“You might want to speak to someone,” Fenton suggested.
“I intend to.” Ian snapped the will proclamation from the agent’s hand. “Right now, as a matter of fact.”
The building floated in a pool of gaslight at the edge of the market district, its faded yellow façade shouldered on both sides by richer pastel versions of itself, its large windows and balconies framed by decorative arches and columns. The plaster around the entrance showed its age, its surface covered in flowering vines and cracks that revealed the old masonry underneath.
Ian glanced once over his shoulder before fitting the key to the lock and hearing it click in release. He opened the door just wide enough to slip through and turned the bolt behind him. The hallway was shadowed, lit by a solitary oil lamp at the far end. Noise filtered from closed apartment doors, piano keys and laughter, a lilting refrain sung by a drunken hostess.
He walked toward the stairs and climbed, passing a sculpture of an Egyptian tomb guard with a cat mask and a vase full of reeds. Crimson silk had been hung from one of the floor entrances. Light streamed from an open door, mixing with the smell of cigarette smoke and the clatter of typewriter keys, their rhythm furious in the midnight hour.
Another floor, another wafting hint of voices, lovers arguing in quick retorts, a woman storming naked down the corridor. Ian didn’t stop, didn’t ask, didn’t want to know.
He reached the top floor and paused at the entrance to the large studio apartment that occupied its attic. The door hung open. Cursing under his breath, he slipped inside and locked the door behind him.
The light was dim, a soft glow of lamps that made the mess of it exotic, blankets and clothes piled up high on oriental couches, shelves filled with books and goblets and jars, silver vases choked with flowers, some wilted and brown, and some fresh with buttery yellow blooms, tables with dishes, crusts of bread on gold-rimmed plates, half-burned candles and easels smeared with bright dabs of paint.
He moved toward the windows, catching her silhouette against them. She sat on a stool, paintbrush and palette in hand, her attention focused on the canvas before her. Her nightdress was far too thin, its neckline askew and draping over one shoulder, leaving the other exposed, its fabric pooling in her lap and its hem trailing over her naked thigh.
For a moment, he simply watched her. There were moments when he could do nothing else. She was beautiful and unguarded like this, not the cold woman he’d met once, but warm and alive.
His gaze moved up the curve of her back, taking note of how loosely her dark hair was pinned, how simple it would be to free it, watch it fall wild against her skin.
She swore, snapping the brush back from the canvas, and shook her head. There had been some grave artistic error, apparently, which provided a perfect opportunity to interrupt.
“What the hell were you thinkin’?” he asked.
She startled, her eyes bright as she turned to look. Recognizing him, she swore again, but allowed a smile to turn her lips as she did so. “When did you come in?”
“The door was open.”
“Julia was bringing me something from downstairs. An ochre. I’m in desperate need of an ochre and she has two shades.”
“It could’ve been anyone.”
“Why would anyone else bring me an ochre?”
He stared at her and she laughed. “It was just a moment. You’re too serious now, Ian. I fear you have not recovered as quickly as I have.”
“It’s true, I haven’t.” He moved toward her, glancing at the moonlit turn of the river through the windows, its steep banks surrounded by the glow of city streets and dark buildings. “And you dunna make it easy for me, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this.” He held up the proclamation. “I have no interest in your money. I dinna ask for this.”
Her expression sobered. “Of course, you didn’t.”
“We had an agreement.”
“I never said I wouldn’t invest in your projects.”
“An endowment does not return a profit. It’s a gift.”
“Well, then I shall have to live by my brush.”
“Leda—”
“The money had to go somewhere.” She looked away, attempting to hide her emotion from him. “There was so much and it had to finally be put to good use, you understand. Your project wasn’t the only one to receive an endowment. There were many, charities and societies for needy children. You cannot make me feel bad about that.”
No, he supposed he couldn’t.
“Besides, you’re just being a contentious Northman. I understand you value your independence, but you’re not beholden to me in any sense. I’ve made all my own choices.”
He ignored that, if only to continue being contentious.
Reaching down, he touched her shoulder with his fingertips, tracing the soft line of her nightgown against the skin. “I dunna suppose you’ve given our agreement any thought?”
Our agreement. Even the sound of it was alluring. Her lips parted, feeling the light stroke of his fingers along her back. Yes, she’d been waiting for this. She’d been thinking of it for days, longing for the right moment to touch him, encourage him somehow.
Since the night at her estate, he had been a constant presence, remaining at her bedside after the pain of surgery and through the many nights of chill and fever afterward. He’d promised that she would not return to a life of emptiness, that he would be there to love her and give her all the experiences she craved, if she would only come back to him and live freely without titles or constraints.
She had kept her side of the bargain. The Countess of Caithmore was no more. The bulk of her estate had been given to charities, and one notable submersible venture, with a small-but-reasonable pension reserved for a woman no one knew of.
It was high time he honored his obligations.
She lifted her gaze, meeting the deep blue of his eyes. Had they darkened? The shade seemed richer now, warmed as much by curiosity as emotion. He knew her better than anyone, yet there was clearly more he wanted to know, more he wanted to share.
He stroked his thumb over her cheek and then lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was welcoming, a tender brush along her lips, the soft play of a lover searching for an answer.
Yes. She shivered, a shot of nervous excitement warming her tip-to-toe. The paintbrush dropped from her fingers. The palette clattered onto the floor. She slid her arms around his neck and drew them together.
It had taken months to heal, months of feeling him close, but not close enough, months of admiring the way his shirt draped over the muscular line of his shoulders, the way his hands stroked delicately over his insufferable drawings or the way his expression changed when she woke to find him at her bedside, months of comforting touches that kindled so much more. She had been helpless, so helpless.
But no more.
