“I’ll give you one final opportunity to conduct yourself with the comportment befitting a lady,” he offered sternly, but only because he didn’t wish to appear unhinged before his laborers and not because he sought to spare her feelings. She was the sort of irritation he didn’t need. A burr under the horse’s saddle, a bee abuzz about his head.
“Comportment,” she cried, her voice strident despite being muffled in the fine fabric of his coat, “perhaps you ought to take your own advice, sir. You are certainly no gentleman.”
Levi Storm hadn’t built an empire on his reputation as a gentleman. Quite the opposite, as growing businesses and money both frequently called upon him to be merciless. Levi Storm’s reputation in the business world was as well-known as The Battle Hymn of the Republic. He took what he wanted. Every damn time. He’d discovered over the years that if one had enough wealth, one could do nearly anything one wanted. And that included carrying a shrieking woman through the offices of the London Beacon.
“Very well. You had your chance, madam.”
Without a moment of hesitation, he strode across his office and hauled open the door. As he crossed the threshold, he caught a few alarmed stares cast in his direction but he quelled each with an imperious arch of his brow. He didn’t tolerate naysayers. Not even in matters as small as an English beauty with bats in her belfry.
She didn’t stop caterwauling either, just kept on as though someone would rush to her rescue. No one dared and he carried on through the melee of workers and engineers. He deposited her with great care on her feet in the vestibule. She’d lost her hat, he realized, somewhere in the trek from his office to the entryway. A few tendrils of her golden hair had come free from her elaborately braided coiffure so that little curls framed her flushed face. She was even lovelier in her anger, her blue eyes flashing, her lush mouth pursed in disdain.
And then, as he stood there like a lad still in short pants, she walloped him with her reticule, landing a blow to his arm that actually rather stung. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” He had no doubt her haughty tone could’ve matched the queen any day. “I’ve never been treated so poorly in my life.”
To the devil. The brief moment of maudlin madness that had befallen him was thoroughly dashed. It was past time to see this bee on her way. “Apologies, madam.” He held open the door for her since it seemed that all of his workmen were otherwise occupied. “But I do believe you were the one to have done me corporal injury with your reticule. I merely extracted you from a situation where you are no longer needed. By all means, have a lovely day.”
There. That ought to do it. He waited for her to leave. She refused to move. The raucous din of the street filtered into the building around them as horses and conveyances rumbled by. Above it all, his dynamo could be heard running away, doing its work. It was a thoroughly satisfying sound. If he had his way, he’d have all of London ablaze with his electroliers in no time at all. The revolution had already begun.
“What is that noise?” she demanded to know, snapping the door closed and pacing a few steps away from him rather than leaving as he had so politely instructed her.
“It is the dynamo,” he answered before his better judgment intervened. After all, he wanted her to go. Posthaste.
She blinked. “What is a dynamo?”
Of course she had more questions. Yes, the meddlesome woman likely had an endless supply of them. A legion, just waiting to barrage him with. “Listen here, madam, we aren’t having afternoon tea. I’m running a business and I’ve had enough of your nattering.”
He considered opening the door again and giving her a gentle nudge over the threshold to be rid of her. There was a growing stack of correspondence on his desk, and he was waiting to hear from both New York City and Paris, and nothing so far had proceeded according to plan. His mood grew fouler by the second.
Her brows snapped together in a ferocious frown. It should have diminished the effect of her beauty but somehow it only served to enhance her definitively English looks. Her spine was stiffer than a ramrod. Her gown was very fine, he noticed for the first time. Everything about her said she was an aristocrat, including her shrewish nature.
“Where do you hail from, sir?” Her frosty question held untold implications.
The streets of New York City. The depths of hell. He could have told her any of those places and each would be equally true, but instead he put a hand firmly on her waist and steered her toward the door once more. “That is no concern of yours.”
Touching her again had been a mistake. Her waist was small and well curved. For some irrational reason, he wondered what would happen if he slid his hand higher, all the way up her expensive silk to cup her breast. And then he cursed himself for a fool and dropped his hand away.
