Steamlust

by Kristina Wright

  “Of course, the images can also be projected externally, for public viewing,” he continued. “I am working at the moment on the problems of color and sound.”

  The enthusiasm in the young man’s voice banished the last of Caroline’s anger. He stood far closer to her than would normally be proper, his bare hand clutching her gloved one. When she took a shallow breath (the only sort permitted by her corset), she caught hints of cloves and jasmine. The scent, in combination with the pitiless sun, made her briefly dizzy.

  She examined him more closely. Although he was dressed in Siamese costume, silk pantaloons and a formfitting white jacket with brass buttons, he wore his coal-black hair cut in Western style rather than bound into a topknot. His complexion was the color of antique ivory. Behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, his eyes were like pools of melted chocolate. His beardless features looked boyish but his broad shoulders and narrow waist suggested he was at least as old as her own twenty-three years.

  “Quite impressive,” she said, finally. “My father will be interested to hear about this.”

  “Your father? Oh dear, please forgive me once more. I get so involved with my little projects that I completely forget my manners.” He drew himself up to his full height, a few inches taller than Caroline’s petite stature. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ruangkornpongpipat Suriyarasamee. Please, don’t even try to pronounce it! My friends call me Pete.” He squeezed her hand and gazed boldly into her eyes. “I hope that I shall be able to count you among them.”

  Caroline felt hot blood climb into her cheeks. “Suriyarasamee—I’ve heard that name, I think.”

  “My father is one of the wealthiest merchants in Bangkok—quite fortunately for me, since he has ample resources to support my investigations. I am surprised that a foreigner would be aware of him, though. Who are you, if I might ask?”

  “Caroline Fortescue-Smythe, at your service,” she replied, still embarrassed by her earlier rudeness. “The daughter of Thomas Fortescue-Smythe, Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s ambassador to Siam.”

  “Ah, that explains it. My father frequently attends diplomatic parties. You may even have met him.” He released her, reluctantly it seemed. “Well, Miss Caroline—I do hope you will allow me to use your given name according to our custom, since Fortescue-Smythe is almost as much of a mouthful as my own moniker—I am truly delighted to meet you. And I apologize most sincerely for my clumsiness.”

  “There was no harm done.” Caroline realized that she was still blushing. Meanwhile, her heart danced a hornpipe under her tight bodice. “I—um—I should get back to our box. My father will be concerned. Please excuse me…”

  “Wait!” He snagged her hand once more and heat shimmered through her. “Do not go yet.”

  “I must. I’m sorry…”

  “It’s such a pleasure to converse with you. It’s not often I meet a woman, Siamese or European, with any interest in technology. Look, are you engaged this evening?”

  “Tonight?”

  “I’ve arranged a little performance at my house, for some of my friends. Another one of my creations. I’d love for you to come see it. With your father, of course.”

  “Well…”

  “I’ll send an invitation with the details to the ambassadorial residence this afternoon. I hope I will see you this evening. Until then, Miss Caroline.” Pete raised her hand to his lips as though to kiss it, but appeared confused by her glove. Finally, he turned her hand palm up and pressed his lips against her bare wrist. He lingered there for an endless moment. The wet tip of his tongue flicked across her pulse point. Electricity arced up her spine.

  He smiled into her eyes, nodded, and moved on, pointing his recording device once again at the horses thundering down the track. The strip of naked skin between her glove and her sleeve tingled long after he’d disappeared into the crowd. It was several minutes before she recovered.

  Caroline threaded her way through the spectators pressed against the rail, wondering at her reactions to the charming, unconventional young man. Normally she was quite immune to masculine attention. Freddy had been flabbergasted when she refused his offer of marriage, especially after the scene in his uncle’s library. She’d been curious, that was all. True, she’d enjoyed the experience, but it was not after all so different from pleasures she could administer to herself. Why would she want to submit to a husband? In any case, her father needed her.

