by Juliana Gray
“Lord, I’m sorry, darling. What an ass I am. Stupid, blundering ass. Here.” He helped her upright and gave her the handkerchief.
“It’s all right. I wanted it. I wanted you.”
He cast her a rueful look. “Not a child, though, I expect.”
She took him firmly by the ears. “If I should be so fortunate as to bear your child,” she said, locking onto his gaze to make sure he understood, “I’d love it with all my heart. As I love its father.”
He didn’t say anything. The lines of his face, if anything, seemed to harden beneath her hands.
“Do you know what I mean?” she whispered.
He leaned his forehead against hers. “If you mean that you’ve finally come to your proper senses . . .”
“I think I have. I think . . .” Giddiness overtook her brain, at the feeling of his breath floating over her skin, quick and uneven. “I think, today, just now, I’ve finally discovered what I really want, Finn. Who I really am. And it isn’t the all-powerful Marchioness of Morley. It isn’t Lady Anybody.”
He pulled away and dropped to one knee, trousers still unbuttoned, long legs folded awkwardly between the steering column and the leather seat. He snatched her hands. “Marry me, Alexandra. I’ll give away every penny, if you like. Put it in a trust for our children. I’ll live in a damned hovel for you, if only you’ll share it with me.”
“Oh, get up.” She laughed and kissed his hands. “Of course I’ll marry you, though I shall require a good deal more than a hovel. Get up, before you hurt yourself.”
He buried his face in her lap. “Thank God. At last, you damned minx.”
She laughed again and tugged at his hair. “Oh, do get up, darling. Of course I’ll marry you. Darling Finn. I’d rather drive your automobiles, anyway. Poor old Hartley.”
He ducked under the steering tiller and straightened himself. “Poor old Hartley, indeed. He can drive his own damned machines.”
“No, he can’t.”
“Of course he can, the coward.” He buttoned his trousers with swift fingers. “Why shouldn’t he?”
“Because driving makes him sick.”
“Makes him sick?” Finn stopped tucking his shirt and stared at her, incredulous. “Makes him sick? Bloody Christ, Alexandra! You stood in for him because driving makes him sick?”
“Well, yes,” she said. “Yes, I suppose I did.”
He fell against the back of the seat, laughing and gasping. “Oh, Lord! The poor damned fool!” His chest shook.
He was so infectious that she began to laugh, too, thinking of Hartley’s face, stricken and pasty, hanging out the side of the automobile as the steam hissed impatiently from the boiler. “Stop it,” she said, between spasms. “It’s not at all funny, the poor chap. He was . . . He was jolly miserable . . .”
“It’s damned funny! It . . . Oh, Lord.” He went on laughing, holding his hand to his chest, shirt half tucked, until she gave in helplessly next to him.
“There’s one bright spot, though,” he said, when their laughter had died down at last, and they sat companionably together on the leather seat, fingers entwined, her head resting blissfully on his shoulder.
“Oh, aside from our engagement?” She tucked her feet up beneath her and closed her eyes in contentment. A great warm blanket of certainty covered her, from head to toe. She sat, at last, exactly where she was always meant to be: curled up on the seat of a horseless carriage with Phineas Burke.
“Aside from that.” He gave her breast a congratulatory squeeze. “Reflect a moment, darling. I do suspect we’ve earned our place in the annals of automobile history, just now.”
EPILOGUE
Across the room, a rectangle of Roman sunshine burst past the curtains to illuminate, in intricate detail, the lace edging of a corset slung atop the back of a nearby chair.
Alexandra smiled sleepily. It must be noon at least.
An arm lay across her belly, long and heavy, the hand loosely cupping her breast. The owner’s breath stirred the hair at the top of her head. She listened for a moment, to the slow, regular rush of air, the far edge of it just brushing her ear. If she closed her eyes, she could measure the beat of his heart at her back.
My husband, she thought in wonder.
She’d never woken up next to a husband before.
