by James, Syrie
She had been down to the beach several times, but had never ventured along the dirt path extending in both directions atop the bluffs. Madeleine knew she was wearing the wrong shoes for such an outing. But the expansive deep blue sea framed by the curve of the rugged cliffs made such an enthralling picture, she couldn’t resist the opportunity to further explore the view.
Heading off to the south, Madeleine inhaled deeply. The sea air was invigorating. Wind rustled through the grass and nodded the heads of tiny pink flowers that bloomed like a carpet on either side of the path. Madeleine found it hard to believe that less than a week ago, she’d been in smoky, traffic-ridden London. She felt so free here. Part of her wished she could stay forever.
As she strolled, Madeleine’s thoughts drifted to her sisters. Madeleine graduated from Vassar in early April, and her mother had whisked her away to New York City that same morning to prepare for their voyage abroad. That was the last time she’d seen Kathryn. She hadn’t seen Alexandra since her wedding the autumn before. She missed them both dearly.
Growing up, they had talked about everything and rarely made a decision without consulting the others. A letter could never take the place of a personal conversation. Madeleine could hardly wait until she saw Alexandra again, to hash out the question that was hanging over her head: Should she, or should she not, marry Lord Oakley?
She recalled the night she and Oakley met, at the ball at Wellington House. She had noticed him immediately upon his arrival, a tall, good-looking man with ginger hair and an athletic build, who stood elegantly in his white tie and tails, as if unaware that the eyes of the entire female population of the room were upon him. As the eldest son of a duke, he was naturally the subject of much conversation and speculation. It was said that he was looking for a wife, and all the young ladies longed to dance with him.
Just before the first set began, Oakley arranged an introduction and asked her to dance. Madeleine’s dance card had already been full except for one waltz toward the end of the evening, which she had given to him.
In the exhausting rush of dancing and making small talk with one partner after another, Madeleine had entirely forgotten about Lord Oakley, until he’d appeared before the designated set and held out his hand. He proved to be an excellent dancer, and his conversation was both gentlemanly and discreet.
She danced with Oakley at two more balls after that, sat beside him at two dinners, and he escorted her and her mother to the theater and the races. On each occasion, Madeleine had enjoyed his company. The four days that she and her mother had spent at his family estate had passed pleasantly. Although it was clear that Hatfield Park would benefit from an infusion of funds, Oakley had only mentioned Madeleine’s fortune once, and seemed to admire her for who she was.
Madeleine knew she should be over the moon about the match. To live at Hatfield Park would really be something. And to be a duchess! She had sensed that he would make her an offer. But when the moment came, Madeleine had unexpectedly frozen. She hadn’t been able to say the words. When she’d told Oakley she needed time to consider his proposal, he’d been as gracious as could be. She could give him her answer when he returned to England in three months, he agreed, after his European tour.
It felt strange to be in this state of limbo, to have her future so unsettled. If only Alexandra would reply, and say when she’d be coming home. It would be a relief to go to Polperran House, to discuss the situation with her sister.
These musings were interrupted by a gust of wind that tugged at her hat. Madeleine reinforced the pins holding the hat in place and refocused her attention on her surroundings.
She was in an area with wide-open vistas that looked very wild. Waves crashed against the black rocks below, sending up plumes of foamy spray. It occurred to her that she’d walked further than she’d intended, and might be quite a long way from the house. The clouds had grown darker now, completely obscuring the sun. She suddenly worried that it might rain.
It had been a mistake to wear one of her best day dresses and hats on this outing, and her new yellow shoes. At the very least, she should have worn her cape and brought an umbrella.
Madeleine was about to turn back for the house, when she caught sight of a tall, roofless stone building in the distance with an attached tower, that was situated close to the edge of the cliff. Pausing, she noted several workers milling about the structure, and wondered what it was.
At the same time, she noticed a man on horseback heading away from the building, in her direction.
The horseman was Lord Saunders.
Madeleine’s heart skittered. She’d thought he was still in Truro. Or wherever he’d gone. Even from this distance, she saw that he had recognized her as well. He smiled and waved.
As he rode toward her on his dark horse, she couldn’t help but notice how well he looked in the saddle. He sat tall and straight, his riding breeches hugging his muscular legs, his gray suit coat seemingly molded to his lean frame.
She realized she was glad to see him. Her earlier reservations about Lord Saunders had mostly been mitigated. There was still that thing about his reputation where women were concerned, but it didn’t bother her much anymore—she’d discovered so many things about him that she admired. He was generous and thoughtful. He was beloved by his family. And, if her theory was correct, he was a highly talented artisan as well.
“Good afternoon,” he said, trotting up. He brought his horse to a halt with a nudge of his knees, gently patting the beast as it waited and snorted. He wore no hat, and the brisk afternoon air whipped through his curly brown hair. “On a solo jaunt, are you?”
“I am.”
“I have had no news of my father for several days. Do you know . . . can you tell me how he is faring?”
“From what I heard, there has been no change. Thankfully, he has had no more seizures.”
“Thank God for that.”
