Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  Lady Kensington studied her reflection a moment longer, clearly undecided, and then removed the hat. "I think not. I'll forgo the style for now. Too conspicuous. But I'll take the gypsy hat."

  The woman's choice was half the price and looked half as good on her. Nicola stifled a sigh and threw her a forced smile. "Very well, my lady."

  A familiar whirring buzzed near her ear, alerting her that Allegro had appeared.

  "She looks like an old woman in a baby bonnet," the pixie whispered.

  Startled, Nicola laughed. As the Baroness threw her a strange look, she ended the giggle in a coughing fit. "Excuse me, my lady, I seem to have developed a slight tickle." She quickly wrapped the purchase in brown paper and handed it to Lady Kensington. Her customer gave her five shillings, the agreed price. Taking a deep breath, Nicola forced down the disappointment and watched the woman leave.

  "No offense, Miss Moore, but why do you put up with an old grouser like that?"

  "I must if I'm going to be a successful businesswoman."

  "At the risk of being scolded, I would like to point out an obvious solution."

  "I know. Marriage to the Earl. But I don't want be a Countess. I want to be my own woman with a successful endeavor that I can claim as mine."

  "You can have that. At least I think you can. The Earl could help you establish the shop. Or, he wouldn't have to do anything other than marry you, which is what he wants. Simply marrying into the aristocracy is bound to bring you respect."

  "But is it worth throwing away any chance at real love?"

  "You don't know that. You might surprise yourself and fall in love with Falconwood."

  "Then heaven help me." Nicola turned to another project, but her heart wasn't in it. She glanced at the pixie, not wanting to talk about it anymore. "You look quite pretty lounging amid ribbon and bows. Too bad no one else can see you. You could make yourself useful and decorate a hat."

  Allegro blurred into a golden star and blew out a delightful tune. The energetic notes reminded Nicola of Beethoven's "Le Nozzi di Figaro."

  She started to scold him for talking too fast, and then grimaced, wishing the little Caller wouldn't bother her in public. Anyone who happened by might think she was short a sheet, talking to herself.

  "Marry the Earl. Gain prestige. Wear the hats yourself. You can start a trend," Allegro sang, improvising the melody with his own lyrics.

  Nicola gathered the ribbon and gave the whirring golden pixie an arched look. "Your suggestions won't sway me." Frustration welled up inside her as she stared at the rejected piece she'd worked on for several days. She picked it up. "That old harridan. I'm going to add this Clockwork Blue ribbon anyway."

  "I'm afraid Glissando won't return any time soon."

  "Why do you say that?" She started fastening the ribbon around the band of the hat.

  "Not that I want to malign another pixie, but he's a slide-note. After all, his name is Glissando."

  The satin ribbon proved difficult to hold, and Nicola had to concentrate to pin it in place, plus it was hard to find somewhere to sew it with all the flowers and gears. "What do you mean by that?" she asked around a pin she held between her lips.

  "Let's just say that he switches sides as fast as he beats his wings. But maybe I'm being too severe in my analysis of him. He does seem to be getting a conscience. I think he was sincere about wanting to make things right with you."

  "Cogs. Well, I covered any mishaps Glissando might claim for an excuse. I sent a letter of my own."

  "Very wise of you, Miss Moore."

  She sighed. "But nothing is a certainty. You know? It really would be something to see."

  "What?"

  "If I were to marry the Earl—which I won't," she quickly tacked on. "But it would be a rare treat for me to appear in my creation with gears and all. I could turn my nose up at that haughty Lady Kensington. Too tawdry, indeed!"

  "Pardon me. Am I intruding?"

  Startled, Nicola whirled to find Falcon standing at the doorway. Her cheeks grew hot. "Oh, no, not at all."

  His dark hair gleamed. Today, he wore a sienna-colored waistcoat with tan trousers. She gazed at the sharp line of his jaw and the stark proud stamp of his beaklike nose. Absently, she marveled at the fact he had a face resembling a bird of prey.

  He glanced about the room. "With whom are you conversing?"

  "Uh, no one." How mortifying.

  He peered behind the door, then turned to study her, his brow knitted. "Do you always hold conversations with yourself?"

  "Not always."

  "But sometimes?"

  Allegro gave a mischievous chuckle. "Only when you are blessed with Callers."

  "Only when I'm cursed with overbearing men." She glared at her small tormentor.

  The Falcon followed her gaze. "So, my pursuit is making you addlepated?"

  "With love," Allegro fluted, grasping his heart.

  "With indigestion," Nicola retorted.

  Falcon widened his eyes and beetled his brows. He glanced under the table upon which Allegro perched. "Are you feeling unwell?"

  She shifted, realizing she had gotten carried away by responding to the pesky Caller. "I do not truly have indigestion."

  "That does not concern me. However, the fact that you seem to be conversing with someone other than me when there is no one else in this chamber does give me cause for worry."

