by Deb Marlowe
“Oh, my,” she breathed.
She turned on her heel, staring from one cluttered worktable to the next, and on to the large tarp in the corner, covered with rope, pulleys and the internal parts of a steam engine.
He hunched his shoulders. “It might not be obvious, but there is an organization here, one that I cannot allow you to—
He trailed to a halt as she spun about and confronted him, eyes shining. “Oh, I can see a hint of it.” She appeared not to notice how he towered over her as she grinned up at him. “No wonder you spend so much time in here. You are creating.” She sighed. “How marvelous.”
He sank onto a stool, the wind quite taken out of him. He should have guessed she would not be so easily chased away.
“I’m quite envious,” she said, bending over a table covered with complicated designs. “I’ve always thought it must be marvelous to create something. You harness the work of your brain, your shoulders and back, and suddenly there is something entirely new in the world.”
The position she’d taken pushed her shapely derriere, covered in fine wool, out from the cocoon of her massive apron. He told himself to look away. Firmly. He did avert his gaze, finally, but found it didn’t help. The acceptance and appreciation in her tone felt as heady and appealing as the sight of her pert behind.
She gasped and quickly moved on the next table, intently staring at the metallic, skeletal beginnings of four long legs and a hundred tiny parts spread out next to them. “Oh! Is this what I think it is?” She looked at him, her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes shone. “Are you making a giraffe? For Aurelia?”
He nodded and shifted uncomfortably. “It seems she shared an affinity for the animal with her mother.” He shrugged. “It’s to be an automaton. I’d hoped she would like it.”
“Like it?” Her hands were clasped in front of her now. “She will love it.” She turned to grip the table, then. “Do you know—one of the reasons I accepted this position was because I feared you might be an . . . unkind guardian.” Some emotion roughened the edge of her tone. “But here you are—paying attention.” She gave a little laugh. “That is something flattering and agreeable to females of any age, I assure you. I’m so glad to be proven wrong.” Shaking her head, she straightened. “Your concern is the very best thing for a girl who has lost so much. You are just the sort of guardian that I . . . that any girl would wish for.”
Edmund frowned. This odd girl was doing things to his insides—she was stirring him up with her unusual beauty and her blunt ways. He didn’t know how to talk to her, but he found himself wishing to. He wanted to know more about her. What had happened to put her in such straits that she would accept this position? What had made her so wistful just now? More than just curiosity afflicted him, though. He felt . . . hectic, in a way that he had not in a very long time.
It was intriguing, and a little annoying. He’d spent a good deal of time and effort reconciling himself to his current isolation, learning to push the world away before it got close enough to do serious damage. Now she came along and dismantled his defenses almost without effort.
“Well,” she said briskly. “I can see that care must be taken. You’ve been given a gift. You must get a great deal of satisfaction when you share it with the world.” She shook her head. “I would dearly love to do something like that, but alas, maintenance is all I’m good for.” She brandished her broom. “But I shall take care and you can watch us closely.”
He did watch and it took all of his determination not to object as she beckoned to one of the maids and set her to cleaning out the hearth. Another she handed a long, cloth wrapped pole and bade her destroy all evidence of spiders and their webs. He followed in her wake, feeling foolish as she walked amongst the tables herself, pocketing at least a dozen pencils, quills and charcoal sticks from the floor and retrieving notes, pictures and designs, offering them up for him to keep or discard. Finally, she stopped to examine a listing cabinet near the hearth. “Does this serve a purpose?”
“Not any longer. I’ve meant to repair it, but never got to it.”
“I’ve a better idea,” she said brightly. “Now, you go do what you must and I’ll see to the sweeping and shining of your floors. I vow we will not touch a thing at any of your work stations.”
He did as she bid. Or tried to. It took a while, but eventually he was able to ignore her busy bustling about and retreat into the puzzle of his latest attempt at a steam-powered lift. Nearly an hour must have passed before she called him back.
