Romancing the Inventor

by Gail Carriger

  So, she knew about that, did she?

  “May I ask something quite impertinent?” The large nose beaked in Imogene’s direction.

  She’d been so helpful, Imogene felt compelled to say, “Of course, Lady Maccon.”

  “Oh, call me Alexia, do.”

  “Alexia.”

  “Have you two been intimate?’

  Imogene blushed. “Only the once.”

  “Well, that should help.”

  “Should it?”

  Alexia looked wise. “Yes, I think it generally does. People always say carnal relations complicate matters. I find it quite the opposite – simplifies everything down to its purest form. I take it things went well?”

  That was a bit too intrusive, but then again, Alexia and Genevieve did flirt an awful lot. So Imogene said, “Wonderfully.”

  Alexia looked a tiny bit wistful. “Yes, I always imagined things would with Genevieve.”

  Imogene felt an odd combination of jealousy, pride, and superiority.

  Lady Maccon, who seemed more a force of obtuse nature than anything else, didn’t notice. “Not that I regret my choice, mind you. Conall’s impossible but highly stimulating, and I’ve never felt anything lacking in the rough-and-tumble. It’s only that I’m one of those people who, at the dinner table, wants to try all the dishes. You see my point?”

  Imogene didn’t.

  Alexia didn’t care, continuing blithely on with a, “Too late now, of course.”

  “Um,” said Imogene.

  “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I think you should get Genevieve soused.”

  “What!”

  “Let me iron out the particulars of getting you back working together, without vampires, and you get her tipsy. Truth in the wine and all that rot. Although, in this case, love in the cognac. Genevieve adores a good cognac. I’ve got a bottle here. Take it along. Use it wisely.”

  Imogene took the proffered bottle, which was likely worth more than all the new dresses in her wardrobe combined. She cradled it like a baby. It was really too much. The pack had already been overly generous. One of them, a charming young blighter named Biffy whom all the others seemed to regard with an unexpected degree of reverence, had taken her shopping three times. And once for nothing but hats!

  “Oh, but—”

  “I insist. Now, give me another few days to work things out, and I will see you settled in fine style. Speaking of which, I’ll need Biffy for this. And possibly some of Akeldama’s drones.”

  She stood, already charging towards the next step in her mysterious plan.

  Imogene took that as a dismissal and, clutching her cognac, made her way out into the hall and up to her room.

  Behind her, Lady Maccon yelled at the top of her lungs, “Biffy! Interiors are afoot! Oh, where is the boy? Biffy, I need you to design something beautiful!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  In Which We Solve All the Equations

  Lady Maccon’s grand plan, as it turned out, was a massive gypsy caravan of some modern, technologically expansive design. She had it parked in the fields beyond the Woolsey lake. She’d apparently arranged everything with the hive, swinging her muhjah power about like a very big stick (or should one say parasol?). The pack dug it in and stabilized it in a pretty little meadow with silver birches around three sides and a view of the lake to the front. Lady Maccon, being practical, insisted on a vegetable garden, and the werewolves, being not as practical, thought flower boxes a wonderful idea.

  The meadow was cheerful with the noises of birds. Bunnies appeared in the early morning, cotton tails twitching, although they fled as soon as they smelled wolf. Imogene noticed for the first time how little wildlife had been near the hive house. Vampires, she supposed, had a certain aura that prey animals would find oppressive. She understood the feeling entirely.

  Biffy had decorated the caravan interior in fine style. It was quite spacious with a large bed, two small wardrobes, and a little pot-bellied stove. It even boasted a tiny desk-meets-dining-table in the kitchen area and a few shelves for Imogene’s book collection. (Which only amounted to two, but Imogene had big dreams.)

  Imogene loved it. The stove was perfect for both cooking and warmth, and there were Carcel lamps for light at night. A number of knobs and levers allowed most of the larger pieces of furniture to shift about as needed – so the bed might flip up, or the stove rotate away, or the table convert into a bench. All in all, it was more luxurious (and adaptive) than anything Imogene had ever occupied.

  The night was full of quiet owl noises and the rustle of wind through the trees. The big bed felt empty, and Imogene couldn’t help picturing Genevieve nestled next to her, but she slept soundly despite the lack.

  The next day, Imogene returned to work in the potting shed.

  Genevieve was clearly delighted to see her. Possibly because the laboratory was in utter chaos.

  How has everything gotten so messy? I’ve only been gone a week!

  “Oh, thank heavens you are back. I cannot find anything!” The inventor sounded casual, but her green eyes traced every part of Imogene’s face.

  Worryingly, Genevieve was looking even more gaunt. Has she eaten anything while I’ve been gone?

  “Are you all right, Imogene?”

  “Lady Maccon has been very kind.”

  “Has she indeed? What does she want?”

  Imogene leaped to Alexia’s defense. “She has only your best interests at heart, I’m sure.”

  “Says she!” But there was no malice in it.

  “She asked me to mention her new parasol order?”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I have her specifications here somewhere. I suppose we should get started. I do owe her a massive favor.”

  “Oh, and she wanted me to remind you, you’ll be seeing her soon.”

