Loki leaped from her shoulder and streaked across the grass with a screech.
The balloon floated closer. Still not near enough to see his eyes. If they were blue...
Yes. Blue. Like the waters of the Gulf of Mexico on a clear day. No. Too fraught with imagery.
Cerulean blue. Beetle blue.
“I say, you there.”
Beetle blue? Not very romantic. But there were those little beetles with the iridescent underbelly...
“Are you of any use, woman?” the stranger shouted.
“I don’t see how I could be of any service,” she hollered, waving her arms. “You’re doing splendidly. Now all you need do is land without crashing.”
The purple sails flaring from the back whined as they adjusted position a fraction.
Thump. The balloon touched down—with nary a bounce—smack in the center of their manicured lawn, the sails expertly embracing the burbling water fountain.
Bravo. Clearly, one of those proficient fellows who put on a bumbling show to gain more applause. “Well done, sir.” She clapped. It had been a good show.
“Secure this, will you?” He threw an anchor over the side. His voice had a delightful, clipped accent, the exotic tones washing over her like a fresh taste of adventure.
British. Now she really wanted to know who he was. Story material? She wound the anchor around the marble fountain base and assessed him from the corner of her eye. His body practically vibrated at a job well done, his movements efficient.
Hmm. The headline could be: Lock Up Your Daughters, Gentlemen of Mobile. Too Handsome Stranger from the British Isles Makes Dashing Appearance.
How fortunate she was immune.
The stranger unlatched the basket door and stepped onto the grass, a valise in one hand, coat in the other. He set down his suitcase, shrugged into the coat, and buttoned the top waistcoat button. He fiddled with his collar and let his hands fall, brow furrowed. He lifted his chin and angled his head side to side, eyes closed.
What a handsome specimen. His hair, as black as newspaper ink, cavorted with abandon, lending him a roguish air. And she never thought she’d be drawn by a gentleman’s eyebrows, but there it was. Sure, he possessed a well-sculpted face—pleasing angles and all that—but the slash of eyebrows, topped by his windswept hair, elevated his features to jaunty status.
His black frockcoat fit him well. No padding for him; those were his broad shoulders. A little tickle itched her belly and tingled out to her fingertips. Who was this man?
No, no, no. She recognized the signs—a spark of interest and, if coupled with manly charm, she was rendered stupid. She would not fall into that wife-sized trap again.
His eyes popped open and pierced her with their beetle blue depths. They widened slightly, and his gaze slid up and down her body. Awareness sizzled down her spine despite herself. He flicked a speck off his coat sleeve, held her gaze, and stepped forward. Now he stood a fraction closer than was proper, and although his well-built frame was only an inch and a smidge taller, he seemed to take up more space, crowding her, shouting, “Behold my manly charm and attributes.”
Chapter Two
In Which We Meet Our Hero, And It’s All Just A Little Too Much For Him
After such a harrowing journey, all Dr. Phillip Rawley desired was a hot bath. Make that a hot bath, a moment’s respite to collect his thoughts, and a fresh change of clothes. And a comb through his hair.
Especially before he met the daughter of the house.
Now his feet wouldn’t budge.
And the strangest sensation stole over him as he stared at the vision before him. Part of him felt as if he were still in the air, his whole body vibrating from the engine, but another part felt completely and irrevocably and inexplicably fixed in position as if his feet had always been planted there before her.
His heart, already galloping from the touch-and-go flight, stilled as if taking a deep breath, then sped again as if it had run the whole way from Plymouth, England.
At first, all he’d seen was hair—dark and curly and wild—though disguised in a fetching and demure pile on her head. It gave all the appearance of barely constrained energy, as if all he need do was pop the miniscule hat off her head for it to come alive in his hands. The temptation altogether too shocking.
But it was her eyes that had him imitating a reflex hammer, vibrating in place. Cinnamon-colored and flecked with gold, they sparked with intelligence and humor.
