Beauty and the Clockwork Beast

by Nancy Allen Campbell

  Mr. Grafton glanced up from his mixing bowl. “I gather they are practicing for the upcoming festivities at Charlesworth House. Mr. Jonathan says he has two left feet.”

  Lucy smiled and made her way to her room, where she shrugged out of her cloak and gloves. She straightened her clothing before the vanity and pinned a few errant curls back into place. Looking around the room, Lucy furrowed her brow. Marie could certainly come and go as she pleased; there was no help for that. Still, Lucy locked the door behind her and pocketed the key.

  She quickly made her way to the south wing. It wasn’t long before she heard the strains of music floating down the hallway, and she paused at the ballroom’s large, arched double doorway. Kate was moving in time to the music with her husband, who seemed to be doing well enough despite a few fumbles.

  Lucy felt her throat tighten with both joy and a measure of fear as she watched her cousin, graceful and beautiful, in the arms of the man she loved. There was something amiss in the big house, something that threatened Kate’s future. Lucy knew that nothing would compel her to leave Blackwell Manor until she was certain Kate was safe.

  Lucy glanced left, down the dark hallway to the large pair of black doors in the distance that led to his lordship’s chambers. What he did in there, Lucy couldn’t begin to imagine. Probably boiled toads and kept small animals in cages. He must be out of the manor; Lucy didn’t imagine Jonathan and Kate would have been willing to make use of the ballroom otherwise.

  “Lucy!” Kate called from inside the room and motioned with her head. Jonathan stumbled and nearly took his wife to the floor. Kate laughed and patted Jonathan’s face as he stammered his apologies and eventually cast Lucy a rueful smile.

  “Now you see why my practice is imperative,” he said as Lucy entered the room. “I have never been one for dancing, and I do not wish to embarrass my poor wife. Or wound her in the process.”

  Kate crossed to the Victrola and stopped the music. The last strains echoed through the cavernous room. A chandelier of immense proportions hung suspended from the ceiling on a copper chain that was the circumference of Lucy’s waist. On the far end of the room was a stage for musicians and large windows that overlooked the back of the property. A set of glass French doors led to a large balcony that circled the perimeter outside. Lucy imagined the place as it must have looked in its prime—all aglitter with guests, food and drink, and comfortable seating out on the balcony where lovers could look at the stars on a warm summer night.

  What remained now was a cold shell. The room was still beautiful, with its ornate décor and appointments, but it was in need of a good dusting, and the frescoes on the walls would benefit from a light refreshing. Lucy examined the whole of it with a critical eye, unconsciously making a mental list of everything that needed to be done.

  “You’re fixing this room, are you not?” Kate asked as she approached.

  “Am I so transparent?”

  “Very.”

  Jonathan followed Lucy’s gaze and nodded. “It is in sore need of some repair. When my mother died, my father locked it up, and we haven’t hosted a ball here since. Every now and again we would sneak in as children, but unfortunately, nobody ever sees it these days.”

  Lucy placed a hand on his arm. “Oh, Jonathan, it is a lovely room. What a wonderful thing it would be to see it used to its full potential.” She smiled. “I am envious. How I would love to have a ballroom this grand at home.”

  Kate nodded. “Lucy is ever so organized. She throws the most amazing gatherings.”

  “‘Bossy’ is probably a more apt description than ‘organized,’” Lucy said. “And entirely too much for my own good. But I’ve interrupted you.” She made her way to the Victrola. “You two keep dancing. I’ll start the music again.”

  Jonathan pulled Kate back into his arms, and she smiled at something he said. Lucy felt her heart melting. Fighting a sigh that would have been both melodramatic and entirely nauseating, Lucy started up the record player and placed the needle upon the spinning disc. The sweet strains of a waltz again filled the air, and Lucy folded her arms, unconsciously swaying to the hypnotic rhythm as she watched the young couple.