“I daresay you must be from some low part of the world to treat a lady with such an abominable amount of disrespect,” she huffed.
“Very low,” he agreed nicely and stepped closer, so close her skirts brushed his trousers. “If you’d like to find out just how low, I’ll take you back into my office right now and show you.”
Twin patches of color blossomed on her cheekbones. Her eyes widened. Good. He had shocked her. Frightened her, perhaps. He leaned down until their noses nearly touched. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, she remained gratifyingly silent.
“Do you want me to show you?” he pressed his advantage. Damn it, some insane part of him hoped she’d say yes.
He allowed his gaze to travel over the delicate planes of her face. Her skin was smooth and fair, the only hint of imperfection a pair of small lines at the corners of her wide, cornflower eyes. Someone had made this termagant smile, laugh even, enough times to leave a mark. It seemed impossible. He took in the lush fullness of her peony-pink mouth and longed to taste it with a hunger so fierce that it startled him.
Startled him, for not only was the reaction foreign in its intensity, but it was wholly unwanted and utterly impossible. The woman before him was taxing, but even if he’d been so inclined, he was not free to pursue her. He had somehow forgotten his obligations the moment her waist had curved against his palm.
It was precisely at that moment that the distinctive aroma of something burning reached his discerning nose. Damnation. What the hell had he been thinking, lusting after this woman so openly? And what the hell was on fire now? He straightened and stepped away from her as though she were the source of the flame.
“Sir.”
He turned to find Edward Stillwell, his chief engineer and aide-de-camp, hurriedly approaching them. The expression on his face was not the sort to inspire confidence. “What is it, Eddy?”
“There’s been an incident, I’m afraid.” Eddy cast a meaningful glance toward the lovely interloper who had yet to leave. “Have you a moment in private?”
Ah, the perfect way to be rid of her at last. Levi glanced back at the woman who had managed to thoroughly upend his entire morning. She was a thorn in the side. He’d never see her again, and the thought gave him brief pause. A pity, that. But he had more important matters than a prettily nipped waist and a generous bosom and a mouth that begged to be kissed. He couldn’t afford distraction. Didn’t need it, in fact.
“Good day, madam,” he said brusquely, for he didn’t like the turn of his thoughts. Not one whit. He had obligations, hang it, and he had best remember them. “I’ve other matters to attend to.” He opened the door to the bustle of the busy street again, guided her over the threshold, and closed the door at her back, sliding home the latch lest she decide she wasn’t finished with her endless inquisition.
With the matter neatly settled, he turned on his heel to follow Eddy to the source of both his expression and the pungent scent tingeing the air. There was bound to be problems. With electricity, there seemed to be an equally endless ocean of possibilities and dilemmas. But Levi had great faith in Eddy’s abilities. After all, he’d robbed him from Thomas Edison himself.
“What’s caught fire now,
Eddy?” he asked grimly as they passed back through the throng of men busied with the task of transforming the Beacon offices.
“Your desk, I’m afraid.” Eddy winced. “One of the wires we concealed in the floor was faulty, and the deuced rug laid over it lit right up. We’ve doused the flames, but the room is rather ruined at present.”
“Damn it, Eddy, I was just in my office and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.” How long had he been distracted by his prickly siren? Too long came the obvious answer. Too damned long.
“It didn’t take much time, I’m afraid,” Eddy said. “Apparently, carpet is as good as a bundle of lucifers.”
Levi was not pleased about this development, as much for the setback in his carefully constructed plans for North Atlantic Electric as for the fact that he’d once again be displaced. The Belgravia home he’d purchased was also in the midst of being wired for electricity, and the whole damn place was torn apart from bowels to rafters. He’d been relying upon the Beacon office as a quiet haven from which he could work—and more importantly—think. In peace.
He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing had gone right ever since his arrival in London. First, the work force of engineers and electricians charged with the task of outfitting the building for electricity had run across virtually every problem possible. All the while the rivals he faced, attempting to edge his company out of the race to light up England and the rest of the world, dogged him.