  She reached the diplomatic boxes. Mrs. Vandervoordt smiled and waved as Caroline passed, her apple cheeks pink in the heat. Her husband, the Dutch ambassador, yelled at the top of his lungs as the horses swept by, his stovepipe hat practically toppling off his bald head. The Lázaro-Batistas and the Ortegas called out friendly greetings. Monsieur Charbonnet, however, gave her the briefest of nods, his mouth puckered as though he’d eaten an unripe plum. She returned the minimum acknowledgment custom permitted.

  Wedged between British Burma and French Cochin, Siam was neutral territory. Up on the moon, though, Britain and France were fighting a bitter war.

  “Caroline!” Her father stood so that she could settle her voluminous skirts into her seat. “Where have you been? I was worried.”

  “Sorry, Papa. I met someone—a rather clever Siamese gentleman, though not, I think, all that accustomed to Western women. We’ve been invited to his house this evening for some sort of entertainment.”

  “Really, my dear, we can’t go charging off to some stranger’s place, especially a Siamese…”

  “He’s quite rich, Papa.” Caroline pulled off her glove and reached for the iced lemon juice waiting next to her chair. “I believe you know his father—the name’s Suree-something.” As she raised the glass to her lips, she caught a whiff of cloves—Pete’s distinctive scent, clinging to her skin. The heat was suddenly unbearable, despite the awning arching over their box. The tangy liquid slid down her throat but did nothing to quench her fever.

  “I don’t know…”

  “There’s also the possibility he could be of some concrete assistance,” Caroline argued. “He’s a talented inventor. He might be able to help with the war effort.”

  “All right, all right!” Her father threw up his hands. “We’ll go, if that’s what you want. Now hand me the program. Which horse do you favor in the next race?”

  Their carriage drove at a sedate pace along Wireless Road. Dusk had brought a hush and a hint of coolness to the city. Starlings twittered in the trees that arched over them. Frogs boomed in the canal paralleling the road. Night-blooming flowers perfumed the air.

  Caroline heard a low buzz, coming from behind. As the sound grew closer, the pitch climbed to a whine, as though a massive mosquito were pursuing them. A shape emerged from the semidarkness, something like a giant metallic cigar. It hurtled past their coach, disappearing into the tree-hung shadows ahead. The wind of its passing ruffled the curls on Caroline’s forehead. The horses shook their harness and whinnied in fear.

  “Bloody French bastard,” her father swore. “Showing off. What a waste of viridium!”

  “It might be one of the Siamese nobles,” Caroline countered. “I heard that several of them have acquired these vehicles.”

  “I’m sure it was Charbonnet. He was trying to run us down.”

  “Papa, there’s no way he could have known we were in the carriage. I’ve heard that visibility is extremely limited inside those things.”

  “Hmph. He has his spies. He probably knows exactly what we’re doing tonight.”

  Caroline allowed the subject to drop. Her normally phlegmatic father had a sensitive spot when it came to the French.

  Viridium. That was the cause of it all. Discovery of the rare, energy-rich element in 1872 had turned the world upside down. Gold and silver became near-worthless as viridium prospecting grew to a frenzy. A few fortunes were made. Many were lost. Alliances shifted and conflicts erupted as countries struggled to maintain control over their viridium resources and acquire new ones.

  Powered by viridium,
airships could circle the globe in two days. Ships could dive beneath the seas. Viridium sent rockets to the moon. Britain had arrived first, France a few months later. On that barren satellite, Major Stanley T. Harkness had found vast deposits of the crumbly green substance, coating the floors of lunar craters like algae at the bottom of dried-up ponds: a practically unlimited supply of viridium. Three years later, the rival nations were locked in a battle that had claimed thousands of lives and come close to bankrupting both economies.

  The carriage pulled up before a stone wall two stories high. Caroline’s father announced their names to the liveried guard. The carved wooden gate swung open, revealing a lush, torchlit garden, through which the coach proceeded. They halted in front of a substantial dwelling. A familiar figure emerged onto the veranda.