  She wanted to freeze the moment. Everything was perfect; Kate was well and dancing with her handsome prince. Time would continue its forward march, however, and it was futile to wish otherwise. Life would probably have been much simpler had Jonathan been a farmer.

  The moment was spoiled as movement at the double doors caught her eye, and her heart tripped at the sight of Miles Blake, Lord of Blackwell, looking none too pleased.

  Miles stopped at the open doorway and took in the scene in stunned anger. He couldn’t have been clearer in his instructions that nobody was to enter the south wing without his express permission.

  Though as he watched Jonathan and Kate spinning around the room, he had to admit that his brother’s skills on the dance floor seemed to be improving. Jonathan had never been one for dancing or anything else that required any degree of coordination.

  He looked to the source of the music only to see Miss Pickett watching him as though he were the one intruding instead of them. The woman was beautiful, even in her anger. She likely had her share of suitors. Why she hadn’t been snapped up before now was a mystery he didn’t care to contemplate. She was probably impossibly choosy. Demanding. There was an air about her that any man might find impossible to match.

  Miles considered marching over to the Victrola and scratching the blazes out of the record, just to make a point, when Jonathan spied him and his face lit up.

  “Miles! You must join us!” Jonathan looked at Lucy, and Miles saw the plan the instant it formulated in his brother’s head. “Lucy needs a partner!”

  Miles glanced at the woman in question.

  Her smile was tight. “Oh, no, I’ll just watch. I do not require practice.”

  “You are already so well accomplished, then?” Miles said, unable to help himself.

  Her chin went up a notch, and he saw that Kate and Jonathan had slowed. Did Kate think he would tear down her cousin in front of witnesses?

  “Actually, I am, my lord,” Lucy said. “Very well accomplished.”

  “Then you shall have no problem taking a spin about the room.” He approached her slowly, hands in his pockets, figuring he looked as unthreatening as he ever would. When her eyes widened slightly, he was forced to revise his assumption, and he steeled himself for the repulsed look that was sure to follow.

  Rather than the stammering, horrified refusal he expected to see in her pretty features, her eyes narrowed.

  Miles hid his reluctant surge of approval with a smirk. He was gratified that she had to look up to maintain eye contact with him. She deserved it, after all. Her arrival had disrupted his peace of mind, and he didn’t feel an ounce of remorse over his lack of propriety as he inched closer.

  “Are you asking me to dance, my lord? Because I have yet to hear it phrased as a polite question. After all, you’ve no idea if my dance card is already full.”

  Was she flirting with him? He studied her face, struggling to fit her into an acceptable mold. Women did not dance with the Beast of Blackwell Manor, not willingly, not unless they were prodded by their mothers who sought to trap him into an eventual proposal. And those kind were easily discernible—the wily ones were all things polite and coy, but they always held part of themselves back, as if the task at hand were unpleasant but necessary. And the fear was always visible. Always. Even when they tried to hide it.

  Miss Pickett held his gaze with a certain amount of anger, but no guile. She had money, he sensed she made her own status, and she needed nothing from him. Feeling an inexplicable and utterly irrational urge to shock her, he noted her bare hands and stripped his gloves from his fingers, one by one, tossing them on the floor near the Victrola. He extended his hand to her, wordless, and waited.

  He didn’t
take kindly to rejection—it was why he never willingly extended himself. It didn’t matter that Jonathan and Kate were the only two witnesses; if she openly spurned him, he would feel it. These days, he didn’t like feeling much of anything, and the fact that she held such power over the moment did not sit well with him.

  Without glancing down even once at his hand, she placed her own in it, and he breathed an inner sigh of relief. Still no sign of fear on her face, no reluctance, just . . . a challenge. Very well. He was good at challenges.

  Lucy fought to keep her eyes from drifting shut at the sensation of his hand upon the small of her back. She had known from the moment he approached that she would dance with him. This close, he smelled of something wonderful, something she couldn’t define, something that made her want to nuzzle her nose against his neck, kiss away the scar.

