The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  She was halfway to them—exposed in the very center of the open expanse of tiled floor—when she heard a boot scrape on stone.

  On the stone of the stairs leading up from the workshop.

  Before her mind registered the oddity of any intruder coming up the workshop stairs, her heart started to race.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she swung toward the door to the stairs in time to see it slowly open.

  A figure appeared in the doorway. Male, tall, powerfully built.

  Even in the poor light, she recognized those shoulders. At some level beyond that of normal senses, she recognized him.

  Her heart leapt and raced again—this time, for a very different reason.

  She exhaled in relief and smiled. “Rand. Checking the guards?”

  He tipped his head as he walked toward her. “That, and checking your brother’s masterpiece of an alarm system. It’s quite ingenious.”

  He drew level with her, and she turned. Side by side, they continued toward the stairs, with him shortening his stride to accommodate hers.

  “And you? This is later than usual for you, I think?”

  She waved toward the sitting room. “I was writing letters and forgot the time.” Ruefully, she glanced at him. “Thank you for checking the alarm. Sadly, William John doesn’t possess a practical bone in his body—he would never think to do it.”

  Rand shrugged, those wonderfully wide shoulders shifting fluidly beneath his well-cut coat. Amusement ran beneath his words as he said, “I’ve worked with quite a few inventors in recent years. None are what you could term ‘practically minded.’”

  She smiled. “I suppose it’s an upshot of single-minded focus.”

  “Indeed. So it seems.”

  Wreathed in shadows, they started up the stairs, and she felt his gaze on her face, not intent so much as assessing.

  “I have to say,” he murmured, “that the three of us complement each other in a rather unique way. William John is unquestionably a whizz at mechanical construction—he truly is your father’s heir in that way. You, meanwhile, provide the essential insights into design—without your input, for all his brilliance, William John wouldn’t have been able to solve the problems the improvements to the power of the engine caused.”

  When he didn’t go on, smiling, she prompted, “And you?”

  “I,” he stated, “arrange the finance, but in this case, I’ve also been pressed into a role I’ve never had the chance to fill before, that of managing the project—doing whatever’s needed to facilitate William John’s efforts and also ensuring the project remains secure.”

  She glanced at his face; his features were calm, his expression at ease and assured. “Have you enjoyed the managing?”

  Slowly, he nodded. “Far more than I would have imagined.” He glanced at her and, in the faint light, met her eyes. He smiled. “I’ve come to see William John’s subterfuge, which was what got me involved and us all to this point, as a boon.”

  She chuckled. “In that, we’re something of a pair. As I told you several nights ago, being brought into the project as I have been has...widened my horizons in a way I had no idea was even possible.”

  Rand felt satisfaction well within him—fueled by his delight in his new role and even more by her pleasure in hers. They reached the landing and turned to continue up the next flight, and he asked, “What about William John?”

  Her reply came instantly. “I have never, ever, seen my brother so...simply happy. He loves what he does, but I suspect he’s never felt so free to simply be himself, with others he trusts to manage everything around him.”

  Rand grinned. “You to manage the house and assist him as required, me to manage the project, and William John free to simply build machines.”

  “Exactly.”

  Emboldened by the ease he sensed between them, he ventured, “And what about you?” He glanced at her and through the dimness met her eyes. “Are you happier, too?”

  Her lips curved, and she looked ahead. “Indubitably. I feel more settled than I’ve felt...possibly ever. I had no idea I’d retained enough of what I must have absorbed in my early years to contribute to any invention as I am, much less that I would find that activity so rewarding.”

  His satisfaction welled and overflowed. Knowing she was content set the seal on his own contentment.

  After several seconds, she said, “Amazing though it seems looking back on the confusion from which we started, it’s all coming together, isn’t it?”

  If he’d been at all superstitious, he wouldn’t have replied, but given their recent advances, he felt they were entitled to hold to hope. “Yes. It’s been something of a scramble, but it is, indeed, coming together nicely. There are only the final tests to run, then we can install the engine into the carriage and be on our way to the exhibition.”

  They reached the head of the stairs, and she made a soft scoffing sound. “It’ll never be that easy.”

  He inclined his head. “True. But we can hope.”

  She chuckled. Deeper shadows engulfed them as they walked around the gallery and on into the corridor that led to their rooms.

  Peace and a sense of companionship quite unlike anything Rand had ever known lapped about his consciousness, soothing, supporting, indescribably comforting. Him and her walking through the quiet of a slumbering house...simply felt right. The conviction that she was the perfect lady for him had taken root in his soul. Practical, down to earth, solidly supportive, with an innate understanding of inventions and inventors that no other young lady could possibly have, she was a foil perfectly fashioned to complement him.

  He would be a fool not to seize her.

  They reached their doors—one on either side—and halted.

  This time, he didn’t hesitate, didn’t let the moment when she turned to bid him goodnight elude him. His eyes seeking hers through the enveloping shadows, he caught her hand; with his eyes locked on hers, he raised her fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. He waited a heartbeat to see her eyes flare, then smoothly drew her closer, nearer—to him—and as his other hand slid around her waist, urging her closer yet, he bent his head and covered her lips with his.