He marveled as he went. The windows and floors sparkled. The lights shone brighter with so many months of grime removed. It all looked the same, yet better, somehow. And she’d replaced the hearthside cabinet with a small table and padded chair. On the table was a crock containing all of his various writing instruments, several different sizes and types of paper and a covered pitcher of lemonade. With a flourish she opened the drawer to display a platter of sandwiches and biscuits and a squat cup.
“Cook complains that you work through all of her good meals. I’ll instruct the staff to keep this supplied. Now you can pause a moment, rest and eat, and still think and plan as you need to.”
He met her gaze, touched by her consideration. “I see I’m not the only one paying attention.” She flushed and on impulse, he took her hand. An elegant hand, despite its calluses, with long, delicate fingers that he thought she might snatch back, so startled did she look. He was too close, and she was all eyes and bounding heartbeat—he could feel it beneath his own thick digits, see the fluttering pulse point in the turn of her graceful neck. He felt burly and bearish again—and also abruptly possessive. “Thank you. I didn’t think it possible, but you’ve made a real improvement in here.”
“I’m glad to do it, sir.” She did pull her hand back, then, but she didn’t move away. She cast her eyes down. He felt her draw breath, as if she was pulling the air straight from his lungs. He braced himself, sure that her retreat was imminent, knowing that her reluctance was going to hurt more than any had in the past.
But Miss Moreton was made of sterner stuff than he suspected. She hesitated, then looked him square in the eye. “I beg your pardon for offering my opinion, but I believe that even creative people need to relax once in a while.” She drew another breath, then rushed on. “Perhaps you’ll be better if you leave this place for a bit of each day. Too much concentration, all of that intense focus, it leaves a person drained and dreary. Ill-tempered. Might you not wish to meet your friends for dinner, socialize a bit, or take Aurelia to the park?” She raised a brow at him. “Who knows? You might even be tempted to attend a Society event or two?”
Edmund stilled—as did the warm, low buzz she’d awakened inside him. Now this, this was a lesson in why he should stay locked away in here, by himself. A pair of enticing eyes, a mind as bright and engaging as a smile, and he’d forgotten all the hard lessons he’d learned. He’d opened a little, let her into his laboratory, which, by some miracle, she’d found charming. And though she’d shown neither fear nor aversion, still she’d found his person lacking. The hard, piercing pain of it shouldn’t have surprised him.
He took a step back. “You’ve done a fine job with the house, Miss Moreton. I’m not sure who has disparaged your abilities and charms to such an extent that you believe them of so little value. You are talented. You have created, as much as I’ve ever done at least. You’ve taken a house and made it into a home. I appreciate this, as I appreciate your efforts with Aurelia.” He frowned. “But I warn you now. Do not think to turn your penchant for improvement on me.” He turned away. “I cannot be fixed, Miss Moreton.”
He strode away, leaving her standing there alone.
Chapter Five
The frustrating man did not need fixing. A day later, Lisbeth still berated herself for her mistake, even as she waited to speak to the owner of the Hollandale Employment Agency. Cook had offered to spend the afternoon teaching Aurelia the art of making macaroons, so Lisbeth had taken the chance
to come and confess her sins—and inquire after possibilities for a new position.
Her heart beat a bit faster as she recalled the moment she’d burst into his laboratory. He’d been shocked, bewildered—and clad only in his linen shirt with his sleeves rolled partially up. She’d almost turned away like a coward when he’d thrown open the door and she’d come up against that gloriously broad chest and intriguingly muscled arms. But she’d swallowed her awe and ignored the hot flare of excitement in her gut and surged forward. She’d won him over, too, until—curse her wretched tongue and managing nature—she’d offended the baron and demonstrated definitively that some controlling position in service was all she was fit for. She sighed. Perhaps it was for the best. For she was very much afraid she was becoming too attached to Aurelia—and far too interested in her guardian.
She hadn’t meant to imply any criticism of the man. His size was so intimidating—awe-inspiring, really—that it became easy to imagine him invulnerable.
