by Sharon Page
“Sebastian, I’ve told you, I can’t fall in love with you.”
“I won’t lose you to Langy,” he said darkly. “I’ve come second to him my whole life. I’ve always been the disappointment. I won’t disappoint you, angel.” Then his grandmother walked closer, so he left her and walked over to his friend Captain Ransome.
Zoe needed to go for a drive—because, while she knew she couldn’t fall in love with Sebastian, she couldn’t stop thinking about his brother. After everyone else retired to bed, she pulled on her raccoon coat and went outside, to the garage.
One of the large double doors stood slightly open at the end of the row, letting gold light spill out. The chauffeur must be there. She supposed she would have an argument about taking her car. Squaring her shoulders, she walked inside.
The hood of the Daimler was up. A candle burned, a sight she’d become accustomed to at Brideswell, since it had no electricity. A man straightened as she walked into the garage, her heels clicking on the flagstones.
Dark hair. High cheekbones. Brilliant blue eyes.
“Langford? What are you doing?”
His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing bare, muscular forearms. Grease coated his long fingers. He picked up a cloth and cleaned his hands. Zoe swallowed hard. She’d never felt a spurt of lust like this, watching a man do manual labor, watching a man wipe his hands on a rag.
She had been too close to it in her impoverished past. But as Langford walked toward her, she quivered with awareness.
His vivid blue gaze held her. “You told me you like to tinker on engines. I wondered what the appeal is.”
The wildest ideas went through her head. They were alone in the garage. The Daimler had wide, soft leather seats—
She twirled her beads. “You got your hands all greasy because of me?”
She couldn’t lie to herself, tell herself she didn’t like him because he was icy and austere. She knew too much about him now—about his compassion and concern. She had seen the man inside who could blush, smile, grow embarrassed at compliments.
Langford tossed the rag to a tidy worktable. “I spent four years in trenches. I’ve been a lot dirtier than this, Miss Gifford.” He smiled, surprising her. “Engines are indeed fascinating.”
“Controlled explosions,” she said. “I wonder who first thought of the idea for the combustion engine. Sparking gasoline vapors.”
She walked over to the side of the car. Letting her fingers trail over the body, she moved to take a look at the engine. Her actions were flirtatious. Would he notice?
She didn’t love Sebastian, her engagement was a sham, and suddenly it all felt so empty.
All she’d wanted was love. She’d been given everything else, except the one thing she wanted. This close to Langford, she was aware of him, revved like an engine.
But he seemed unaware. He was looking at the Daimler’s motor. “I think it’s the men who can design these—and who can make them work—who hold the keys to the future. I wanted to come back to Brideswell and keep it the way it was. But I cannot do that, can I?”
Softly she said, “I don’t think anyone can stop change.”
“I saw what was left of France—a wasteland, ravaged. I came back to Brideswell after seeing that devastation, and I vowed I would let nothing touch this beautiful world. I have a duty to protect the people of Brideswell—”
She saw he meant more than just the house; he meant also the farmers, the villagers, the smith, the vicar, his family, everyone.
“But it’s a promise I don’t know if I can keep. The world’s been redrawn and carved up into new countries, but it’s more unstable now than when the War began. Grandmama thinks money is all Brideswell needs. It might help us weather the storm, but it won’t divert it. In the War, it was all about these.” He pointed at the engine. “Newer machines, newer weapons. The old tactics didn’t work, so they decided that whoever could build the best weapon first would win. Aeroplanes, chlorine gas, tanks. But when one side upped the ante, the other met his bet. No one got ahead. Does building engines end now that the War’s ended? No, because this is where the world is going.... And I do not even know how to fix one of these damned things.”
“That’s why you have a chauffeur.”
Langford leveled a serious look at her. “According to my grandmother, war did one thing that was irrevocable. It made people see that many men of our class are just not very bright. Someday my chauffeur will wonder why he’s in the position he’s in when he possesses knowledge that I don’t.”
Langford was truly no longer the man she’d met on that first day. But she couldn’t resist asking him, “Isn’t he supposed to know it’s because he was born to one class and you to another?”
“We all bleed the same,” he said softly. Then he straightened. “I am sorry. Did you come to the garage for your car?”
“I suppose I did. I can’t really remember now.”
If he read the blatant invitation to kiss her in those words, he wasn’t taking it. He unhooked the rod that held up the hood and closed it.
Langford took the ignition keys from a hook over the worktable behind them. “I want to know how an automobile works. How to take it apart and put it back together. I know my horses. I should know my automobiles, not to mention electric lights, telegraphs and telephones. You have embraced all of these things.”
“And you could, too.”
“I accept that I have to. And perhaps you’ve made me see that I want to.”
“Do you drive?” she asked.
“Yes, but not often.”
She took the Daimler keys from his hand, put them back and grabbed the keys to her car.
“Come for a drive with me,” she said. “I need air and speed. And if you’re a good boy, I might let you take the wheel.”