Slowly, so as not to disturb him, she rotated under his arm. Her aching muscles protested at the movement. She settled her face into the nook of his neck and breathed him in, his salty essence, all trace of oil and leather scrubbed away. She lay there a moment, unable to move any farther, and let his warmth simply enfold her. Let the languorous memories of the night stir through her mind, spread bliss through her body.
My husband. The word seemed so different now.
“Good morning, love.” His low voice vibrated the air.
She craned her face upward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He kissed her. “I’m glad you did. It must be frightfully late.”
“We were up late, as I recall.” She curled her hand suggestively around his bottom.
He turned her onto her back and rose above her, the thin rays of sunshine gilding his hair, making it seem more gold than red. Another kiss, this time long and lingering. “Apparently I lost track of time. Did you sleep well?”
“Divinely. The deep sleep of an honest woman. At last.”
He laughed. “I did my best to arrange things quickly. Three nights alone in my bed, with my dear love sleeping a single wall away, were almost more than I could bear.”
His skin hovered over hers, making her nerves jangle with anticipation. She drew her fingers along the taut, smooth skin of his waist. “And am I your dear love?” she asked softly.
Not because she doubted it, but because she wanted to hear the answer again.
“Daft woman. Did I not stand yesterday before the only ordained Anglican in Rome, obtained at considerable negotiation and expense, and pledge my life to you? Have I not spent an entire night doing my manful best to prove my devotion?” He kissed his way to her ear and whispered the words, “You are my own dear love, and always will be.”
“Finn,” she said, kissing his hair, relishing the feel of his weight against her. “Phineas Burke. I do love you.”
“I should bloody well hope so, Mrs. Burke.” He gave her earlobe a little nip. “It’s all been an immense amount of trouble. I daresay I’ve had enough of hasty wedding arrangements to last me a lifetime.”
“Well, that’s the idea, after all.” Mrs. Burke. The sound of it, the simple, commonplace name, sent a delicious shiver down her spine. “I did think Abigail made a lovely bridesmaid, on such short notice. And your nephew . . .” She loved saying the word. She employed it at every opportunity. I suppose I can allow my new nephew a congratulatory kiss, she’d told Wallingford yesterday, after the wedding, as she offered her cheek with an innocent smile.
Finn rolled his eyes. “He kept his scowls to a minimum, at least.” His thumb brushed the tip of her nipple. “Poor chap. She’s leading him a merry dance.”
“Abigail?” Alexandra allowed a wise smile to curve her lips. “She’ll never marry Wallingford.”
“Yes, she will.”
Alexandra lifted her head against the pillow. “Of course she won’t. She has much better sense.”
“You’re biased. He’s a good fellow, really. He’ll have her in the end.” Finn nuzzled her neck. His voice was supremely confident.
“Rubbish. I’ll wager you any odds. I’ll wager my fifty shillings a share . . .”
“No more wagers,” he groaned. “Please.”
His breath tickled her ear. She drew her hands up his back, into his hair, and closed her eyes. His cock, she noticed, was now pressing firmly into her leg, full of husbandly ardor. “Fair enough. No more wagers.”
“Besides, the bet’s unfair. Wallingford will marry her.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Yes, he will.” Finn began to kiss along her colla
rbone, caressing little nibbles. “For one thing, he hasn’t got Giacomo undermining him at every turn.”
“Giacomo. That horrible man. I don’t know what he holds against me.” She sighed. “I’ve never even met him.”
Finn’s face stilled against the hollow of her throat. He looked up. “Yes, you have. You’ve seen him in the workshop, any number of times.”
She examined him curiously. His face was drawn in serious lines. “No, I haven’t. Not once. I’ve heard you speak of him, that’s all.”
He started back. “Oh, rubbish. You must remember. Wiry, dark-haired chap. Scowls all the time. Rather like Wallingford, only shorter and more tyrannical.”
She shook her head. “No. No, you’re mistaken. I’ve never seen him.”
“Oh, really, Alexandra.” He sat up, bare chest dusky in the muted light. “He was right there, that last morning. The morning of the midsummer feast. When you came in, he was just on the point of leaving.”