Madeleine decided to satisfy her curiosity with a bold question. “Your mother said you were in Truro?”
He nodded, his expression unreadable. “On my way home now. Stopped at the mine on the way.”
“The mine?”
He gestured at the stone edifice in the distance. “Wheal Jenny, the Trevelyan mine.”
“I had no idea your family owned a mine.” Madeleine was fascinated.
“Are you walking on?” he asked. “Or returning to the house?”
She gazed up at the dark clouds. “I’m heading back. It was so nice when I set out, but I suspect we are in for a shower. I am woefully unprepared.”
“As am I.” He glanced down at her. “May I walk with you?”
“I have no objection,” she admitted readily. “But if it’s going to rain, hadn’t you better ride? You’ll get home faster.”
“True, but I wouldn’t want to leave you to face the elements alone.” In one smooth motion, Saunders dismounted from his steed, still holding on to the stallion’s reins. “And I am sure Tesla would enjoy your company.”
“Your horse’s name is Tesla?” Miss Atherton asked with a grin.
Charles nodded as they walked side by side along the path atop the bluffs. “It is.”
He had been surprised to come upon her like this, but it hadn’t been an unwelcome surprise. That morning, several days ago by the fountain, he’d sensed that Miss Atherton’s attitude toward him had changed and softened, which pleased him. He liked her—liked her a great deal—and preferred her as his friend, rather than his enemy.
Over the past few days, although he had dived into his work with relish, his thoughts had often drifted, despite himself, to the lovely Miss Atherton.
He knew he couldn’t have her. And shouldn’t want her.
But a man could look, could he not? And in her yellow summer frock, she looked as fresh and pretty as the daisies adorning the hat perched atop her reddish-brown curls.
He found himself wondering what she would look like without that summer frock. Stripped down to her corset and knickers. Her lus
cious hair down and long and cascading around her shoulders.
His mind took one step further. Imagine her naked in bed. Writhing beneath you. Or on top of you.
No, don’t. Do not imagine that.
Three words: Title. Hunting. Heiress. Just like Elise Townsend.
Although in truth, she was nothing like Miss Townsend.
“In honor of Nikola Tesla, I presume?” she was saying.
He blinked and stared at her. “You have heard of Nikola Tesla?”
“Last year, I believe his alternating current induction motor was licensed by Westinghouse Electric?”
Charles laughed. “I don’t know why I should be astonished that you know that. But yes. Tesla is one of my heroes.”
“There has been quite a furor, hasn’t there, of competition between the electric companies?”
“Yes.” Saunders laughed again, both impressed and delighted to have someone with whom to discuss a subject which was of such great interest to him. “Edison Electric has been trying to claim that their direct current system is better and safer than alternating current.”
“Which system do you think is safest?”
“Tesla’s, no question.”
They launched into a lively discussion about what had been dubbed the “war of the currents.” Charles gave her a sidelong look as they talked and strode along, Tesla nimbly keeping pace at his side. He had been convinced that Thomas had found and wed the only woman on earth who combined beauty and wit with a bold nature and fiery intelligence. He now saw that these traits ran in the family.
“You know,” Charles said at length, “you are the first woman with whom I have ever held such a conversation.”
“I hope I am not the last,” she said, smiling. Glancing back in the direction from which they had come, she added: “Lord Saunders. About your mine. What did you call it again?”
“Wheal Jenny.”
“Has it been in your family long?”
“Over a hundred and fifty years. It is nearly played out now. Most of our tenants are farmers—oats and barley. But Wheal Jenny brings in a small income and more importantly, keeps a few of the locals employed.”
“Why is it called Wheal Jenny?”
“Most Cornish mines are prefixed with Wheal. In Cornish it means a place of work. Jenny was the name of my great-great-grandmother. It was named after her.”
“What a wonderful legacy. What minerals do you extract?”
“Tin and copper.”
“Copper?” Her eyes lit up, as if that fact was of some great significance. After a pause, she said carefully: “That’s one of the materials used in those beautiful hairpins you gave the ladies, isn’t it?”
Her tone and expression made it clear that she suspected something. He didn’t want to open that door, however. “I suppose,” he answered with a shrug. “I didn’t ask the artisan what they were made of.”
“The artisan?” She gave him a look. “Lord Saunders. You don’t have to play coy with me. Your mother and sisters informed me of your . . . shall we say, creative talents . . . in your youth. I understand why your father disapproves of such activities, and why you feel you must hide them. But I don’t agree with him. And I don’t believe for a minute that you’ve given them up.”
“Miss Atherton.” Charles searched for a proper reply, but she went on:
“I know about Raven and Frederick.”
That caught him off guard. Why on earth had his sisters shown her Raven and Frederick? “What do you mean?”
“I mean that, no matter what you say, I am certain you made them. And that you made the lovely copper tree for your mother, as well. They are magnificent sculptures, Lord Saunders, so imaginative and intricate. If you will take me into your confidence, I promise I will say nothing to your father.”