He lifted his brow, looking so ducal, she had to giggle. But he opened the garage door, then got into the car.
Within minutes, they were on the main highway, where Zoe could press her foot harder on the gas pedal and feel the exhilaration of speed. Her headlamps cut two beams through the inky blackness of the English countryside. She had the top down, and her scarf whipped and snapped in the wind as the speedometer surged higher. But she didn’t drive fast for the feel of her hair streaming back or the slap of the breeze against her cheeks. She did it because at this moment, like in her airplane, she was utterly in control.
She knew when to give it the gas, when to shift gears, how to turn the wheel so the car hugged the turns of the road.
The faster she went, the more Langford shifted uneasily in the seat beside her. He didn’t like fast driving—or at least her fast driving.
She couldn’t forget his words. It was the first time he had opened up to her and said anything about the War. She wanted to hear more. She wanted to understand him.
“The world has changed for me mostly in exciting ways,” she said, over the engine’s rumble. “I can vote, drive, fly, have a career, make and keep my own fortune, dance, even make love. The world has changed for you, too—but mainly for the worse. Your world has gone.”
“True,” he said drily. “Everyone wants to run blindly into change. Look at Russia. Germany is collapsing—their money is becoming worthless as fast as it is printed. Almost thirty ruling monarchies have been deposed or abdicated so they could escape before they were killed. The world is still reeling from the wounds left by the War.”
So was Langford. And Brideswell. “What are you going to do about it?” she asked. “Other than marry a rich girl.”
“I could sell off land, but that is a last resort. It would destroy Brideswell. So I need to make stellar investments—which means being clever or lucky in an unstable world. Maybe I can succeed, but I need capital with which to start. I am hoping the investments I have can generate it.”
&nbs
p; “So you do have a plan.”
“Not much of one. No matter what, it means I have to upheave Brideswell. I have to rip people’s lives apart. If I sell land, the people on it have nowhere to go, no means to feed and support themselves—”
He broke off as she rounded a tight turn, only to discover there was a farm’s stone wall right in front of her. Her heart pounded as she quickly turned the wheel. Her bumper just cleared.
“You should slow down, Miss Gifford. You do not know the road.”
“Compared to flying an airplane, Langford, this is moving slow. I’m in control every moment.”
“You might believe you are in control, but anything could happen,” he said sharply. “And you could end up in the ditch, in an overturned car, with a broken neck.”
“Thank you,” she gibed.
“Perhaps I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
She didn’t answer. But she did slow down.
“Pull over,” he said abruptly. “There is something you need to know. But if I reveal it to you, I demand your silence.”
“Then don’t tell me. I despise secrets.”
“It might change your plans, Miss Gifford.”
She slowed down, then turned off the main road onto a smaller track that led to one of the farms. She cut the engine. They were surrounded by darkness. Dots of light identified the farmhouse, but it was several hundred yards away.
“All right, Your Grace,” she asked, “what is it?”
* * *
Suddenly, Nigel realized he could not tell Miss Gifford the whole truth. It was his brother’s secret and he could not reveal it. It might drive her away, but he couldn’t betray Sebastian’s trust—even though his brother didn’t give a damn about anyone but himself.
“Sebastian is in love with someone he cannot have,” he said carefully. “But he wants a marriage with you for financial reasons, and he intends to make you believe you’ve captured his heart. He wants to court you and coax you into forgoing the divorce. But regardless of what he claims, he will never love you.”
She sat in silence, hands gripping the steering wheel. Then she said coolly, “Sebastian will play this my way or not at all.” She reached for the key in the ignition. “So, do you want a driving lesson, Your Grace?”
This was the Zoe Gifford he expected. But now he saw the pain behind her cynical words. He had watched her almost give in to tears over Mrs. Billings’s loss. Saw her delight when Julia looked happy, when Isobel had proclaimed proudly that she wanted to be a doctor.
Suddenly, he saw Miss Gifford was a lot like him. She kept a careful control on her emotions. The blunt, shocking things she said hid what she really felt.
“Not yet.” He put his fingers on her forearm. She let go of the key.
“I didn’t say those things to hurt you,” he said.
“Sure you didn’t.”
“I am trying to help you. Trying to keep you from being scandalized or badly hurt.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said.
“Are you really doing this to get your money?”
She slapped her hands against the steering wheel. “Yes, because I need that money to rescue my mother. She’s got herself in a heap of trouble, and that money is the only thing that can get her out. She had gambling debts and she did something desperate to pay them. And if I don’t help her, she could end up arrested. I know she made a mistake, but she was devastated by Billy’s death.”
“William. Like my brother.” He was watching her crack before his eyes, all her sangfroid slipping away.
“We got a letter, just like Mrs. Billings. That’s why I don’t know how she survived that much pain. I don’t expect you to care, but I want you to know the truth. I’m not doing this for a lark. I’m not wantonly trying to hurt anyone. I have to protect my mother—”
She stopped talking. Moonlight shimmered on tears in her eyes.
