were meeting him, that the maid had confused her messages. And then I heard you speak to him, I heard you reject him—him, the Duke of Wallingford—” He swallowed. “And I realized what an idiot I’d been, that I’d read you all wrong, that I’d allowed myself to believe what everybody else does, because it was the easiest thing. The most convenient thing.”
“They’re right,” she said, eyes still closed. “You’re wrong, and they’re right. You’ve no idea . . .”
Tenderness filled him. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against her brow. “I’m an idiot with women, generally. Most awkward fellow in the room. I don’t understand the first thing about this business of wooing . . .”
“Oh, God, Finn . . .” Her forehead dropped into the hollow of his throat. She nestled there, like a bird, the quick drumbeat of her heart striking madly into his ribs.
“But I shall do my best, darling. Proud, stubborn girl. I’ll wear you down, bit by bit. Seduce you with tea and oily smocks and engines and trips to Rome for motor races. With everything I have.” He bent his words into her ear. “Because you’re worth it.”
She stilled against him. Her hair felt soft and feathery under his jaw, making him want to pull out all her hairpins and toss them back on the floor and spread the gleaming strands about her shoulders. He brought his arms down to her waist and held her, absorbing the warm, compact feel of her, the way her body fit neatly into his.
She cleared her throat at last. “I begin to find all this talk of Phineas Burke’s genius rather hard to credit,” she said, in a voice that was remarkably clear, considering she spoke into his shirt collar. She leaned back and eyed him. “Because I doubt I’ve heard anything so perfectly idiotic in all my life.”
He leaned back his head and burst out laughing. “Oh, you splendid thing,” he said. He slid his arms away from her waist and down her arms to her hands, and kissed each one. “Lady Morley. Tell me, have you ever driven an automobile?”
* * *
What if somebody sees us?” Alexandra hissed. She clutched the cold metal of the steering tiller as if it were a life buoy and stared ahead, her eyes unblinking and her back ramrod straight.
“Nobody will see us. Far too early,” came Finn’s voice, calm and steady behind her, and only slightly breathless from the effort of pushing the automobile through the tender spring grass toward the cart track leading to the village.
“But what if someone’s up already?”
“You’re assisting me in a motor trial. We’re hardly locked in an embrace, you perceive. Could you kindly remove your foot from the brake lever, my dear?”
She glanced downward. “Is that the brake? I beg your pardon.” She shifted her foot, and the automobile lurched forward at renewed speed.
The abrupt movement shook loose the question she’d pushed to the back of her brain all morning long: What the devil was she doing, really?
What was she doing, driving an automobile through the meadow grass with Phineas Burke?
She’d told herself, at the beginning, that she’d sought him out to discover information about horseless carriages. Not outright espionage, perhaps, nothing so brutal, but something like it. Some idea, some invention that might save the Manchester Machine Works, might save her future and Abigail’s, without doing Finn any real harm. Might regain for her the life she’d lost, the person she’d been.
But here she was, her lips still tingling from his kisses, her senses tracing every movement of his body with aching precision, without so much as a stolen nut bolt to show for it. And why? Hartley’s automobiles were steam powered, if she remembered correctly, while Finn’s was electric: She could learn nothing useful, nothing but theory.
And she had a feeling, a dreadful, sick feeling, that she’d known this all along. That her vague schemes had been a mere excuse, a useful fiction to disguise the real attraction of the little workshop in the olive trees: Finn himself.
If only she had the will to resist him. If only she could look at his tall, loose-limbed body, hear his deep, expressive voice telling her God only knew what thrilling things, without melting into a puddle at his feet. Puddles were weak. Puddles were transparent, with all their secrets and imperfections clearly visible to observers standing above them.
Puddles could be stepped on and splashed through and ruined.
But he’s not like that, she told herself. Phineas Burke was not a puddle-stomper, not by any stretch. Might she not, just for a short while, just to satisfy her curiosity . . . ?
No. She must not. She would
not. She must return to her original purpose, to find a way to make that damned Manchester Machine Works profitable, if she were ever to return to London and her old life, if she were ever to give Abigail a chance at the future that was her birthright. If Phineas Burke’s workshop held no useful information for her, if she hadn’t the stomach or the knowledge for the task, then she must stop all this dalliance at once, before she committed the unforgivable act of falling in love.
Unless her reflexes had spoken true yesterday, in Finn’s wooden cabinet. Unless—oh God!—she had fallen in love already.
It must end now. Not another kiss. Not another . . .
“Darling, the tree!”
Her eyes flew open. “Christ!” she exclaimed, turning the tiller just in time to avoid the slender trunk of a young olive tree.
The automobile rolled to a stop. She didn’t dare turn around.
“Weren’t you looking?” he asked.
“I had . . . there was . . . a bit of dust. In my eye. Sorry. All clear now. Carry on.”
A surge of breeze struck the back of her neck, or perhaps it was his exasperated sigh. “You do realize how long it takes to repair an automobile in this wilderness, don’t you? No spare parts for miles. No skilled mechanics.”
“I don’t mean to criticize, but perhaps you ought to have considered that before you took out a year’s lease on a remote castle.”
“I considered it,” he said evenly, “but I decided that the advantage of privacy outweighed the risks. I planned every detail, with parts and supplies and a dynamo—a dynamo, Alexandra, carried by steamship and its own damned railway car—for electric power to charge the battery. I failed, however, to anticipate the introduction of an unpredictable new variable.”
“Unpredictable variable?”
“You.” He said it with rather excessive terseness.
“Oh, of course.” She fingered the tiller and examined her gloves. “Well, you did invite me to drive, after all.”
He sighed again. “So I did. In the very madness of my passion.” He went silent a moment, apparently considering the matter, and then said, “Very well. Keep your eyes open, then, if you please.”