Clearly, he was not. The more she learned of him, the more she recognized a kindred soul. At home she’d used her abilities to create a niche for herself within her family, to forge a place where all the attributes she lacked didn’t matter so much, where she could turn all the negatives they bemoaned into positives, where she could hide from the pain of not fitting into her rightful sphere and have a chance at being valued and accepted. She rubbed her brow, understanding suddenly that she was still following that same path, but knowing that she didn’t have another choice.
Lord Cotwell did. He used his mechanical work in the same way she’d used managing her home. Only he’d taken it a step further, living secluded and using his gruff manner to keep others away, to rebuff them before they could do the same to him.
It was a shame, really, because once one grew close enough, it was easy to see all the admirable qualities his rough ways hid. He deserved respect, admiration, and yes—love. Had she the time, she was sure she could persuade him to take the chance and reconnect with people again. A nudge here, a bit of encouragement there, and she highly doubted he would be able to resist if she challenged him to—
“Pray, do excuse me, Miss Moreton.” Mrs. Hollendale re-entered the office carrying a stack of papers and a wrapped parcel. “Some things in business simply require your own hand.”
“Of course, I understand.”
“Now, as to your confession, I harbor no ill feelings. If my candidate did not keep the appointment, then as far as I’m concerned, she did herself out of the job and I’m glad to know, so as not to recommend her again.”
“That is a relief, ma’am, because I thought to request your aide in finding another sort of post.” She explained Aurelia’s needs and Lord Cotwell’s idea of a châtelaine’s position.
“Hmm . . . it’s quite a compliment that your current employer would suggest something so . . . weighty.” Mrs. Hollendale raised a brow. “I assume he is willing to provide a reference?”
“He is.”
The woman pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t presume to imply anything untoward, but I’d be remiss did I not explain that prospects of such a place will be more difficult to obtain for one so young. Especially with only a single employer’s recommendation.” Her brow lifted again. “And a bachelor employer, at that.”
Lisbeth frowned. “I’m certainly glad that you are not implying anything untoward, Mrs. Hollendale.”
“We must face the realities of the situation. Chances are slim in any case, but they’d be better if you had other recommendations. And better still if one had a woman’s stamp upon it.” She paused. “Is that a possibility?”
It should be. Were all things fair, Lisbeth’s mother should be willing to provide her a glowing report. After all, she’d turned nearly all of her household responsibilities over to her eldest daughter years ago. But Lisbeth wouldn’t ask. Couldn’t ask. Her mother had listened to her new husband berate her daughter repeatedly, and without protest. She’d actually consented to the man’s scheming plans for her future—
“Miss Moreton?”
Her attention snapped back. She needed employment. She wanted a place in the world, a means of supporting herself. Taking on the part of housekeeper or châtelaine would not be perfect, but she would have independence, the sort of authority she was used to, the chance to use the talents she possessed. She would find another recommendation. Perhaps one of her father’s friends, who knew the work she’d done after his death.
Inspiration struck.
She straightened. “Yes, Mrs. Hollendale. It is a possibility. I’ll make arrangements—and then I’ll return.”
* * *
“Wait.” Frowning, Aurelia suddenly turned from the carriage window. “Where did you say we were going?”
“We’re to visit . . .” Lisbeth paused. How to describe James Vickers? An old beau? The rakish nobleman’s son who had stolen her first kiss and eventually captured her young heart? The man who had so recently offered his help, raised her hopes and then cruelly dashed them to the ground? “A friend,” she finished lamely. “We’re to visit a friend.”
Aurelia turned back, but she began to fidget, obviously growing uneasy as they made their way along Queen Street. “I don’t like this place.”
“We won’t stay long, I promise. We’ll be home before luncheon.” Where she would continue to avoid Lord Cotwell, despite a growing desire to do the opposite. She found herself thinking about him, wondering about him as she worked with Aurelia, as she oversaw the continuing work on his house.