“Finn, you’re mad. There was no one else there.”
“Alexandra, I was talking to him. You must have heard us!”
She looked at him closely. His eyes lit strangely, penetrating her with that serious gaze of his. “I heard you muttering. But you’re always muttering to yourself.”
He let out a great gust of air and ran a hand through his hair. “What the devil,” he muttered. “What the devil. I swear it, Alexandra. He was there. In the room.”
Her heart began to hammer in her chest. “I’ve heard of him, of course. All the time. He and Signorina Morini . . .”
“Morini.” He latched onto the word. “Morini. The housekeeper. Which one is she?”
“Why, the older one. There’s Francesca and Maria, the blond one who wears her hair with a ribbon. Signorina Morini’s the older one with the headscarf, the one who gave you the message, when I wanted to meet you in the peach orchard.”
“No, that was Francesca. Definitely younger. No headscarf. Deeply disapproving.”
Alexandra’s thoughts began to whirl. “Morini doesn’t disapprove of you. Not at all. She encouraged everything. She and Giacomo kept . . .” She paused and watched Finn’s intent expression. “You’ve never seen her, have you?”
“No.” His voice was a mere whisper.
They stared at each other for a long moment in the quiet room. Alexandra felt a lock of her hair fall down over her shoulders, felt Finn’s hand push it away in an absent gesture.
The castle’s cursed, of course. Isn’t it delicious? Morini told me all about it.
A knock sounded through the open door to the sitting room.
“I’ll get it,” Finn said hoarsely.
He rose from the bed, his beautiful rangy body like a shadow in the dim room. From the armchair he grabbed a dressing robe and threw it around himself in a giant swirl. He tied the sash in swift jerks and strode out of sight.
Alexandra found his pillow, still warm and scented with his skin, and sank her arms around the fine linen weave. She listened to his voice echo from the sitting room, low and resonant, and then heard the outer door close.
“What is it?” she called.
Silence.
She sat upright, still clutching the pillow. “Finn?” she called out, more loudly.
He appeared in the doorway, a bemused smile on his face. A paper dangled from his fingertips.
“What is it?”
“It’s the devil of a good thing you didn’t make that wager with me.” He tossed the note in her direction.
She reached out and picked it up from the tangled sheets. It was folded in half, a few hasty lines scrawled in a hand she didn’t recognize. “Why’s that?”
“Because, my darling.” He sank into the bed behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. His voice hitched, whether with laughter or shock she couldn’t quite tell.
“Because?” she prodded, opening the note with an odd frisson of foreboding.
“Because I’m afraid Wallingford and your sister have eloped.”
A roaring sensation started up in her ears. She dropped her eyes to the paper before her.
My dear fellow, Miss Harewood and I have found ourselves obliged to depart Rome on a matter of great urgency. Shall advise further when I can. In the meantime, assure your wife that Miss Harewood will remain under my full and devoted protection.
She looked up. “Eloped, did you say?”
“Isn’t that what it says?” His tone was innocent.
“No.” She folded the note and turned to fix him with her patented death glare. “No, it does not. What it says, Finn, is that your nephew has run off with my sister.”
His jaw worked. “I’m sure his intentions are entirely honorable.”
She planted her hands on her hips and said nothing, only went on staring without remission.
Many men had been broken by less.
“Hell,” he said. “I’m going to have to go after them, aren’t I?”
She lifted her eyebrows, to make sure her point was driven home.
“All right, then.” He heaved a resigned sigh and reached for his shirt. “It’s your honeymoon.”
HISTORICAL NOTE
Today, we take the supremacy of the internal combustion automobile for granted, but at the turn of the last century only 22 percent of American cars were powered by gasoline engines, and the world land speed record of sixty-six miles per hour was held by the rocket-shaped Jamais Contente, an electric vehicle.