Then her dress’s oddity struck him. At first, it looked like any proper lady’s day dress, but then he noticed her underskirts, visible in the cutaway of the dark green overskirt, were made of fine netting. But as sweat trickled down his neck, he conceded it made sense in this climate’s heat: multiple layers of the netted material allowed for air circulation, but preserved her modesty.
Even more strange, she had four tattoos vertically aligned on her neck.
Look away. Look away. Perhaps then he could break her hold on his muscles. To the left, a fountain burbled, and before him stretched an impossibly green lawn ending in a three-story, yellow clapboard house. Off the back, a covered colonnade girded by some kind of blooming rhododendron.
With the tropical sun bearing down and over-saturating all the colors, everything was utterly alien. As if rubbed raw, exposed, and he stood there, exposed with it, embarrassed on its behalf. He couldn’t help but contrast it to the comforting textures, colors, and smells of the stone-bordered fields of his Devonshire home. The air here was so thick with humidity, he could taste the fresh green of the leaves, the tart reds of the blooms. And most of all, his gaze returning to the lady before him, he could taste the brightness, the energy of her, like all her curves and the froths and swoops of her pale green dress were a confection. A confection that might prove too tempting to resist.
Egad, the heat must be getting to him. He was positively gushing poetic folderol. Revulsion shuddered through him, and he stomped on his appalling reaction.
If the lady was whom he suspected, this was not how he envisioned meeting her. He removed a handkerchief, wiped his brow, and cursed his disheveled state.
The curious stranger seemed to come back to himself after gazing at Adele and the grounds in turn.
“As there is no one to do this properly, may I be presumptuous and introduce myself? Dr. Phillip Rawley, at your service.” He executed a bow, all elegance, his voice’s timbre and cultured tones doing strange things to her insides.
Be firm, unaffected. She curtsied and held out a gloved hand. “Miss de la Pointe.” She studied his features, pegging him as only a few years older.
“Charmed.” He clasped her hand, his fingers brushing under hers. The touch, Lord above, the touch shot a thrill straight through her. He bent, his black locks dropping a curl across his forehead. And...kissed the air above her hand instead of pressing his lips to her fingers. Proper, to be sure, but criminy, she’d expected him to be more dashing.
He straightened and eyed her speculatively. “Are you perchance Dr. de la Pointe’s daughter? I’m here at his invitation.”
“Indeed, sir. Come inside, and I’ll inform him of your arrival.”
He fumbled with his collar. “Forgive my appearance. My journey has been rather trying.”
“Father doesn’t stand on ceremony.” Her gaze dropped to the faux pas in his attire, the lack of cravat. Never before had she espied a man’s throat and collarbone. Well, except her father’s and brother’s. Tiny black hairs dotted male skin, his skin, teasing her as to what lay beneath his shirt. Her traitorous heart gave an extra da-dump.
Strong-looking fingers tugged at his collar, attempting to close the gap. Was that a blush suffusing his face?
Interesting.
“Your father?”
She started. “Oh, yes. Of course.”
“Nteech scrrrtch.” Loki tugged on Dr. Rawley’s trouser leg, the cravat waving in the monkey’s tiny fist like a flag of surrender.
“What have we here?” Dr. Rawle
y squatted in front of Loki and held out his hand. The wily charmer placed the linen in the waiting palm as if he bestowed a great and delicate treasure. “What an obliging creature. Thank you, little sir.”
Dr. Rawley patted Loki on the head. “Are these...oyster shells?” he asked, his gaze encompassing the monkey’s helmet and cuirass.
“Indeed, sir. It’s his armor and most prized possession.”
He quirked a roguish eyebrow. “Intriguing.” He straightened, wrapped the cravat around his neck several times, and knotted it with an indifferent style.
Now he was decently clothed. Drat.
“Are you finished with this?” She nodded toward the semi-automatic balloon.
He shuddered. “Yes.”
She unwound the anchor, stepped inside the balloon, flipped up and pressed the auto-return button. It ticked off the thirty-second warning, and she jumped down. Gasses hissing, it lifted and drifted east toward the balloon stand. Under its retreating shadow, she led Dr. Rawley up the shell-lined path to their back porch, conscious of his lithe grace. “What business do you have with my father?”