  His alarmed glance gave her an idea. "Ah... you've found me out. I'm quite wrong in the upper story, in addition to being a hoyden. I see pixies. I refer to them as my Callers."

  "You see pixies." The statement came out flat. He still held his eyes wider than normal. Yet they were intent, so sharp.

  But she really wasn't fabricating the pixies, which made her smile. Why hadn't she thought of this before? "Yes. I see them, talk to them, and scold them. They are as big as my pinkie." She held up her little finger. "They have wings that are the colors of a rainbow, and they wear cravats, waistcoats and trouser, although their shoes are strange—they curl at the toes."

  "You say you talk to them. Do they answer?"

  "Of course. So. Are you certain you wish to buckle with me?

  He narrowed his eyes.

  She glanced to where Allegro had perched. The pixie had disappeared. She decided she didn't need him; she could pretend he was still there.

  Tilting her head, she smiled at a bonnet. "Well, Allegro, I wouldn't want to give him false hope."

  "Allegro. You even named them?" Falcon stared at her.

  "No, they named themselves, or rather, I suppose their parents named them. I never really asked. Do you see him? He's sitting there on the hat. Oh, but I forgot, no one can see him but me." She cocked her head at a hat with the curled ostrich feather interspersed with a collage of rusty nails. "What? You lost your pixie dust? Well, don't look at me—I didn't take it. I wouldn't know what to do with it if I had." She ventured a peek at Falcon.

  He continued to stare at her, the intensity in his dark eyes unnerving.

  She raised her chin. "The Clockwork Blue might not be worth the sacrifice of attaching yourself to a woman who is as queer as Dick's hatband."

  Suddenly he smiled. "It will be worth any strange notions to which you might have a tendency."

  "You have a mysteriousness surrounding you that I'm unexpectedly anxious to explore." He grasped a castoff snippet of Clockwork Blue ribbon and feathered it over the seam of her lips, dipping along the underside, the caress making the tender skin there tingle. Then he took the ribbon, now slightly moist, and rubbed it along his own full mouth. The action was strangely intimate. He put the ribbon in his breast pocket.

  Shaken, Nicola stiffened her spine, reminding herself that her station in life was far below his. She busied herself with her hat, desperate to persuade him she was unworthy of his pursuit. "What do you think? It would look good on Mrs. Campbell. You probably didn't know you are attempting to court a milliner who plans to have her own shop one day."

  He cocked his
brows. "Your background as a daughter of a stockinger doesn't deter me. If your unbalanced mind doesn't give me a turn, your trading of hats won't, either. I have heard all about this venture." With languor, he trailed his fingers over her nape.

  His nearness made Nicola's head reel, her stomach to lurch like an old steamcar. She stepped to the other side of the table, using it as a barrier. "Well, I enjoy the work. There is nothing so fulfilling as seeing a lady walk down the street in one of my creations." Retrieving a wide ribbon to complement the one she had just used, she pleated it around the bonnet.

  "Nicola." He fleetingly touched the back of her hand, causing her to still. He had incredibly long fingers—broad and immensely masculine.

  His eyes mesmerized her, beckoned. What would it be like to really have the love of this man? The thought completely unnerved her.

  With effort, she tore her gaze away. "What?" Her cranky tone was rude, but she didn't care because survival was more important. Refusing to look at him, she concentrated on tying a length of ribbon into a large bow.

  "Nothing has to change once we wed."

  She had expected a wooing, but not this. Halting in her task, she glanced at him, confused. "What do you mean? I'll have a husband with whom to contend!"

  "Not necessarily."

  She was more than confused—she was utterly baffled. "Do you want to marry me or not?"

  "Oh, I definitely wish to marry. However, you can still live in Nottingham and do whatever you wish. You'll be free. I'll not make any demands on you."

  She stared at him. What kind of a life would that be? How could he even contemplate such an arrangement? The man was an enigma and, if she didn't have so much at stake, she would think him an interesting riddle to solve—because never in her life had she known anybody with such intentness to own something that he would sacrifice his own happiness. "But won't I have obligations as the Countess of Falconwood? Not that any of this will come to pass," she added hastily.

  "Our marriage is inevitable, but you'll not have any duties as countess. You can frolic to your heart's delight." He retrieved a hat made for evening dress: a cap of white satin, its band edged with brass washers. With slow calculated precision, he place the bonnet atop her head, caressed her cheek as he drew away.

  Her breath snagged in her throat at the almost tender sensation. Biting her lower lip, she removed the hat, hoping to remove the tremors caused by what she knew was a parody of affection. "Are you saying you plan to be married in name only? A carte blanche?"

  "Eventually I would like an heir."

  She was becoming more confused by the moment. "Then, I would have to contend with you," she insisted.

  "For the most part I'll leave you to your antics, Miss Moore."

  "Oh? And where would you be?"

  "I'll be busy in London and at my various mills, overseeing business. You will hardly see me."