  “I will?”

  “Sunday supper, next month? She wrote a note. Here it is.” Imogene passed it over.

  Genevieve cracked the seal and read it, hooting with laughter at the end. She handed it back to Imogene. “Go on. Read it yourself.”

  Genevieve,

  Don’t be difficult about Sunday.

  You clearly aren’t eating properly and I expect everything to be settled by then.

  Bring Imogene. The pack likes her. I like her. Don’t be a noodle about this.

  Yours, etc.,

  Alexia

  P.S. You may buy me a replacement cognac.

  “What’s this about cognac?” asked Genevieve.

  Imogene put down the note, avoiding the question, and remarked, “She’s kind of like an odd, loud, fierce fairy godmother, isn’t she?” She wandered over to the waiting tea-tray and, lifting the lid, found a tempting plate of bacon and eggs.

  “I’m starved. Come and join me, Genevieve, and I’ll tell you what happened.”

  Imogene, of course, didn’t tell her everything. But she did tell her all about the pack and what she’d learned.

  “You cannot possibly be implying that you like Channing?”

  Imogene nodded. Pleased to see Genevieve eat a whole plate of eggs and two rashers of bacon. Excellent, the ploy worked.

  “We are talking about Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings?”

  “Why, is there another one?”

  “Merde. The very idea. Heaven forefend.”

  Imogene would not be moved. “He’s sweet. He brought me chestnuts.”

  “What has the pack done to you?”

  Imogene only smiled. “Would you like some more bacon?”

  * * *

  Genevieve began eating properly again. She put on a little weight. She was equally solicitous of Imogene’s well-being. Sometimes overly so. No one from the hive bothered them, not even the gardeners. They both took great pains to break before dark so Imogene could walk back to her caravan safely.

  Genevieve even kissed Imogene a few times.

  Once on the top of her head, when she was b
ent over a schematic. Then again, a week after her return, right before Imogene left for the night. That kiss had been long and deep, pressing her up against the side of the door. Then the inventor had backed away with a muttered apology.

  That week’s separation, it turned out, had indeed worked wonders.

  Ten days after her return, Imogene decided to try again in earnest.

  “Would you like to see my caravan? It’s very nice inside. Has all sorts of gadget-driven functionality – convertible table and a fold-away bed.” She said this casually as they were winding down for the evening.

  The inventor looked elated at the invitation and dropped the device she was disassembling with gratifying alacrity. She was usually not so quick to leave off her work.

  Since Imogene’s return, Genevieve had been dressing better than a potting shed really warranted. Each day, she seemed to choose a nicer waistcoat, even donning a cravat, as though she wished to make a good impression.

  Imogene was suitably impressed and hoped she was the one who was meant to be. She imagined unwrapping the length of cravat and gliding it over Genevieve’s body. She found herself fascinated by the way Genevieve’s shoulders looked under her jacket, which she insisted on wearing every day when they took their afternoon walk about the garden.

  Imogene had been thinking a lot about all of Genevieve’s dimples.

  That particular evening, Genevieve shrugged into a lovely grey morning coat and a top hat. She looked very fine indeed.

  Imogene took the offered arm and they made their way across the garden to the lake. She remembered their first walk together. Her hand was steady now, not nervous or sweaty at all.

  * * *

  Genevieve Lefoux fit perfectly into Imogene’s caravan. She explored all the gadgets and then sat comfortably at the little table. Her hat rested on a peg near the door, a peg that had confused Imogene. There were several of them, which she now realized were clearly meant for gentlemen’s hats.

  She began to understand why there were two wardrobes. Lady Maccon was very crafty indeed.

  Imogene said, hopefully, “They built me a proper privy as well. Although, if I want to bathe, there’s really only the lake.”

  “You can come back to the hive house for a proper bath, if you like. During the daytime, it wouldn’t be difficult.”

  “I might take you up on that when it gets colder. Would you like a glass of cognac? Alexia gave it to me.”

  “Alexia, is it?”

  “We’ve come to an understanding. I like her.”

  “It’s rare, those who do. She seems to have done you proud with this caravan.”

  “Yes. Although I think perhaps Biffy had a hand in choosing and decorating it.”

  “Yes, looks like him. Only Biffy would remember hat pegs. Did you say something about cognac?”

  Imogene went to get two small blue mugs, pouring a large measure into one and a lesser amount into the other.

  Genevieve took the offered mug with a raised eyebrow. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Miss Hale?”

  “Will it work?”

  “Very likely. I promise not to put up much resistance.” She leaned closer to Imogene, sipping the cognac, green eyes bright and intent.

  “Changed your mind?” They were not talking about cognac. Imogene stroked the inventor’s hand where it rested on the small table.

  Genevieve turned it over instantly to lace their fingers together. “I realized something while you were away.”

  Imogene held her breath.

  “That fountain I talked about? It’s not as dry as I thought.”

  Imogene grinned. “Good. That’s very good.” Pride held her in check, although she wanted to lean forward and kiss the other woman, taste the cognac on her lips. Better than drinking it straight; it was horrible stuff. Burned all the way down.

  “You’re not pouncing on me. I thought you might pounce. Have I lost my chance with you, then?”