But if Levi had learned anything in his thirty-five years, it was that competition was the breeding grounds for brilliance. He had no doubt in his abilities or the abilities of the men he employed. There was a massive sum of money at stake in the conversion from gaslight to the infinitely better and odorless electric, and he meant to collect his fair share.
First, he needed to get his business matters in order.
“Let’s assess the damage and get men working on repairing it,” he told Eddy as they marched through the building to the office he’d just so recently exited and which had been so recently ruined. “We haven’t time to waste on setbacks. Edison is making inroads here as well as in France and Germany, and his Pearl Street station has been running for months in New York City.”
“Of course, sir. We’ll have your office stripped and right as rain in no time,” Eddy assured him. “We will show the others how it’s done.”
He crossed the threshold of his burned office. His desk was fit for the rubbish bin, the carpet badly singed and equally in need of being tossed. No, he acknowledged as he surveyed the charred remnants, nothing about this day had been to his liking. He had poured a great deal of his not-insubstantial funds into his England ventures, and he’d be damned if he didn’t succeed.
He turned back to Eddy. “You’re damn right we’ll show the others how it’s done. But hang it all, if we’re going to best Edison, we need to stop catching things on fire.”
Eddy winced. “Agreed, sir.”
Levi sighed and consulted his pocket watch. He had very nearly lost track of the time with all the morning’s distractions. An image of the loveliest of all those distractions rose unbidden in his mind and he tamped it down. “I’ve a meeting arranged with some engineers who just arrived in London from the Continent, and after that I’ve a dinner engagement with an old friend. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, but if you need anything, you’ll find me at my hotel.”
It grieved him to stay at a hotel, regardless of how elegantly appointed it was, but his discomfort was a small price to pay for progress. He hadn’t amassed businesses and a fortune by refusing to make personal sacrifices, that much was certain.
“Very good, sir. I expect to hear from Montgomery about the Paris station this afternoon. It should be fully operational and ready for testing by tomorrow. I’ll send word to you as soon as I have any.” Eddy was tall and dapper and his mind was as sharp as a rapier. He was more capable than anyone Levi knew, but electricity was a fickle mistress and sometimes bested even the most intelligent of men.
“Excellent.” Levi would be mightily pleased when their latest station in Paris was live and generating electricity. Edison was a formidable foe, and he and his men were currently winning the race by more than a neck. “I’ll leave everything in your capable hands, Eddy.”
As he took his leave, Levi forced his mind to the next task at hand. North Atlantic Electric was by no means his only business, nor was it his first, but it was to be his greatest accomplishment. When he had been a small lad living on the streets of New York City, fighting for survival with the other pickpockets and waifs, he had dreamt of bettering himself. He’d built his fortune in real estate, but the wealth he’d amassed paled in comparison to the riches he could attain with electricity. Nothing would stand in his way now.
He was almost to the door, caught up in his thoughts, when he noticed something small and black, adorned by a jaunty feather and silk ribbon. So that was where the blasted woman’s hat had gone. Levi glared at the offending frippery, for it reminded him of how breathtaking she had looked with blonde wisps framing her exquisite face. Fool that he was, he bent to retrieve it and discovered that it carried her scent, a delicate blend of rose and bergamot, unless he mistook his guess. Not the standard musk and ambergris so many women seemed to favor these days, but unique and somehow alluring, much like she was.
He ought to have a man return the hat to her, but he didn’t know her name or direction. Very likely, he’d never see her again. It was for the best, but even so, a twinge of something like regret shot through him. The thought shouldn’t give him pause at all, and that it did disturbed him. He didn’t need vexing minxes to add to the many challenges facing him in London and abroad. He didn’t need distraction. He needed focus, precision, boundless energy, and above all, success.
Perhaps the best thing to do would be to toss the hat away along with his burnt desk and carpet. He lowered it and continued walking lest one of his men catch sight of him standing about, mooning over a piece of headwear like a love-struck lad. It was utterly ridiculous to be so affected by a scrap of a woman he’d only met that morning. A woman who had disrupted and infiltrated his office so thoroughly he’d needed to throw her over his shoulder to remove her.