While Delmonico’s automobile exposition is entirely a product of my imagination, the competition among steam, electric, and internal combustion engines formed a genuine and dramatic narrative for the development of the automobile in the 1890s and beyond. Each technology had its advantages and drawbacks, as Finn and Alexandra demonstrate, and it wasn’t until the development of the electric starter in 1912 (eliminating the need for a hand crank) coincided with improved highway infrastructure (encouraging longer journeys) that the internal combustion engine finally roared ahead of its peers in popularity. By the start of the Roaring Twenties, electric and steam automobiles were all but unknown.
For dramatic purposes, I’ve anticipated some technological advancements. Forty miles per hour would have been within reach for a steam vehicle of 1890, but existing lead-acid batteries weren’t capable of powering similar speeds for an electric one. I solved this problem as only a novelist can, by making my hero a genius who invents his own battery, as well as a more aerodynamic frame.
Finally, I couldn’t resist stretching the facts to engineer a cameo appearance by Emil Jellinek, a wealthy entrepreneur and early automobile enthusiast, and his daughter Adrienne Manuela Ramona Jellinek, born in 1889 and known to her family as Mercédès. Herr Jellinek did indeed enter the motor-car business, eventually joining the board of Daimler-Motoren-Gesellschaft in 1900 with an investment of half a million marks and a mandate to build the car of the future.
That car rolled out of the factory in December 1900, and it was named for Jellinek’s own daughter: Mercedes.
Turn the page to read an excerpt from the next book in the trilogy
A GENTLEMAN NEVER TELLS
Coming from Berkley Sensation
in November 2012!
PROLOGUE
London
February 1890
In six years of clandestine service to his Queen and country, Lord Roland Penhallow had never before been summoned to the private library of the Bureau chief himself.
It could mean only one thing: He had inadvertently killed somebody.
Roland couldn’t imagine how. The last caper had tied up as neat as a bow, with hardly any noise and only a very little blood. Even the most perfidious villain can be made to serve some purpose, Sir Edward would intone, pressing one blunt forefinger into the polished mahogany of his Whitehall desk, but a dead body is a nullity. Roland had taken that advice to heart as a new recruit, and had lived by it ever since.
Standing now in Sir Edward’s shabby Mayfair entrance hall, with the tips of his shoes
squared against the chipped marble tiles and his eyes roaming across a series of dyspeptic family portraits, Roland felt the same mild dread he’d known at Eton, when called in by his housemaster to atone for some recent prank. He knit his cold fingers together behind his back and looked upward at the dusky ceiling. Nothing to worry about, he told himself. You can talk your way past anything, Penhallow. Was that a water stain spreading along the far corner? The old fellow really ought to have that looked at; rubbishy things, leaks . . .
“Your lordship.”
Roland started. Sir Edward’s butler stood before him like an avenging penguin. His slick dark hair glinted in the yellow glare of the incandescent lamp on the hall table, and his impenetrable shirtfront held back the advance of his lapels with heroic whiteness. “Your lordship,” he repeated, as he might say your flatulent wolfhound. “Sir Edward will receive you in the library.”
The butler didn’t wait for a response. He turned his immaculate ebony back in Roland’s face and walked on in the direction—presumably—of the library.
“Thanks awfully,” Roland muttered, feeling less like the brother of the Duke of Wallingford and more like a dustman with every passing step.
“Ah! Penhallow!” Sir Edward said, as Roland stalked through the door of the library with as much sangfroid as he could muster. A considerable amount, he judged modestly: He wasn’t the Duke of Wallingford’s brother for nothing.
“Sir Edward.”
The baronet’s sturdy hand waved at the ancient wing chair before the desk. “Sit, sit. That will be all, Pankhurst. Oh, wait. Dash it, Penhallow. Have you dined?”
“Yes, at my club.”
“Excellent. Good. Off you go, then, Pankhurst. We’re not to be disturbed. Sit, I said, Penhallow. Don’t stand on ceremony here, for God’s sake.”
Roland sprawled into the armchair with his usual negligent grace, though the nerves along the back of his neck gave off a warning jangle. Sir Edward Pennington, chairman of Her Majesty’s Bureau of Trade and Maritime Information, did not typically begin meetings in a stream of jocular pleasantries.