Emma slowly examined each sketch a second and then third time before acknowledging the truth. She needed to see her subject, to touch it, to watch it wind and bend and move in order to try and adequately capture the feeling of raw power it stirred within her.
Would the viscount allow it? He had been far from enthusiastic during her visit the other day, ushering her away from his workshop as quickly as possible. She doubted he would be very enthusiastic at the idea of her returning.
Well, there was only one way to know. She must ask him.
Pleased to have a plan, Emma surged to her feet. She sat at her writing desk and removed a sheet of parchment. The opening salutation and first line were simple to compose. The rest, well, that proved far more difficult.
Four sheets of crumpled parchment later, Emma decided this was not the best way to make her request. No, she needed to do so in person. And there was no time like the present.
Deciding not to wake one of the maids, Emma proceeded to wash her hands and face, then pulled a simple walking dress from her wardrobe. She intentionally selected the lavender gown made of soft wool, for its comfort and practicality. With contrasting fabric buttons that fastened down the front of the tightly fitted bodice, Emma was able to dress without assistance.
She brushed the tangles from her hair and fashioned a single braid that hung down the center of her back, tying the end with a matching satin ribbon. Hardly a sophisticated look, but this was not a social call. This was business. Donning her cloak, she stuffed two pencils in the left pocket, picked up a fresh sketch pad and tucked it under her arm.
The household was just beginning to stir as she made her way quietly down the center staircase. She slipped into the breakfast parlor, startling a chambermaid who was laying a fire.
“Oh, miss!” the young woman exclaimed, jumping to attention. “You gave me such a fright.”
“I’m sorry, Katie,” Emma said sincerely. “I would have made some warning noise if I knew you were in here.”
“No need to apologize, Miss Emma.” Katie was blushing with guilt at the mere notion. “I wasn’t complaining.”
Emma smiled. “Of course.”
“Are you going out?” Katie asked, glancing at Emma’s cloak.
“Just for a walk,” Emma replied, shifting her feet. She preferred to keep this visit to herself, as it was not entirely proper for her to meet with the viscount alone.
Besides, Dorothea and Carter had been oddly obsessed with the notion of her finding a husband. In their enthusiasm, they could very well misinterpret her need to see Lord Kendall and reach the wrong conclusion.
“Shall I ask Cook to prepare breakfast for you?” Katie asked.
“No, thank you. I shall eat with my sister when I return.” Emma shifted the sketchbook under her arm. “Most likely I’ll be back before Lady Dorothea comes down to the breakfast parlor, but if she does ask about me, please let her know I’ve gone for a morning stroll.”
“Yes, miss.”
Katie curtsied as Emma left the room.
The morning mist had cleared and Emma was pleased to find the terrace empty. The sweet smell of wildflowers wafted through the air, the whisper of wind fluttering the budding leaves. She briefly considered stopping at the stables and asking one of the stable lads to saddle a horse, but feared the path through the woods was too narrow for a horse and rider to negotiate together.
There was also the possibility that one of the grooms would insist upon accompanying her, knowing Carter would balk at her riding out alone. That would be completely unacceptable. In this, as with most things she did, Emma preferred privacy.
The air was cool, the ground wet with morning dew. By the time Emma had crossed the perfectly manicured lawn and entered the path through the woods, the hem of her gown was soaked.
Having traveled upon it there and back the other day, Emma discovered her trampling feet made the route more defined and easier to follow. When she reached the end, she was even able to catch a glimpse of the building through the leaves before she fully emerged from the woods.
Heart thumping with excitement, Emma approached the entrance, disappointed to find that the door was tightly shut. Undaunted, she raised her closed fist and knocked, knowing she needed to make a substantial bit of noise to be heard. Then she smoothed her skirt, straightened her shoulders, and waited.
And waited.
The emerging sunshine pleasantly warmed her shoulders. A second, louder set of knocks seemed to echo through the vast and cavernous interior, yielding the same results. No answer. Had she come all this way for nothing?
Disappointed, Emma pushed against the sturdy lock, surprised when it easily twisted. For a moment she stood there frozen, and then she felt a swell of triumph. She rarely gave in to impulsive behavior, but the temptation was impossible to resist.
Smiling, she swung the door wide and stepped inside.
“Hello. Viscount Kendall? Mr. Norris?”
Her voice shot to the rafters and back before silence descended. Eyes darting in all directions, Emma quickly confirmed the room was empty.
Well, except for one glorious object.
Several lanterns were lit, casting an almost heavenly glow over the viscount’s machine. Slowly, reverently, Emma approached. She pulled off her glove and with an unsteady hand ran her fingers over a pair of gears. The coolness of the metal was unexpected, startling in a way, as the machine appeared so alive to her.
Anxiously reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pencil. She shifted her sketchbook and opened the tablet to a fresh page. For a long moment she stood and stared, then with breathless excitement racing through her veins, Emma began to sketch.
Chapter Five
The sound of her pencil scraping over the paper added to Emma’s joy. It all felt so right! Her head bobbed continuously as she tilted it upward to look at the machine, then down at her parchment. Her fingers flew, trying to keep pace with her mind and imagination.