  With a fair amount of alarm, she squelched the idea and focused on keeping her footing. She hadn’t lied—she was a very good dancer. She was also fairly accomplished at the pianoforte, the harp, and the violin. She sewed in beautiful, neat stitches and was quite exceptional with a drawing pen and sketchbook. She had been gifted with an intelligent brain and a quick wit. She conversed well with people from all walks of life and could play a mean game of croquet.

  What Lucy had never experienced, however, was a prolonged exchange with a man of substance, one whose personality seemed a match for her own. Boys, she handled well enough. She flirted easily and could entertain their interests on a surface level. But she had yet to feel the thrill of a genuine challenge from a man who played at a deeper and much more dangerous game.

  This man was not a boy.

  And, oh dear. His lordship was addling her brain. His strong hand at her back—his other completely enfolding her own—and his nearness had her scrambling for something to say. Lucy never lacked for something to say.

  She felt his gaze on her face as they stepped neatly together around the room. He was an exceptional dancer, which caught her by surprise. For someone so big, she would have thought he would be clumsy, or at least tentative. But he led her with sure movements, the slightest pressure of his hand on her back here, a gentle pull to the left there. There was no hesitation, no sense of inadequacy, no stammering compliments about her beauty or the daring honor of her brother, who had voluntarily fought for Queen and country.

  She felt flushed and looked beyond his shoulder, which was a feat in itself as he stood a good head and a half taller than she. There was no way on earth she would have backed down from his inelegant request for a dance, but once in the midst of it, she wondered if she would be the one to instigate inane chatter.

  Maintaining the same rhythm, he cut the length of his strides by half and gently, subtly, pulled her body closer to his. He kept up with the pressure until she finally looked at his face, her brows raised high.

  “Perhaps you are unaccustomed to behaving with propriety.” She was trying for tart but afraid it came out rather breathless instead.

  “I behave with propriety when it suits me.” His reply was a deep ­rumble, which she felt as much as heard.

  “You are exempt from the rules by which the rest of us must live, then.”

  “Have you not heard? I am an earl.”

  Arthur Charlesworth had mentioned that his lordship hadn’t wanted the earldom, and hearing the bitter tone in his voice now, she wondered if it was true. For one who had never wanted the position, Miles Blake wore it extremely well.

  She forced a smile. “Yes, and the last thing I heard on the matter was that even earls are not above the Queen, who behaves with decorum herself.”

  He gave her a look she interpreted to mean he had a multitude of things he’d like to say on the matter, but he finally settled for what she defined as a jaded half smile. “And do you still have the same impression you expressed the first night you intruded upon my solitude in the library?”

  She cast her memory back to that night. What had she said? Her confusion must have shown on her face.

  “You said my scar wasn’t nearly as fearsome as you’d heard. Or something along those lines.”

  Oh, mercy. “I was in a bit of a state.”

  “Couldn’t sleep, you said.”

  “Yes. Nocturnal visits from the Great Beyond have that effect on me, I’m afraid.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw as he appeared to be searching for the right thing to say. She fought an absurd urge to run her finger along his jawline and down his throat along the white path of his scar. For the love of heaven, what was wrong with her?

  “Miss Pickett,” he finally said, looking away, “I must apologize—”

  She shook her head. “You are indeed an earl, but I hardly expect you to be able to control the otherworld.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I am not . . . content . . . with things I cannot control.”

  “I don’t imagine you are.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up in the first genuine almost-smile she’d seen on him. She cocked a brow at him and gave him an almost-smile of her own. He slowed, again, sobering, his eyes holding hers. She swallowed and unconsciously bit her lower lip before sternly chastising herself for behaving like a child.

  His gaze flickered to her lip and then back up to her eyes, the hand holding hers tightening slightly. She felt the fingers of his hand on her back splaying, pulling her closer until the space between them was reduced to scant inches.

  Kate laughed at something Jonathan said, and Blackwell blinked, the spell broken. He resumed their former cadence, but his eyes focused on nothing in the room but her. Lucy felt heat suffusing her face, and her left hand tightened reflexively on his shoulder.