  He’d intended it to be a gentle caress—a statement, an assurance, and a glimpse of what might be.

  But he’d misjudged.

  His inner self leapt at the chance to taste her, to steep himself in the pleasures of her mouth, of her lips and tongue...

  Felicia’s head spun. She’d been kissed before, but never like this—with such direct and compelling mastery that she and all her senses had surged in response. Her lips parted beneath the temptation of his; she quelled a delicious shiver as his tongue teased the slick softness, then slid between and settled to explore.

  To engage and expand her senses.

  Her wits had gone wandering; to where, she didn’t care. Instinctively, she came up on her toes the better to participate in the enthralling exchange; she leaned into him, her hands coming to rest, palms flat, on his chest.

  Even through the fabric of his coat and shirt, she felt the alluring heat of him. Beneath her hands, she sensed the reality of a flesh-and-blood man.

  Desire bloomed. She’d never felt it before, yet she knew it for what it was and embraced it.

  Angling her head, she surrendered to a temptation she hadn’t even thought to resist and kissed him back.

  Minutes of heated communion had passed before Rand’s wits punctured the fog of his senses enough for him to realize how definitely she was returning his caresses. Not shyly or tentatively but absolutely determinedly. With deliberation.

  Desire leapt and passion ignited.

  He tightened his hold on her, dipped his head, and steered the kiss into even deeper waters.

  She made a wordless sound in her throat, clutched his lapels, and followed his
lead with her own brand of ardor.

  Need—sudden and shocking—flared and surged.

  The unprecedented force—fierce and demanding—was enough to rock him. To free his wits from the engrossing fog of desire so he could assess...

  Too far, too fast.

  He knew that, yet...

  It was an effort to draw back from the kiss. To—eventually—lift his head and allow their lips to part.

  He looked down as her lids rose and her wide eyes slowly focused. As he watched, a faint frown invested her expression.

  He was holding her against him, within one arm; his other hand was still wrapped about the fingers he’d kissed.

  Then he saw her eyes search his, search his expression. He cleared his throat and murmured, “That was intended as a thank-you.”

  She blinked. “What for?”

  He felt his lips curve—saw her eyes track the gesture. “For being you.”

  Shackling his impulses wasn’t easy, but he managed to force himself to release her. His arm falling from her, he stepped back. At the last, he opened his hand and freed her fingers. Felt them only slowly slide away.

  He had to clamp down on a flaring impulse to seize them again.

  She continued to stare at him through the dimness, studying him, yet in no way rejecting his advance.

  That knowledge shook his resolution—the assumption that he would allow her to sleep alone that night. He drew in a tight breath, inclined his head by way of a goodnight, then turned and stepped to his door.

  Not yet, not yet. He kept his feet moving. Their connection had evolved so very quickly; she would need time to absorb and accept. Until she did...he had to give her time.

  It couldn’t be yet.

  Felicia watched Rand open his door and, without a backward glance, go into the room and shut the panel.

  Still, she stood staring, her heart thudding. Slowly, she raised a hand and touched her fingertips to her throbbing lips.

  This, then, was how it felt to be swept off one’s feet.

  To be caught up in a maelstrom formed of desire, to fall prey to the need and hunger that flowed in desire’s wake—passions she’d never until now experienced.

  Minutes ticked by as she stood outside her door and considered and weighed and experienced again the feelings he and that revealing kiss had evoked.

  She felt the rippling echoes sink deep, to her soul.

  Eventually, the tumult of her senses faded. Slowly, she turned, opened the door, and walked into her room.

  CHAPTER 9

  The following morning, Felicia remained, if not precisely trapped in dreams of where extending such a kiss as she’d been a party to last night might lead, then at the very least, powerfully distracted.

  Rand and William John had already departed the breakfast table before she reached it, for which she was thankful. William John wouldn’t notice her abstraction, but the source of it certainly would, and the last thing she wished was for the fact that Rand had started to inhabit her dreams to somehow become evident.

  With her blushes spared, she sat and consumed her tea and toast, then girded her loins and, with wholly spurious calm, made her way down the spiral stairs to the workshop. Halting on the second last step, she looked out at the sight of both William John and Rand engrossed in some adjustment that had both of them all but diving headfirst into the bowels of the engine.

  Then, as if sensing her presence, Rand looked up.

  Their gazes locked, then the line of his lips eased into a smile—one that started a warm glow spreading beneath her skin.

  Clasping her hands before her, she managed to haul in a tight breath and drag her gaze to her brother’s downbent head. “Do you need me for anything this morning?”

  William John looked up, saw her, and grinned. “No. Fingers crossed, but after those last changes to accommodate the increased power, the whole seems to be reconciled. I’ve got a few more checks and a handful of possible adjustments to do, and then we should be ready to run the final tests.”

  Keeping her eyes on her brother’s face, she nodded. “Very well. I’ll get back to my usual day, then.” She turned to leave—and let her gaze briefly touch Rand’s. “Send for me if you need me.”