Gleefully, Emma turned the page and started a second sketch. She was so focused on her work that she barely registered the presence of someone at her back until a pair of strong arms closed around her. She screeched in surprise and dropped her sketchbook.
“Release me!” Emma demanded in a shaky voice.
The hold on her loosened and she whirled around. Viscount Kendall stood before her, his eyes gleaming.
“How did you get in here?” he questioned, regarding her suspiciously.
She stifled a scoff at the ridiculous question. How else would she have entered but through the only door?
“The door was unlocked,” Emma exclaimed, struggling to catch her breath. “I knocked, rather loudly, but I assumed you and Mr. Norris were too deep into your work to hear it.”
Emma saw Lord Kendall’s back stiffen. “In my haste to gather additional supplies, I must have forgotten to lock the door.” He muttered a low oath beneath his breath. “However, that hardly constitutes an invitation for anyone to simply barge in to my workshop uninvited.”
She hesitated. “I was very much hoping that an invitation from you would be forthcoming.”
“Why?” he asked, his voice wary.
Emma favored him with a bright smile. She needed his permission in order to sketch the machine. Antagonizing the viscount was hardly the way to gain it.
“I confess that I have been constantly thinking about your machine since I first saw it. I was hoping that you would allow me to watch you work. I promise that I shall stay silently in the shadows to avoid disturbing you and Mr. Norris.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Our work is not ready for anyone to view.”
“But I’ve already seen it,” she protested.
“Purely by accident. Initially.” He crossed his arms over his chest and heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Frankly, Miss Ellingham, I cannot help but be suspicious of your behavior this morning.”
Emma willed herself not to take offense at the thinly veiled accusation. “I understand that if your
machine eventually works as you and Mr. Norris intend, it will be very lucrative for both of you. Therefore, discretion and secrecy are paramount in order to prevent a rival from stealing your designs. I respect that and give you my word that I will say nothing about what I have seen in your workshop.”
A dubious expression crossed the viscount’s face, but Emma remained hopeful. He placed his hands on his hips and glanced at the ceiling. ’ Twas clear he was considering her request, and though she felt an anxious need to present him with more and more reasons why he should, Emma held her tongue.
There were few things more distracting and annoying than having someone yammering in your ear. Never more so when you were trying to think and make an important decision.
“It seems an innocent enough request, if I may say, my lord,” Mr. Norris interrupted.
“You may not.” The viscount bristled.
Emma smiled gratefully at the assistant and he gave her a sheepish shrug. Even though it was unsuccessful, she certainly appreciated his effort and support.
The viscount appeared to have come to a decision. Emma tried reading his expression. ’Twas impossible. But then he heaved a sigh and the scowl between his brows eased.
He’s going to say yes!
The butterflies fluttering in her stomach soared. Unable to contain her grin, Emma stepped forward. So did the viscount, but he stopped abruptly when his foot hit the sketch pad she had dropped earlier.
They reached for it at the same time, but Lord Kendall’s arms were longer, his movement faster. He snatched the pad and positioned it under the light. He studied the first drawing, then lifted the page and viewed the second. He turned to her and Emma found herself blushing over his long, penetrating look.
“Will you kindly explain these, Miss Ellingham?”
* * *
Jon stared at her in bafflement. If he didn’t know better, he would have to conclude that she was stealing his designs.
Actually, did he know better? His acquaintance with her was brief and there was no denying that he was holding the proof of her duplicity in his hand.
“I sketch,” she said softly, taking the pad from his hand. “And paint. ’Tis such an integral part of me, part of who I am, well, at least it was as far back as I can remember. But something changed this past year—I don’t how or why, but I lost it. Eventually, I was forced to accept that it could be gone forever, that I might never regain that part of myself.
“And then I stumbled upon your workshop and saw your machine.” Her eyes lit with an inner glow of wonder. “The spark came rushing back, the excitement returned. I’m at a loss to explain it, I just know that it is there and for that I am grateful.”
“Ah, miss, that’s beautiful.” Norris released a sentimental sigh.
Good God! Norris was in his late forties, with a wife and five children, and here he was, swooning like a schoolgirl. Apparently, Miss Ellingham had a strange power over men of many ages. Jon blew out a frustrated breath, refusing to be drawn in by his assistant’s enchantment with the girl. Her explanation seemed—far-fetched?
“Artists paint portraits and landscapes,” the viscount challenged. “Sometimes a still life.”
“We paint what inspires us, moves us, speaks to us,” she countered.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Jon couldn’t hold back his consternation. “There is no life in a machine, no beauty.”
“There is power and strength.” Her eyes grew wide with wonder. “Even majesty. I long to capture it on canvas.”
She spoke with such reverence that he had no choice but to believe her sincerity. The conclusion momentarily threw him into a quandary. It seemed like such an innocent request—on the surface. There had to be more to it. Jon sorted through the various possibilities in his mind, finding no answers.
He cast a critical eye over the reaper thresher, unable to understand her fascination. Or more importantly, condone it. Sadly, inherent trust in others was a quality that no longer existed in him. Not after Dianna had made him look like such a fool.