It was a marvel to her how differently she viewed him as opposed to James. James was the pattern card of a charming rogue, classically handsome, genteel, with a biting wit and a view to making her laugh. He’d annoyed her at first, but won her over with his flattering attentions. She’d always felt a little nervous in his company, a little out of control, as if the possibility for chaos and wicked disarray followed him everywhere.
She should perhaps have felt the same with Lord Cotwell. Certainly the potential for violence lived in his large frame and irregular manner. And yet, she felt comfortable in his company and utterly safe in his house. He was all fascinating contrasts, big and rough and burly on the outside, but softer inside. Sometimes, when she was polishing silver, her fingers itched to instead be exploring the breadth of his chest or the hard muscles of his back. She dreamed of picking him apart like one of his mechanical marvels, showing him and the rest of the world all the shiny, beautiful parts he hid away. Surely some lucky, lovely girl would recognize them and he would find the happiness he deserved.
Except that the way he avoided her told her that he did not want her help. Perhaps he didn’t want happiness. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it, which was why she had to go. Before she seriously annoyed him or made a fool of herself.
She smiled reassuringly at Aurelia. Perhaps she should have left her at home. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come at all. But as fascinated as she was with Lord Cotwell, she could have gone a lifetime without seeing James Vickers again—until she thought of a way that he could help her out of her predicament.
James knew the work she had done. They’d met when his father, tired of his wastrel, scandal-courting ways, had sent him to rusticate at one of his lesser estates, the one that just happened to border Lisbeth’s own home. Over the months of his stay he’d seen the workload she carried, remarked on the breadth of knowledge she’d gained and sense of duty that drove her, and joked that his father should hire her to run his property.
Well, he could put that knowledge to good use by writing her a letter of recommendation—and if he could write it on his mother’s stationary and somehow see her signature affixed as well—then so much the better. It was the least he could do after luring her to London and leaving her high and dry.
The carriage slowed. Aurelia stared with trepidation at the slightly dilapidated home. “Your friend lives here?”
“He has rooms upstairs, I believe.” Lisbeth stared too. “It doesn’t look very prom
ising, does it?”
“We should just go home.”
“Soon,” she promised. Climbing out, she made arrangements for the hack to wait, then spent a few minutes coaxing Aurelia out. By the time she’d succeeded, a woman had emerged from the house. She stood on the stoop, adjusting her faded brown hat and eyeing them with displeasure.
“What’s this, then?”
“We’re here to see Mr. Vickers.” Lisbeth smiled. “Are you the landlady here?”
“Aye.” The woman narrowed her eyes at Aurelia and frowned. “Some folks just don’t learn the first time, do they?”
Lisbeth didn’t understand, but she reached out to stop the woman as she tried to brush past them. “Is Mr. Vickers at home?”
The woman shrugged.
“May we go in and try his door?”
“Do what you will, much good it will do,” the woman huffed. “Second floor. On the right. And if you see him, tell him rents are due at the end of the week.”
Lisbeth stared after her. “Well, that was unpleasant, wasn’t it?” She took up Aurelia’s hand and led the way into the house and up a somewhat grimy set of stairs. Aurelia’s grip grew tighter and she edged a little behind Lisbeth as they stopped before the door. She gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, then disentangled her hand to give a knock.
They waited.
She knocked again, and when there was still no answer, she blew out a breath of exasperation and gave the door a good pounding.
“He’s not here,” Aurelia whispered. “Please, let’s just go home.”
Lisbeth swallowed and lifted her fist away. “All right, then.”
Wasn’t it just like James Vickers to not be at home? Still, she wouldn’t let him defeat her. She’d make the trip again, perhaps on her free day.
It was time for her to focus on her future.
* * *
James Vickers heaved over in bed. Wincing, he dropped an arm over his eyes to block the indecently bright light. A constant, low moaning sounded somewhere near. As the rhythm of it kept respectable time with the heaving of his gut, he felt fairly certain that it came from him, but at least the incessant pounding in his head had quit.