  A shiver snaked down her spine at the thought. But at the very least he would expect companionship and similar values. How could they even discover common ground if he wasn't present? Was his blood made of ice?

  Hardly, since her cheek still tingled from his touch. She could still feel the outline of his lips on her temple. Or was she so plain, so much beneath his station that he didn't want to associate with her, much less be seen with her? That must be the reason for his aversion.

  Oh, how she wished she could be loved for herself.

  The idea caused a cold steel rod to hollow out her stomach.

  She hid her pain with sarcasm. "Ha! Some marriage you are proposing. Why, you make a gel positively lightheaded with your sweet words." She batted her eyelids in exaggeration.

  He cocked his brow, surprised. Then his eyelids lowered. There was no mistaking his intent. "Would you like sweet words? To hear that your hair is like spun honey? Combined with your fiery spirit, I have discovered a treasure trove I never expected to find in the pursuit of the Clockwork Blue."

  She had been leaning over, totally ensnared by his words, but at the mention of the dye, the spell dissipated. Never would she succumb. Why, if he'd only involved her and left Ramsey out of the concoction, she would have allowed him to send her to gaol rather than wed a husband who didn't want her for herself.

  "Are those the sort of words you want?"

  "I prefer to have no words at all," she retorted.

  More determined than ever to thwart his plans, she continued to work on her bonnet, pinching lace next to the brim, all the while thinking of how she could get Ramsey not only on tour, but in the House of Commoners to legally fight the battle for the stockingers. That way, he would never be tempted to break the law and, therefore, expose himself to danger, and she wouldn't be in the danger she was in—that was, this danger to her heart.

  For she could see how easy it would be to care for him. She couldn't understand her certainty on this but although he put on a fierce visage that warned everyone to keep their distance, she sensed a wounded soul. And she was a sap for anything or anyone that hurt.

  She retrieved her needle and stitched the frippery in place before reaching for the scissors, determined not to look at him. Because if she did, she feared he would see her vulnerability.

  He laid the scissors within her grasping fingers. "I would think you'd be content to be ensconced in the country. You could make hats and talk to pixies to your heart's desire."

  "Then why wed if everything is to remain the same? There is nothing that would benefit me." The thought of marriage to a man she'd never see made her heart shrivel. She would much rather spend her days making hats and living alone, taking care of Ramsey's scuffles. The idea of not knowing if she was welcomed or even wanted in her own home was unbearable, not to mention the thought of experiencing physical intimacies and bearing a child in that sort of a situation.

  "You would be wealthy." He bent to retrieve a scrap of pink tassel from the floor and laid it neatly atop some other scraps she'd managed to gather in her frenzied work, and then brought quick order to the pile.

  "What satisfaction could I possibly find in obtaining riches not of my making? I would rather go to London and peddle my wares."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Just think, my designs could start a trend for the season. I could set a new course by being the first woman to model her own design at the ball."

  "You might get your wish." He extended a folded piece of foolscap from his breast pocket.

  "What is this?"

  "The post. I took the liberty of retrieving your letter."

  Wary, she snatched it out of his hand and read the address. It wasn't from Mr. Hamilton. "Was there nothing else?"

  "Were you expecting something else?"

  She scowled. "No." Breaking the seal, she scanned the contents. Her amazement grew. "What? This is an invitation to the Garland Ball. It must be a mistake." The idea of attending such a ball, only for the very elite, made her positively itch. She wouldn't know what to do, how to act. At the same time, she wondered just how it would feel to be a part of such an opulent event. Like Charles Perrault's version of Cinderella, she imagined she would be like a lovely stranger always wondering when her ruse would be discovered and she'd be run out on a rail.

  He shrugged. "The envelope has your name on it."

  The fact that he didn't seem the least bit surprised made her suspicious. "You had something to do with this, didn't you? Are you attending?"

  Raising his brows, he appeared slightly surprised. "I'm toying with the notion; especially since I want it known that I'm courting you."

  The thought of him courting her when everyone would know it was for ulterior motives made her chest burn with humiliation. Besides, she didn't know the first thing about entertaining a gentleman. "You won't see me at any such social gathering. A herd of... elephants couldn't drag me there."

  She was too quick, Malcolm realized, too observant. He had to step more carefully. He had used a little coercion to force Lady Garland to invite Miss Moore to the ball, but the thought of attend
ing a function with her that normally bored him to tears had lit a spark near the chunk of ice that served as his heart—if he wasn't too much the cynic to believe he had one.

  It's your fascination with the dye and the fact that you'll soon own it that makes you feel alive, he told himself. But that she fought him with a tenacity he'd rarely experienced was also a reason for his unexpected interest. "Elephants? That could be arranged. I still have ties in India."

  With a roll of her eyes, she crossed her arms against her chest. "I tell you, I won't go."

  He was coming to anticipate that stubborn tilt of her chin, that flash of defiance in those sapphire eyes that sparked when provoked. "That's a shame. You could wear your stunning hat and wave your fan at the haughty Lady Kensington."