“Your interest in our work is flattering. Nevertheless, I must ask you to leave,” Jon said.
“Oh, dear. Won’t you reconsider? Please?”
He hardened his resolve against the hopeful expression on her face. She was a lovely woman, but he had learned the folly of allowing a pretty female to so strongly influence his decisions.
“My decision stands,” he said firmly.
“Oh, I am disappointed to hear it,” she said in a small voice.
A bolt of emotion seared through Jon and it took a moment for him to identify it as guilt. Why? He owed her nothing. Quite the contrary. He owed himself—and Norris—the necessary privacy to complete their work.
Yet witnessing Miss Ellingham’s dejection was difficult. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes lost their fiery excitement. He felt like a cad, a villain.
“It’s not ready,” he admitted, needing to somehow soften the blow. “And until it is, I cannot share it with the world.”
She looked taken aback. “I can assure you, that I have no plans to exhibit my paintings.”
Her sincere declaration should have reassured him. It did not. The risk of having the design stolen was the least of his worries. Enduring a public failure and possibly humiliation was the main reason he needed to keep his invention unseen. By anyone.
For the past year he had kept himself totally away from London society and mostly away from local society, yet the gossip, whispering, and speculation over being stood up by his bride still lingered. Jon had reluctantly accepted that it would forever be a part of his public persona.
Yet the very thought of being once again mired in a situation that exhibited him as a failure and a figure to be pitied, brought him a sense of gripping fear. That humiliation he could, and would, avoid at any cost, even if it meant disappointing the very delightful Miss Ellingham.
He rubbed his fingers against his temples, trying to recall her exact words. “What if you succeed in capturing the power and strength and what did you call it—ah, yes, the majesty of my machine? Would you not want to share that with others?”
“If I give my word, then I keep it.” She bristled noticeably. “I do see a beauty that perhaps others do not, yet there is no need to mock me for it, my lord.”
There was a glimmer in the depths of her blue eyes that made Jon draw in his breath. She was lovely in an uncommon way, not soft and delicate, but strong and intelligent. Seductive qualities made even more appealing by her unawareness of their power.
“It was not my intention to ridicule you or your art.” He dipped his chin, ashamed to have lashed out because of his own insecurities. “Truthfully, the reaper thresher is not functioning the way we had hoped. There’s a flaw in the design that Norris and I are trying to correct. Consequently, the final product might look vastly different from this model.”
“I can appreciate the strong desire for perfection,” she said. Turning her chin, she looked him directly in the eye. “And the fear of failure.”
Jon felt a rush of heat on his neck. Silently, he watched her remove the two sketches from the pad. With a sigh of regret, she held them out to him. As Jon reached for them, he heard Norris sniff with disapproval.
Though the viscount was able to ignore his assistant’s censorious look, he admitted Norris had a point. The sketches were merely parts of the machine. He doubted anyone besides himself and Norris—and Miss Ellingham—could understand what they meant.
“Keep the sketches,” he said, pulling his hand back.
She stared at him in confusion. “Are you certain you don’t wish to destroy them?”
“Though you must believe otherwise, I can assure you, Miss Ellingham, I’m not that big an arse.”
“Emma.” She managed a brief smile. “Allowing me to keep the sketches shows great trust. Dropping the formality of our address seems the next logical step. Don’t you agree, Jon?”
Her words warmed the knot of tension in his chest. He liked
how she boldly used his name without waiting for permission.
“I’m honored.” He bowed.
“You should be.” Her sassy reply made him smile.
“As should you,” he countered.
She brushed her hand over the smile on her lips. The action drew his attention to their plump sweetness and he quashed a ridiculous urge to taste them.
“I wish you and Mr. Norris the best of luck. And I promise that I shall not return to your workshop without an express invitation.”
She nodded, looked at Norris and then at him before leaving.
Jon swallowed and made himself relax. There. He tried convincing himself that would be the end of it. She would wait for an invitation that would never be forthcoming. The sharp disappointment would fade in a few weeks and she would forget all about his invention and find something else that inspired her to paint.
Could it be that easy? Probably not. Jon had caught that glimmer of a challenge in Emma’s stunning blue eyes as she left.
He smirked grimly. The end of it? Not bloody likely.
* * *
As she walked back to the manor, Emma found herself pleating the fabric of her skirt between her fingertips. Her disappointment was sharp, the sense of failure slightly depressing. For a brief, glorious time she had felt a pure sense of joy as she sketched, a connection to the woman she had been.
Alas, that fleeting moment was gone in the blink of an eye and she doubted there would be an opportunity to recapture it. She was surprised—and pleased—when the viscount had allowed her to keep the two sketches she had drawn. But that unexpected gesture had not fooled her.
There was no denying the swift, calculating look on the viscount’s—Jon’s—face when she mentioned how she hoped to be invited to see the reaper thresher when it was completed.
True, he had smoothed away the scowl nearly as quickly as it appeared, but Emma had seen it.
Seen it and understood it.
There would be no invitation. That much was clear. Her initial burst of disappointment was difficult to hide from him, but she had managed. She had been gracious and accepting, while having absolutely no intention of being so easily put off.
Every Bit a Rogue Page 6