But damn it, part of him admired her pluck.
As he left the building, he carried the hat with him, his albatross. Perhaps he could discover who she was somehow, he reasoned, and return the damn thing. Yes, that was precisely what he would do. He would locate her, give her the hat, and forever remove it from his possession and her stunning face from his mind. All he needed to do was find her.
earest Helen, you look quite overset.” A worried expression marred the otherwise serene beauty of Mrs. Jesse Whitney’s countenance.
If Helen’s extreme displeasure was that clear, there was good reason for it. He was a tall, decadently attractive American with the manners of a wild boar. If you’d like to find out just how low, I’ll take you back into my office right now and show you. The sheer gall of the man. If only the reminder of those wicked words didn’t now bring a sweet ache of something unfamiliar low in her belly. If only part of her hadn’t been tempted for him to do exactly as he’d threatened. Dear heavens.
“I am overset, Bella,” she confessed. “I’ve just had the most horrid experience with an appallingly rude man.”
Bella had become a dear, if unexpected, friend to Helen as her sister Cleo had wed Bella’s brother the Marquis of Thornton and their social circles had become hopelessly entangled. In the absence of her parents and siblings in town, Helen was enjoying the Whitneys’ hospitality. It was the devil of a thing to be a spinster sometimes, as she felt as though she were forever being foisted from one family member or friend’s household to the next in the name of propriety. At thirty years of age, Helen was quite ready to be released from the silly snare of societal rules. After all, one couldn’t ruin the already ruined. But she was the daughter of an earl and countess and her family was beloved to her and she dared not shame any of them.
So there she stood, in the entry hall of Bella’s grand home, being relieved of her reticule and gloves. Her hat had gone she knew not where. In the rush of leaving the Beacon offices—nay, being lugged from the establishment over that scoundrel’s shoulder—it had somehow fallen from her head and disappeared. She supposed she’d never get it back now.
“Oh dear.” Bella eyed her gravely. She was a very striking woman, with black hair and bright-blue eyes complemented by her smart navy day gown. “I believe some tea and biscuits are in order. I’ve just put Virginia down for her nap and I’m in dire need of sustenance. You look as though you are as well.”
Helen grimaced. “Perhaps something a bit stronger than tea would suffice,” she grumbled. Something strong and mind-clearing. Something that would wipe from her brain all offending images of the dreadful man who had upended her day. It was truly unfair that he’d been so handsome. So tall. So potently masculine. Even now, her pulse still raced. She had been certain that he would kiss her, and she was ashamed to admit to herself that she had wanted him to.
But he had not. Instead, he had tossed her over his shoulder like the vagabond he undoubtedly was. No, she scolded herself, she must not think of him for another moment. She would strike him from her thoughts as surely as she would blot out an error in one of her articles.
Thinking of her article, forlorn and stuffed inside her reticule, brought a mantle of dejection settling over her as she sat down to tea with Bella in the otherwise cheery drawing room. When the servants had been dismissed, Bella was instantly ready for inquiry.
“Do tell me what has you at sixes and sevens.” Bella took a delicate sip of her tea. “I’ve never seen you looking so distressed.”
“Distressed does not begin to describe me at the moment.” Helen sighed, wishing she had not allowed that dreadful man to shake her composure, that she had boxed his ears when he’d attempted to throw her over his wickedly broad shoulder. That she’d delivered a sound blow to his jaw when he’d proposed showing her how low he could be. The cur. “I stopped in at the London Beacon this morning to deliver my article to Mr. Bothwell as I’ve been doing for three years now, and he was gone. In his place was a horrid American.” She paused, thinking better of her phrasing since Bella’s husband Jesse hailed from the same land. “Oh, do forgive me, dear. I don’t mean to insult Americans as a whole. Mr. Whitney is as fine a man as one could ever hope to find.”
Sweet Scandal Page 2