She was alive, reborn with a fire for life, a hunger for all things missed, and this… this most of all.
He pulled her closer, nudging her into a deeper kiss, caressing like breathing, hard and fast and full of wonder. She felt herself swept up in the need, her skin tingling and desperate under his hands. Reaching down, she pulled the fabric of his shirt up, running her fingers over the tensed muscle of his stomach.
Ian lifted her in his arms and carried her to a sofa draped with velvet and satin coats. He lay her down at an angle, her head and shoulders half-off the cushions, one leg pushed high up over the backrest. She was spread wide, the pink flesh of her quim exposed to his hunger. He lowered his head and began to suckle from her, his tongue slipping between the folds to tease and caress the tender skin.
She gasped and arched her back, accepting the pleasure of it, letting it tighten its sweet grip inside her. He tasted and explored, his mouth teasing bright sensation from her tight little bud. Her body tilted on the couch, the room upside down, the world set asunder as that blinding end came rushing from deep within.
“Ian, more, all of y
ou…”
He released her, shrugging the shirt from his shoulders and unbuttoning the waist of his trousers. He was so beautiful this way, his shoulders thick in the glow of lamps, his arms and hands defined by work, his chest glistening with a crisp swirl of blonde hair.
Leda allowed her gaze to slide down his body as he dropped his trousers to the floor and kicked off his boots. He stood before her, naked as Adonis, his legs long and powerful, the length of his erection jutting up proudly, the cast of light and shadow brushing over the rounded weight of his testicles.
Her quim was wet and aching. She wanted him to slide into her, push in and fill her until she couldn’t take any more. “Ian.”
He knelt on the couch and pulled up the hem of her nightgown, helping to draw it over her head. It slid to the floor in a silky puddle.
His jaw tightened, his hands caressing over the purple knot of scars at her side, a dark spider web along the skin. Too many memories…
She covered his hands with her own, leading them to the plump rise of her breasts, half-closing her eyes as he pushed them together and massaged them, flicking over the nipples with his thumb.
She released a satisfied groan and reached for him, her hands stroking over the hot skin of his neck, into the damp blonde wealth of his hair. Fill me, ease this ache, this need…
Ian grasped onto her hips, positioning himself between her legs. She watched him, the anticipation rising to an unbearable level, her skin fevered under his hands. He clenched his teeth and sank his erection into her. It slid deep, the feel of it long and electric, stretching tight skin.
They both groaned, sharing a moment long promised and now sweetly delivered. Leda marveled at it, a feeling better than anything his brilliant machines could produce, for all their heavy steam and textures. This was something innately recognized, the hungered slide of skin, the dizzying power of human touch and human need.
He pulled out of her, and then pushed in again languidly, his expression flushed with need, his teeth bared in pleasure. She moved against him and the feeling intensified, building between her legs, eclipsing all thought as his pace quickened.
A raw noise slipped out from under his breath, something pained and pleasured, something that thrilled her with its very sound. He began to ride her in earnest, the rub of his cock thick and wet inside her. She dug her fingers into the muscle of his arms, holding fast as her body stretched and surged to meet the crush of his thrusts, pushing in so deep, giving so much.
His skin shone with sweat, the heat between them liquid, the pleasure close and ringing. Too bright. Too exquisite. She threw her head back, releasing a ragged cry as it consumed her. Her body tensed and shuddered, a thick euphoria flooding through every glowing cell.
Ian pulled her close and she held him tightly, wrapping her legs around his waist and grabbing his hair. He plunged deep into her, his muscles strained to the point of pain, then issued a hoarse groan of release against her shoulder. She felt him come, felt him linger in the feeling of it before burying his face in her hair. He kissed her softly, whispering gentle words too heavily accented to understand.
“Beautiful,” she said.
“Aye.”
“You were right. No machine could ever be your equal.”
“I’m gratified you are so well pleased.”
“A machine can be run all night without mercy, however. Your endurance in this matter has yet to be measured.”
His lips curved into a lazy half-smile. “I’m to be stress-tested then?”
“Without mercy, I expect.”
“Hmmm.” He didn’t sound disappointed.
She grinned, turning over on the couch, adjusting as he did. They ended up holding each other on the cushions, the drowse of pleasure and contentment lingering in their closeness.
“What now, Leda?” He asked, his voice soft against her ear.
“You mean with the Countess gone?”
“That’s part of it.”
“I’m going to paint. My sister had talent. I’m learning. If I fail miserably, I shall discover something else. That is what awaits me. A life of learning, of doing and not being afraid to do.” She tilted her head, looking at the canvas propped on the easel against the windows, its swatches of color bright in the glow of lamplight.
“I shall, however, need a new name. Leda Elizabeth de Rochford Montclair, Countess of Caithmore, is far too deceased to paint.”
“Too long a name for an artist anyway.” He pulled her closer, his breath warm. “I might suggest something shorter.”
“Like?”
“Leda Anderson.”
She felt herself go quiet with shock. “Anderson.”
“Suits you, I think.”
“And it suits you?”
“Extremely well, I find.”
She smiled, her view of the easel blurring with warm tears. “Leda Anderson it is.”
About the Author
Morgan Karpiel
Morgan Karpiel is a RWA Golden Heart Finalist (2005, 2009 & 2010) and the recipient of the prestigious Maggie Award of Excellence in Fiction. She is currently working on the next novella in her erotically-charged Fantasies of New Europa series. The first of the series The Inventor is currently available. She also welcomes you to visit her website at MorganKarpiel.com
Table of Contents
Cover Image
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Preface
The Dilemma
A Moment's Reflection
A Wondrous Surprise
The Experiment Goes Too Far
Dire Consequences
A Clever Ruse
About the Author
The Inventor Page 7