“I am his new intern.”
Adele halted. So like Father not to inform the household about something so momentous. He didn’t mean to be inconsiderate, but there it was. So. She’d see more of this gentleman, since Father’s office was attached to the house. And if she needed another reason not to flirt, he just handed her one—she had little respect for cosmetic surgeons. No doubt he’d find her flawed too. At least he wouldn’t be underfoot, since the office had a separate entrance.
“I also understand I will be boarding here until I can secure suitable lodgings.”
Adele mentally kicked Father from here to the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay. A boarder? They’d never taken on a boarder. “I’m sure he has it all arranged.” She was dismayed to hear her tone held a tad more asperity than the situation warranted. The fault lay with Father, so engrossed in his practice he couldn’t be bothered to inform his immediate family of trivial matters.
He gave a slight bow and eyed her with a knowledge that baffled. “Indeed. I believe he does have it all arranged.” And his handsome features lit up as if he’d made a brilliant quip, but which only confused her more. “And may I say, I couldn’t be more pleased.”
She stopped and watched him mount the steps to the porch. What did that mean?
That evening, Adele bounded down the steps, grabbed the newel cap of the staircase, and swung onto the floor, skidding a short ways. She drew herself up and pulled in a deep breath, smoothing her skirts.
“In a hurry for something?”
That voice. That voice already held a surefire power over her. It had seeped inside, found an answering note, and now had only to be wielded to evoke a thrum inside, deep, deep down. Each time. Her face heated; no way would she admit to being curious about him. She straightened her shoulders and faced him.
Oh, even better. She absorbed his appearance, and her heart tripped along faster. He’d shaved and donned evening wear, the expertly tailored fit showing his broad shoulders and slim waist to great effect. A tasteful pearl stickpin held his ascot in place. His roguish hair was now disguised as Proper Gentleman, but his eyebrows gave him away. With his hair now tamed, more details popped. Like that he had two small, skin-colored moles just above those naughty eyebrows, and his bottom lip had a dimple right in the center.
What had he asked? Oh, yes. “No, I, ah, needed to ask my father something before supper.”
“Then I won’t keep you long.” He stepped forward and bowed. “I wish to apologize for my slapdash arrival. I assure you, ‘twas not my usual manner.” An earnestness in his gaze made him seem oddly vulnerable and made her inexplicably uncomfortable.
What was he on about? “No apology necessary. I thought it rather dashing.”
His eyes widened, and his head jerked back.
Her cheeks heated further. Curse her stupid mouth. She plastered on a smile, her expedient in any social situation, curtseyed, and strode into the dining room to join her family.
Dr. Rawley’s steps echoed behind. She angled her head back for a peek at him. Unaware of her, he stopped at the hall highboy and straightened the marble figurine of a griffin.
Curious about the interloper, she’d made inquiries, but their cook and housekeeper, Camilla, and her brother knew no more than she, and Father had been unavailable, of course. But her curiosity would be answered over dinner. One question in particular loomed large: how long did he plan to trespass? She had her life to figure out, and he’d definitely be underfoot.
Head resolutely returning forward, Adele inhaled Camilla’s delicious-smelling spread, the mouth-watering aroma of roast beef mingling with the sinful enticement of pecan pie. No doubt she’d put in an extra effort with the presentation. Adele fingered the edge of one of the Haviland china platters. In the center of the table lay sprigs of forsythia.
Adele greeted Father, her brother Rex, and Great-Aunt Linette, but all attention soon turned to the new arrival, who drifted into the room, eyes darting until he noticed their collective regard.
Father stepped forward and shook Dr. Rawley’s hand. “Welcome. Glad you could join us. You’ve met everyone already, I believe? My aunt Mrs. Linette Rochon, my son Rex, and my daughter Miss de la Pointe.”
Dr. Rawley blinked rapidly, and he rubbed a hand over the back of his collar. “I have, thank you. Lovely of you to include me in your family gathering.” His gaze caught on hers, retreated back to her father.