Charles opened his mouth to deny it, then shut it again. He didn’t like lying to her or anyone else about this. But she was so complimentary. Could he trust her to be discreet? He sensed he could. He could tell, in any case, that she was never going to take no for an answer. With a small chuckle of resignation, he said, “You win, Miss Atherton. I did make the hairpins. And Raven and Frederick.”
“And the copper tree?” Her blue eyes sparkled with triumph.
“And the copper tree.”
“I knew it! What an incredible talent you have. I am quite in awe.” The wind whisked a strand of hair loose from beneath her hat and made her skirts billow. “Where did you learn to make such things?”
“I taught myself. When I was about seven or eight, I found an old broken clock in the attic and took it apart, trying to fix it. I failed miserably. But I had an idea for a way to reassemble the wheels and gears and other parts to make myself a tiny toy wagon. I asked my father for some metalworking materials, and he provided them, although begrudgingly.”
“It’s a shame your father is so firmly against the endeavor, just because you are a peer. Alexandra’s husband faced a similar issue with his art. Although Lord Longford desperately needed the income, he wasn’t allowed to sell his paintings.”
“There is a difference, though,” Charles pointed out. “I have no need to sell anything. I pursue my art, if you will, because it is my passion. I am happy to give it away. Yet still Father disapproves, because he sees it as rather grubby work. Because it involves working with my hands.”
“I wish it were otherwise.” She gave him a bittersweet smile. “It is painful to be obliged to hide something which means so much to us.”
He glanced at her, catching her drift. “You have to hide your writing?”
“I do. My mother has no idea that I cart my manuscript around with me.”
“Also a shame.” He thought it interesting that they had this problem in common.
“What would you call yourself, then? A sculptor? A metalworking artist?”
Charles paused before answering. She seemed to think his activities were limited to the kind of ornamental objects he had made for his mother and sisters and Sophie. He decided it was best not to correct her misconception. “Something like that.”
“Is Truro just where you say you’re going, when you’re actually going away to work somewhere?”
His lips twitched with the effort to hold back a smile. “Perhaps.”
“Where do you work?”
“Ah. That is a state secret. I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you.”
She laughed. “I think I read a phrase like that in a novel by Dumas.”
“Did you? And here I thought I was being so original.”
“You may not be original, but you are being coy again. I know you must have a workshop. The day you rescued my notes from the fountain, you had those hairpins in your pockets. You were only gone for half a day. So your workshop cannot have been too far away.”
Charles grinned. It didn’t surprise him that she had figured that out, clever as she was. “I have said all I am willing to say on the subject, Miss Atherton.”
“Really?” She didn’t try to hide her disappointment. “After all that, you’re going to leave me in the dark?”
“I am.” Just then, a fat drop of rain smacked Charles in the eye. He blinked it away, aware that the sky had grown black and angry. “Do you ride?” he asked her.
“Yes. Why?”
“Because I think we are in for a shower. Tesla is a spirited beast. Do you think you could handle him?”
Chapter Nine
“Thank you for the offer,” Madeleine told him as they walked along. “I’m sure I could handle Tesla. But I only ride sidesaddle.”
Saunders blew out a disapproving breath. “Do you know why women ride sidesaddle?”
Madeleine had never given the matter much thought. “I believe it’s partly for modesty’s sake, and partly because we wear long skirts.”
“A commonly held yet mistaken impression.”
“Is it?” Scattered raindrops began to dance lightly on the ground.
“The practice dates back to 1382, w
hen Princess Anne of Bohemia rode a specially constructed sidesaddle across Europe on her way to marry King Richard II. It was seen not just as a way to protect her modesty, but also her . . . virtue.”
Madeleine felt her cheeks warm at the implication. “I didn’t know that. But even so, the practice has been accepted for hundreds of years. It is the done thing to do.”
“I would never have expected you to hold such a conservative view.”
Madeleine flinched at that. “Even if I wished to fly in the face of convention, my lord, I couldn’t ride astride today. I’m not wearing my riding habit. Anyway, a little rain never killed anyone.”
“Perhaps not. But if you keep walking, the hem of that beautiful dress will get muddy, and you will ruin your shoes. Whereas I can happily walk beside you in my boots.”
Madeleine hesitated. She did hate the idea of ruining her gown and shoes. But . . . “How would I manage it?” she asked uncertainly. Her riding habit had trousers beneath the skirts and a long drape on the left side to cover her legs. But in this dress, were she to climb up onto the horse, her petticoats and ankles would be on view. And her drawers were open at the crotch!
“I shall keep my eyes averted until your skirts are properly arranged,” he promised.
The whole idea was scandalous, and entirely outside of Madeleine’s comfort zone. But the gentle pattering of the rain was picking up in tempo. Now that he’d brought it up, the whole sidesaddle business did seem a bit absurd, as did so many other rules she had followed all her life without question.
Until a few days ago, when she’d left the London Season to come to Cornwall.
A rush of rebelliousness shot through her. “Okay. I’ll do it. I will ride.”
Saunders stopped and the horse stopped with him. “Excellent. Do you require assistance?”
“No thank you. Close your eyes. And don’t peek.”
“I won’t peek.” His deep voice was tinged with amusement.