  “Miss Caroline! I am delighted that you were able to join us. And you must be Ambassador Fortescue-Smythe.”

  Pete was dressed less formally than he’d been at the Turf Club, in loose white trousers and a matching tunic. The snow-white costume emphasized his athletic build. His complexion appeared dark in contrast. His feet were bare. He looked incredibly exotic.

  He clasped her hand in both of his. The scent of clove and jasmine swirled around them like incense.

  Caroline swallowed hard, struggling to control her reactions. “Ah—um—Papa, this is Ruangkornpongpipat Suriyarasamee.”

  “Bravo! You have an exceptional memory!” Pete practically danced over to shake her father’s hand. “Sir, I’m honored to welcome you to my humble abode. But do call me Pete. Please, come inside. The others have already arrived.”

  After removing their shoes, they followed their host into a spacious, high-ceilinged room floored with polished teak. Roughly a dozen men and women lounged on cushions around the periphery. Low tables set before them were crowded with food and drink.

  The musical babble of the Siamese language faded as Pete entered. Their host introduced each of his jet-haired, doe-eyed friends. Their one-syllable nicknames fled from Caroline’s memory as soon as she heard them.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable,” Pete urged, indicating a pile of unoccupied cushions. Then he noticed the ambassador’s discomfort. “Or would you rather have a chair, sir?”

  “That would be excellent, thank you.” Caroline’s father sounded deeply relieved.

  “And you, Miss Caroline?” She thought she caught a hint of laughter in Pete’s voice.

  “The cushions are fine, thank you.” With some difficulty, she lowered herself to the floor. The full skirts of her evening frock definitely hampered her movements. Pete beamed.

  He settled himself on the pillows next to Caroline, so close that his sleeve brushed against her bare arm. She considered whether she should attempt to put more space between them. Ultimately she decided that doing so would be obvious and thus impolite. Pete grinned at her, as though he knew what was passing through her mind.

  “Well, then. I think we’re ready to begin. Kai?”

  One of the women brought out some sort of musical instrument, a flat, triangular box with metal strings stretched from one edge to the other. She cradled the box in her lap and struck the strings with tiny hammers. A cascade of silvery notes shimmered in the night air. They coalesced into a strange but haunting melody.

  The music continued for several measures. The anticipation was palpable. A humid breeze floated in through the open windows. Did the smell of jasmine come from the garden outside or the man beside her? Caroline could not tell.

  In a curtained doorway opposite them, something stirred. A long-fingered hand pulled back the drapery. A dainty foot shone on the dark wood floor. A lovely face appeared from behind the velvet hangings.

  A doll about half human height, costumed in brocade and crowned with gold filigree, stood before them. Placing its palms together, it raised the fingertips to its forehead and bowed to the audience in a gesture of respect. Then it began to dance.

  Caroline had seen performances of the Siamese classical forms by some of the court masters. This automaton appeared no less skilled. Her movements (the doll exuded such a feminine quality that it was impossible to use the designation “it”) were as precise as one would expect from a mechanism, but they conveyed emotion as well. When the music became languorous and sad, the robotic dancer’s limbs seemed weighted with sorrow. When the tempo quickened, joy and laughter animated her gestures. The aesthetic effect and the technical achievement were equally astonishing.

  “She’s incredible,” Caroline murmured to her companion. “Truly amazing.” Pete captured her hand, without taking his eyes off his creation. The coolness of his skin against hers made Caroline wonder if she was running a fever.

  The music reached its end at last. The dancer bowed once more and retreated behind the curtain. The guests broke into excited chatter.

  “Excuse me for a moment, Miss Caroline.” Pete rose to his feet in a single, fluid movement. “I must go accept the congratulations of my friends. I will return shortly.”

  Caroline also stood, with more effort and less grace, and made her way to her father’s side.

  “We’ve got to get hold of that,” the ambassador whispered. “Automatons like that would allow us to win the war.”

  “What? Dancing dolls?”