Nigel’s heart broke. He knew how she felt. Loyal to her family, responsible to them, willing to sacrifice herself for them.
He shifted in his seat and pulled her into his arms. He intended to just cradle her. Soothe her, because he knew how lonely it was to feel the responsibility to family, to a way of life.
In her soft raccoon coat, she was a warm bundle. She cuddled against his chest, taking hiccuping breaths. Her tears came easily now.
“Damn tears. I hate crying.” She looked up, her eyes huge and luminous. His mouth hovered close to hers, his lips tingling with the awareness of her lush, tempting, scarlet mouth.
His lips touched hers, and he caressed her mouth with his.
He kissed her the way he’d always dreamed of kissing a woman. He cupped her face to hold her while he ravished her mouth. His hand slid into her short, bouncy hair, holding her still to make her his.
Her hand closed on his free hand and she led it under her raccoon coat. She pressed his hand to her dress, his palm cupping her warm, curvaceous breast. His heart pounded. He’d lost his innocence a long time ago, long before the War—his father had insisted upon it, presenting him to an experienced courtesan. That had been nothing compared to this moment.
He kissed her soft, hot mouth and felt the weight of her breast in his hand and the thump of her heart beneath. This moment was breathtaking.
She drew back long enough to whisper, “I want more,” before kissing him hard.
* * *
Zoe gasped. Langford kissed her passionately. Steam must be rising from her skin.
She let her raccoon coat slide down her shoulders. The deeper he kissed her, the more she wanted. She crackled and sizzled like live wires. She would scream if he didn’t touch her.
His hand stroked her, lightly squeezed her through the thin cup of her brassiere. She wriggled on the seat. His mouth moved from hers and nuzzled her ear, her jaw, her throat.
Her moans drifted into the night. She ached for him.
She turned in the seat and slid over to him. Then she got on him, straddling his lap. She cupped his face, her palms on his strong jaw, and kissed him deeply.
Langford pulled back. His face looked agonized. Moonlight glinted on the long scars that ran down the side of his face. “No, this has to stop.” He slid to the driver’s side, lifted her off his lap and placed her down so she was in the passenger seat.
He turned the key—the engine sputtered, then roared. “I cannot seem to resist you. But this isn’t right.”
Pressing the clutch and the gas, he turned the car and drove back out to the highway. Langford drove well, his right gloved hand on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, his left scrubbing his jaw or rubbing his temple.
When they reached Brideswell, he stopped in front of the house. “You can get out here. I will take your car back to the garage.”
“I’ll go with you.”
His gorgeous blue eyes looked so haunted. “No, you will not. You do not like me, Miss Gifford. I would advise you to stay far away from me in the future.”
“Langford, this is ridiculous. There’s no harm in a little kissing.” She was lying. When she was with him, she felt a hunger she never had before. She wanted a lot more than kissing.
She got out of the car, wrapped her coat tightly around her and walked back to the house. How could she want this man so much?
And after that, Langford did a good job of avoiding her, and she avoided him. Mother continually talked about plans for the wedding, but Zoe managed to avoid that, too. Whenever Mother brought it up, she managed to pit the dowager against Mother and distract them both.
She had never shied away from anything in her life. But right now she was avoiding her upcoming marriage to Sebastian. And avoiding Langford.
Until a few mornings later, when she came downstairs for breakfast. Over the past few days, Langford had always been f
inished eating when she arrived. This time he was seated at the head of the table, reading a telegram. His hand contracted fiercely, crumpling the telegram into a tight ball.
She couldn’t just pretend he wasn’t in the room. “Is it bad news?”
He jerked his head up. “Nothing,” he said abruptly.
He looked badly shaken. When he sat for breakfast, he dropped the crumpled telegram beside him, picked up his newssheet. He didn’t notice her take the telegram. She smoothed it out.
When he realized what she’d done, it was too late. She’d already read it.
Langford bolted out of his seat. “You had no right to read that, Miss Gifford.”
Now she could see the raw grief in his eyes. “I wanted to know what had made you so upset. I would be happy to drive you to London.”
“That is not necessary. I will take the train this morning.”
“I’ll at least drive you to the station.”
“I’ll have Carter drive me in the Daimler.”
“No, you won’t,” she said. “The duchess already took the car. Let me give you a lift, please.”
* * *
“All right.” Then Nigel said, hating that it sounded reluctant, “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry,” Miss Gifford said, “that your friend is dying.”
The telegram had come from the sister of his friend Rupert Willington. After struggling for years to recover from his battle wounds, Rupert was dying, had only days left.
It would not be a good idea to be alone in a car with Miss Gifford. At this moment, he could understand what she’d meant when she’d said she wanted more. He didn’t want to think about the death of a friend. The pain was crippling. He wanted to lose himself like he had in the seat of her car.