  So this was what it was like.

  She had never understood how an all-consuming passion could sweep and overrule all sense of wisdom and rationale. The most baffling part was that she didn’t even like the man. He was rude and heavy-handed. Surly and defensive.

  And he smelled divine. As if he sensed the direction of her thoughts, he lightly traced the side of her hand and forefinger with his thumb before pulling their extended arms fractionally closer. Almost as though they were a well-oiled machine that he tightened by small degrees.

  She’d seen men admire her before. But never like this. Never with such focus, as if he wanted to devour her whole. Drawing a shaky breath, she said, “You Blakes are an intense lot, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea,” he murmured. “You really are not afraid of me, are you.”

  “Should I be?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, you definitely should be.”

  Her corset suddenly felt too tight, and she resisted the urge to pull her hand free and fan herself with it. She opened her mouth to reply, to attempt something light and flirtatious, and found she couldn’t form a single, coherent thought. As she looked at his ice-blue eyes, they seemed to darken slightly, the pupils widening. He broke the gaze with what sounded like a muttered curse. He closed his eyes briefly, opening them to focus instead on something over her head.

  The last strains of the waltz faded, and they stopped dancing. He slowly relinquished his hold of her, and she immediately felt the loss of heat. Still holding her right hand, he bowed over it and then straightened. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Pickett.”

  She dipped instinctively into a curtsey, caught by surprise at his sudden show of manners. “A pleasure, my lord.”

  A rustle at the door drew her attention, and she removed her hand from his as Arthur and Candice entered, laughing with each other and looking impossibly beautiful. Lucy heard a slight sound from his ­lordship—disgust? a long-suffering sigh?—and flicked her eyes to his face only to see it was as impassive as ever. She was learning that he kept his emotions well in check. Unless he caught someone running around his house in the middle of the night, that is.

  She turned her attention back to the siblings. Art
hur approached with a smile as Candice looked at Kate with her brows pinched in a slight frown. “Kate,” Candice said as she reached the pair. “You look lovely, as always, but tired, perhaps? Sit on the divan by the windows while I continue your tutoring of my cousin, who has regrettably always had two left feet.”

  Kate laughed at Jonathan’s wounded expression, and Lucy felt a stab of guilt that she hadn’t noticed Kate’s weariness. Arthur tucked Kate’s arm in his. “Allow me,” he said with a glance and a smile at Lucy.

  Arthur gently escorted Kate to the windows overlooking the back of the estate and settled her comfortably on the divan with murmured comments Lucy couldn’t hear, but Kate smiled at the man and they shared a laugh.

  “Miles, do start the music again, won’t you?” Candice called as she playfully slapped Jonathan on the shoulder and positioned his arm at her waist. “You will be dancing with your new bride before a multitude of guests in but a few weeks’ time. You wish to embarrass her?” she said to her cousin. “Besides, it shall be as when we were young. It will evoke pleasant memories.”

  Blackwell put his hands in his pockets and remained rooted to the spot beside Lucy. “Pleasant for whom?” the earl muttered, and Lucy glanced up at him to see his jaw visibly clench.

  It was as Lucy had suspected—there might have been tolerance, but no deeply held affection between the cousins. When Miles made no move to start the Victrola again, Lucy positioned the needle at the beginning of the spinning record. As the music sounded through the room, Arthur left Kate and crossed to Lucy, where he sketched a deep bow and extended his hand.

  “I must dance with the most beautiful woman in all of England,” he murmured, and Lucy unconsciously glanced at Lord Blackwell’s stony visage before placing her hand in Arthur’s.

  They quickly settled into a comfortable rhythm, and Lucy found that Arthur was every bit as graceful as his lordship. She knew, however, that should Arthur attempt to pull her close, to try heating her blood with an intense gaze that bordered on scandalous, she would leave him alone on the dance floor.