  “Soldiers, girl! If you can teach a robot to dance, you can teach it to fight. Think of our poor boys, lumbering around up there in those cumbersome spacesuits, carrying a portable atmosphere around on their backs! Clockwork soldiers don’t need air, or food or water… It’s the break we’ve been waiting for, if we can only convince this young genius to work for us.”

  “But Siam is officially neutral, Papa. How are we going to convince him?”

  Thomas Fortescue-Smythe fixed his daughter with his shrewd eyes. “I thought you might have some ideas, Caroline.”

  So it was that Caroline found herself alone with Pete, the last of the guests to leave. She would have been angry at her father for sacrificing her virtue (as he imagined) to political expediency had this not coincided so completely with her own desires.

  “I regret that your father became indisposed,” said Pete, pouring her another glass of excellent French wine.

  “Spicy food frequently disagrees with him.” Caroline settled back into the cushions, closer to Pete. To her disappointment, he sighed and sat up straight.

  “It’s well past midnight. I suppose that I should call for the carriage.”

  She laid a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not really necessary, is it?”

  He started, then allowed her to pull him down to her level. “Caroline? What…?”

  She removed his spectacles, stowing them on a convenient shelf behind them, and gazed into his eyes. She watched the emotions chase each other through those velvet depths: surprise, disbelief and finally understanding. Still, he hesitated. Tired of being patient, Caroline leaned forward and kissed him.

  As though the touch of her lips had freed him from constraints, he grew suddenly bold, pulling her to his chest and thrusting his tongue into her half-open mouth. He tasted spicy and unfamiliar, utterly delicious. Although she had begun the kiss, he soon assumed control. Freddy had been annoyingly tentative, but Pete clearly knew what he was doing. His hands engaged in wanton exploration, molding her silk-sheathed breast, thumbing the nipple, then slipping under her skirts. She gasped when he brushed the bare skin on the inside of her thigh. Sparks flared wherever his fingers traveled. Her quim felt soaked and swollen, aching for his attention. Her many-layered garments were a sweltering prison.

  She stroked his lean thigh through his trousers, then allowed her hand to creep upward. Pete groaned into her mouth as she cupped the substantial bulge she discovered in his groin. He wore no undergarments. The bulb nestled in her palm, quivering and damp, while she ran her thumb around the ridge. He tensed, thrusting into her fist. Under the fabric, his prick felt hard and smooth as polished river stones. It was long and slender, as exotic as the rest of him.

&n
bsp; His lips slid away from hers to nuzzle the sensitive skin below her ear. Her heart fluttered against her stays. Her cunny throbbed, wet and hungry. His cat tongue swirled across her throat while underneath his hand groped blindly, seeking a way into her knickers.

  “Oh, Caroline,” he breathed, rocking against her hand while fumbling with her petticoats. “That’s marvelous! But these bloody skirts…”

  “Shall we retire to your room, then? I should very much like to remove them.”

  “Indeed, a capital notion…” With some difficulty, they untangled themselves. After retrieving his spectacles, Pete assisted her in rising to her feet. The white tent at his groin made her think of a schooner’s sail. “This way, please.”

  Seizing her hand, he pulled her through a shadowy corridor to a room near the back of the house. Compared to a European bedroom, it was rather bare: a mattress arranged upon a pedestal, a carved teak wardrobe, a low table circled by bright-hued cushions. Several oil lamps shed a golden glow on the scene.

  Without preliminaries, the Siamese man untied his sash and pulled his tunic over his head, then pushed his trousers to his ankles and kicked them into a corner. Caroline found herself transfixed by the alien beauty of his smooth, hairless body. Aside from the curly black nest surrounding his rampant cock, he might have been fashioned of marble, like Michelangelo’s David. Still wearing his glasses, he settled himself onto the mattress with a broad grin on his handsome face. Now he reminded her of some classical satyr, his rigid prick rearing up from his loins, taunting and tempting her.

  “Well?” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said you’d like to remove your clothing.”