“Nonsense,” Father replied with a quick glance at Adele. “Of course you should join us. Please sit.”
They took their seats and passed the food platters. Dr. Rawley inspected each serving with interest and piled his plate high with food. Now he ate with great energy, great precision, but little conversation.
Against her will, her gaze traipsed around the table, only to snag on him and note something new, like the shape of an ear, or his proud nose, which swooped from those expressive eyebrows and curved forward, with no bump, scar, or misalignment to betray his adventurous lifestyle. Or, how he held his knife and fork—no wasted movements, efficient.
“Ah, Adele, you look the picture of Southern womanhood,” Father said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Rawley?”
“Indeed.” Dr. Rawley gave her a quick nod-bow, but wariness lurked in the stiff set of his mouth, his narrowed eyes.
Father’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Such an accomplished young lady as well.”
Her muscles twitched under his hand, but she managed, barely, not to shrug it away. Praise should soak within, buoy, gratify. But his settled over her like an ill-fitting, scratchy, but expensive shroud. He never talked to her about her activities, so how could he know? He didn’t know her. Always, she felt like a stand-in for his daughter whenever he talked about her like this, an imposter in her own skin.
Perfect time to change the topic of conversation. “So, Dr. Rawley. You’re from England?”
“Indeed.” He placed his cutlery at precise angles on his plate. “Devonshire, more specifically. A village called Bovey Tracey.”
“Sounds exciting,” she said in a rush, the rhyming nature of the town’s name alone enough to paint a charming picture.
He quirked his head to the side, confusion, and maybe a little distaste, evident in his eyes. “Exciting? No, that would not be my description. More in the nature of bucolic.” His sharp features softened, and his eyes lit, as though that term caused him no displeasure.
Adele frowned. “So you decided to stretch your wings and seek your grand adventure.”
“Not precisely.” He took a sip of wine, eyes dark in the candlelight.
“I tried to make my way in London,” he continued, “but I found it too manic, too unsettled. City life is not for me.”
Her great-aunt piped up. “You came to America, young man. Sounds like an adventure.” She’d worn another colorful hat to dinner, one feather of which swooped forward in an exaggerated arch
and threatened to burst into flames from the candelabra with every dip of her head.
“Yes, and it about killed me.” He glanced around the table. “I don’t think I will ever again venture an ocean crossing in a steam liner.” Everyone stopped chewing and stared.
Adele bounced forward in her chair. “Air travel being more your thing,” she said into the silence.
“Pardon?”
“Balloon or airship being your preferred method of travel.”
Dr. Rawley shuddered. “Even worse.”
“But this afternoon, you arrived in a balloon.”
“Don’t remind me. Scared of heights.”
Adele bit her lip. What game was he playing?
“Then why on earth did you use one?” her great-aunt asked.
“It was the only conveyance available from the docks. The trolley line was down, and if you must know, I had no notion of my lack of affinity for air travel until today. Never again will you catch me in one of those confounded contraptions.”
Was he striving to impress Father by presenting such a calm, studied profile? Sure, he’d played at distress while descending, but she’d never witnessed a more dashing and well-executed landing in her life. As an impartial observer, she could admit as much.
“So tell me,” Rex asked, “did you ever meet the illustrious Charles Babbage while in London?”
Dr. Rawley’s eyebrows changed shape, swooping over his eyes and meeting in the center. “He was long dead before I moved there.”
Rex turned red. “Oh, yes, I suppose so.” He shifted in his chair. “Still, to think you were in London at all, the center of the Great Progress.”
Adele sat back. Might as well cede the conversation to her brother, a fanatic on the subject. So much so, he almost moved to London to be in the philosophical and industrial center of the Analytical Age, born when Babbage unveiled his first working Analytical Engine in 1854, revolutionizing society the world over.
A metallic clank-clank sounded in the hall, and Walter, their automaton butler, pushed through the double doors.
Steam Me Up, Rawley Page 2