  Imogene decided she had no pride and pounced.

  * * *

  The caravan, as it turned out, was sturdier than it looked. It hardly rocked at all.

  What had been wonderful the first time around was extraordinary the second. Genevieve was much less tentative. She seemed determined to leave no part of Imogene’s body unexplored.

  Imogene, of course, felt the same.

  They took their time, less frantic than that first night. Imogene no longer feared that Genevieve might flee at the slightest opportunity. And Genevieve was intent on proving her interest genuine in every way possible. Imogene was delighted to have her try. It was a glorious thing, to be wooed.

  It was an exercise in hedonism. Particularly when Genevieve poured a tiny measure of cognac into Imogene’s belly button and licked it out. Then kept licking lower, her mouth cool from the alcohol, her tongue teasing.

  Those callused fingers could do wicked things to Imogene’s body – firm and sure when required, gentle and stroking the rest of the time. Imogene crested and panted and crested again – arching and writhing and whimpering under her touch. She was desperate to touch in return, to sink her teeth (only a little) into Genevieve’s white thigh (she yelped, which was wonderful) and to see her writhe in turn.

  Eventually, they were both mere puddles of joy.

  Imogene remembered the analogy then, and wondered if she were fountain enough for the both of them. If she could give enough love for the little drops that she would get in return.

  She decided she was. That if this was all they had, an idyllic evening on occasion, it would be enough. It was more than she’d ever hoped for, after all.

  “I have missed you, choupinette.” Genevieve was draped partly over her, naked and satiated. She buried her face in Imogene’s hair.

  Imogene curled a hand over Genevieve’s neck, feeling the slight bumps that formed the octopus tattoo, then threading her fingers up though the short curls above. She inhaled vanilla and hope. “Can’t handle the equations without me, hum?”

  “Yes. Well, no, but that’s not what I meant. I missed you. I missed the way you move about the lab. The curve of your cheek when you rest your chin on your hand to think. The weight of your hair. The way you stick the tip of your tongue out when you are concentrating really hard.”

  “I do not!”

  “Oh, yes, you do. It is adorable. You also mouth words when you are reading. I want to kiss you so badly when you do that.”

  “You’ve my permission to do so from here on out. Although try not to disturb me too much.” She was being coy. “I do love reading. It’s such a joy.”

  Genevieve stilled against her.

  Imogene stopped stroking her neck. So, here the rejection comes this time. She took a deep breath, preparing herself.

  Imogene might have predicted many things, but she was not prepared for pleading in her inventor’s voice.

  “May I come live here, with you?”

  “Yes,” said Imogene on an exhalation. She didn’t even have to think about it. Her skin prickled. “It’s made for both of us.”

  “Good. I shall have to barter a longer indenture so they let me move out of the hive. Could be as much as ten additional years.”

  “I’ll stay with you as long as is necessary.” I’ll stay with you forever.

  Genevieve ran a hand up and down Imogene’s side. It only tickled a little. “I won’t mind as much, being here.”

  Imogene tried to keep the mood light. “And I shall have access to all your books.”

  Genevieve sat back and looked around the caravan’s interior. “We’ll have to store some of them in the potting shed not quite enough shelf space here.” Then, all of a sudden, she grinned.

  Imogene sat up at that, driven to nuzzle in against the dimples. Self-consciously, she whispered, “I kept one of my parlourmaid’s dresses and a duster.”

  “To wear for me?”

  “I thought you might like—”

  A kiss fairly sca
lded her mouth at that. “Oh, I like.”

  A pause while they both gathered their wits about them. Imogene delighted in the effectiveness of the mere mention of that dress.

  Genevieve drew her in close, petting her, swirling her thumb over Imogene’s hipbone. “I speak four languages, you know. French, German, English, and Latin.”

  Imogene blinked at the change of subject. “I didn’t know about the Latin.”

  “I shall teach you to read in all of them.”

  Imogene collapsed against her in delight, twisting them around so that Genevieve was on her back and Imogene sprawled atop her. She peppered her inventor with tiny kisses until, out of breath, she finally stopped.

  Genevieve was giggling. Actually giggling.

  Imogene kissed her deeply on the mouth, tongue and everything – glorying in the fact that this roughened Genevieve’s breathing, and the restless way she shifted beneath her.

  Imogene stopped long enough to say, “I should like to learn French first, please.”

  “Je t’aime,” said Genevieve.

  “What does that mean?” Imogene’s eyes were wide, hoping for something quite naughty, perhaps a suggestion or a position?

  “I love you,” said Genevieve.

  Imogene burst into tears.

  Genevieve tried to calm her with cognac.

  Then with a long and thorough embrace.

  Then she told her all the truths of her heart, now filled to bursting. That she’d realized Imogene was different and wouldn’t betray her. That they might be there together, and that they might be loved, both of them worthy of it.

  She’d even let Skoot come and visit them in the lab more often.

  When none of these tactics worked on Imogene’s (joyful) histrionics, the inventor gave her an equation to solve.

  Imogene solved it, of course. For x, as it turned out, equaled two.

  Author’s Note