  With that, she retreated to the sitting room. After working her way through her usual meeting with Mrs. Reilly and having learned that the household had run out of ink, she decided to walk into the village and rectify the shortage.

  A basket on her arm, she set off through the woods, following the path the man she’d seen fleeing the house after the attempted break-in had taken. Above her head, birds flitted in the branches, and the sun shone warmly from the summer-blue sky. The air was fresh and clear; with her basket swinging, she walked along, smiling delightedly for no reason beyond her happiness with her life as it was—as it now was, post the changes consequent on Lord Randolph Cavanaugh arriving at her home.

  The path was the shortest route to the village; soon, she was in the general store. After chatting with the owner, she purchased two bottles of ink. On quitting the store, she paused on the pavement to settle the ink bottles in the bottom of the basket. Satisfied with their arrangement, she raised her head and stepped—directly into a gentleman who had to have crossed the road to materialize so suddenly before her.

  Gripping the basket with both hands, she fell back.

  The gentleman stepped back, too. “My apologies, Miss Throgmorton.” Mr. Mayhew smiled at her. “Well met, dear lady.” His gaze fell to her basket, and he held out a hand. “Let me help you with that.”

  “Er...good morning, Mr. Mayhew—it’s not at all heavy.” Nevertheless, Felicia found herself surrendering the basket—then wished she hadn’t; she’d have to get it back from him before she left him. She hid a frown. “I confess I hadn’t expected to see you back quite so soon, sir.”

  Mayhew’s charming smile lit his face. “I arrived last night. The weather’s been unusually benign, so my sketching for the News went faster than I’d anticipated. I’ve been able to take that short holiday I mentioned earlier than planned.”

  “I see.” With the engine so near completion and the exhibition only a week away, Mayhew’s reappearance—as he’d admitted, earlier than he’d flagged—opened a deep vein of suspicion inside her. Endeavoring to keep all sign of wariness from her face and voice, she waved down the street. “I was about to head home.”

  “Ah.” Mayhew glanced in that direction, then met her eyes. “I wonder if you would take tea with me, Miss Throgmorton. In the inn.” He tipped his head toward the inn on the opposite side of the street. “I would like to show you my most recent sketches—I would value your opinion.”

  She searched his eyes, but they and his expression remained open, and nothing more than honest earnestness shone through. She remained unsure if he was genuine or not, but she knew all the staff at the inn, and taking tea in a public place posed no risk. Besides, she told herself, as she smiled and inclined her head in acceptance, learning more about Mayhew wouldn’t hurt. “Thank you, Mr. Mayhew. I would be delighted to take tea with you and view your recent sketches.”

  He beamed at her and offered his arm.

  She laid her hand on his sleeve, and they crossed the street and entered the inn.

  At that time of day, even the tap was quiet, and the ladies’ parlor alongside was empty of occupants other than them. She led the way to the table beneath the window, where the light streaming in offered steady illumination.

  As previously, Mayhew had his ever-present satchel slung over one shoulder. After setting her basket on the floor by her chair, he opened the satchel, extracted a sheaf of sketches, then hung the satchel on the back of the chair opposite her, sat, and placed the sketches on the table before her.

  Despite all wariness, she reached for the pile with unfeigned eagerness. If these were as good as those he’d earlier
shown her and Flora, they would be worth looking at.

  Sure enough, as, slowly, she turned page after page, she was treated to a cornucopia of gentle country scenes, each with some small detail that delighted. Every view was exquisitely and evocatively rendered, displaying a fine eye as well as a fine hand at work. That Mayhew was an exceptional artist was undeniable.

  The serving girl appeared and, deep in his sketches, Felicia vaguely heard him order tea. The tray arrived, and she roused herself enough to pour, then, sipping, continued her perusal of Mayhew’s recent work. Given that there were more than twenty sketches in the pile, she could understand that he might feel a short holiday was in order.

  She finished studying the final sketch and laid it with its fellows. Then she raised her gaze. “These are very impressive, sir.”

  He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I’m glad you think so, Miss Throgmorton.”

  “It was a pleasure to have the opportunity to view them.” She inclined her head. “Thank you.”

  Mayhew’s smile faded. “Actually”—he leaned forward, his forearms on the table and his cup cradled between his long-fingered artist’s hands—“I was especially glad to meet with you again.” When she glanced up, he caught her gaze. “I wanted to ask if you and your family would permit me to sketch the Hall again, this time from different angles.”

  Without waiting for any answer, he rolled on, “The setting is rather unusual, as I’m sure you’re aware—the woods all around lend the house a subtle, almost-fairy-tale quality, and the lines of the building are classic, of course, which only adds to the unexpectedness of seeing it in what otherwise appears to be wild and untamed surrounds.” He focused on her eyes. “Please say you’ll consider allowing me to do at least a few more sketches. The house has fired my imagination, so to speak.”

  He was clever enough to stop talking at that point and simply sit staring at her in obvious and expectant hope.