In deference to the still-hot August evenings, Marielle had opted for lightweight silk, and rented the perfect ensemble of jacket and bustled skirt. It was appropriate and comfortable. The lace at the cuffs was tastefully embroidered and her own casual white flats and stockings peeped from under the ruffled hem. Gloves, a matching reticule, and a little whimsical hat perched atop her neatly coiled red hair completed the look.
She felt strange, in a rather flamboyant sort of way. It was a thousand percent feminine, very flattering, and she found herself wondering why the hell women had stopped wearing things like this. It was even cool, which surprised her. The breeze belled her skirt and swirled beneath, captured into a soft caress up her thighs and over her very historically inaccurate lace panties.
Instant air conditioning. Another advantage of long skirts.
Smiling a little, she walked to the door of the Steampunk Society, unmistakable with its brass ornamentation and huge cog-shaped knocker in the center.
She'd hoped this meeting would be held at Dane Lowell's gorgeous townhome as some of them were, but apparently he and his new fiancée were away for the month. She was very happy for Dane and Olivia, since she worked with Livvy and liked her. Dane had been one of her professional contacts, but only when she joined the Steampunk Society did she realize he was a member. Up until then, they'd not exchanged anything more than a brief "hello".
News of the engagement came as no surprise to anyone, but it was good news all the same.
Tonight though, talk would probably focus on fall activities, perhaps with a little dancing and some polite social interaction. Even though Marielle was more of a casual attendee, going most often on Sunday afternoons and not always in costume, she guessed it would be basically the same. All very proper, modest, and a lot of fun if you were into that sort of thing.
She was definitely into it, and had made some useful contacts with people knowledgeable about her hobby. One or two members were collectors themselves. She was always aware of the other guests, but seldom mingled with them, finding the disguise of a proper Victorian lady to be an excellent match for her own social reticence.
She'd turned away the interested men she'd met, with both courtesy and conviction. None had appealed to her at all.
And yet...there was something inside her yearning for adventure. Perhaps it was the fact that the summer was ending and she'd nothing special in the way of memories to save from this one. That another season was passing and being recorded in the book of her life as "unremarkable".
That she was, as ever these days, alone. Arriving alone and departing alone.
Therefore, it came as an enormous surprise to Marielle that Saturday nights were indeed very different to Sunday afternoons. And instead of the gentle murmur of voices the sounds of dance hall music assaulted her ears as the door opened and she was ushered inside.
"You're just in time, Ma'am." The correct English butler, most likely a fugitive from every Merchant and Ivory English country house movie, nodded to her. "The dancing's about to begin."
"Really?" She lifted her eyebrows. "Sounds delightful."
"Not a regular then, are we?"
"Actually I am." God, she was starting to sound Victorian as well. "But on Sundays, not Saturdays."
"Well, just goes to show, doesn't it?"
"Uh...yes. Quite." A bit at a loss as to how to respond to the obscure comment, Marielle simply moved on, into the large room that usually held the majority of the guests and the refreshment table.
Not tonight.
The light was fading outside, but the long windows had been opened onto the patio, where candles were being lit. Inside, the room was almost empty of furniture except for a small dais at one end and the music was emanating from a non-historically accurate set of small but powerful desktop speakers.
That hadn't stopped the partygoers, however, since three or four couples were already whirling around in a fast waltz and others ringed the room as they watched. It was a sudden blur of movement, of color...and it enthralled Marielle who discovered she'd forgotten to breathe for a moment or two.
Guests wandered outside through the set of French doors, strolling arm in arm, adding to the overall impression that she'd stepped back in time or into one of those pointillist paintings she'd been thinking about earlier.
There was the faintest aroma of cigars mingling with the late day scent of heat and flowers. For a moment she imagined herself waiting for Toulouse-Lautrec to arrive at her elbow, perhaps with a dancer in tow.
She needed absinthe and a black Egyptian cigarette, not to mention the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones outside the house as the carriages pulled away.
She had no idea if it was even the right time period, but she enjoyed the momentary fantasy anyway. Until her acute hearing caught the sound of chimes over the music. Somewhere a clock was informing everyone it was half-past the hour.
Having been here before, Marielle knew most of the timepieces and this one was new. So she checked her little bit of almost-hat to make sure it was still in place and then set off on a hunt. The next room was styled in the manner of a country house parlor, several chairs, a couch and a fireplace. But no new clock.
However the last public room was a little more sparse, holding a large and scrupulously polished meeting table which might have seated twenty or thirty people for dinner once upon a time.
Not all the chairs matched, but it was a lovely antique and Marielle had often wondered if the Steampunk Society met in costume around it. Occasionally there would be lectures or a friendly card game, and she'd seen one or two backgammon tournaments where the participants were as viciously intent on winning as any ancient gladiator.
Tonight, it was empty but for two people.
And a clock...
She walked in and caught her breath as the two gentlemen lifted their heads and stared at her. She got the feeling she wasn't so much being eyed as she was being appraised, and the sensation intrigued her.
Initially she got the impression of attractiveness, masculinity and intelligence. Or perhaps that came from the glasses the black haired man wore. Silver framed and somewhat Lennonesque, they suited him and gave him a professorial air. The other was just flat-out gorgeous. And knew it, by the looks of him.
She lifted her chin and continued to walk toward them, her attention drawn to the charming little clock on the table, apparently under close scrutiny by both of them. She stopped next to the sandy-haired one and stared down. "Oh, how lovely."
"Yes." The dark haired man glanced up. "We're trying to decide what it is."
"Well, off hand I'd say it's a clock..."
A snort from the sandy haired member of the team greeted her comment. "Good guess." His voice was deep, his tone dryly sarcastic.
She ignored him. "From here, I'd make the initial supposition that it's British. Perhaps from the 1870s. The cloisonné work is excellent from what I can see, and that would make me think of Howell and James as the creators."
A stunned silence greeted her words. She ignored that as well. "The size is right, the Dore bronze gilding seems intact...if I may?" She moved closer, nudging Glasses-Man out of the way. Yes, her instincts were right on the mark. It wasn't something she'd buy for herself, but it was a real beauty nonetheless.
"I'd estimate its worth at perhaps three thousand if it has the proper reliable provenance, although a couple of collectors vying for it at auction could probably drive that up quite considerably. Of course it could be an imitation. But I'm not about to go poking around inside for verification." She smiled serenely, waiting for a reaction.
Their jaws didn't exactly snap shut, but it was close.
"Madam, I'm...speechless." Glasses-man bowed and took her hand. "Ian Mathews at your service." He raised her arm and kissed her knuckles, the warm of his lips penetrating the thin lace of her glove.
"I'm Tad Fisher." Her hand was taken by Mr. Aren't-I-Gorgeous. He kept his eyes on hers as he lifted it to his lips, turned it over a
nd pressed a kiss into her palm. "Intelligent and stunningly beautiful. It's our lucky day."
"We own a little place called Time Travelers, Miss—?" Ian tilted his head and smiled appealingly.
"Todd. Marielle Todd. A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. Oh..." her brain connected the dots, "the antique store, yes? On Newbury Street? I've passed by on occasion."
The one called Tad still held her hand. "I hope next time you'll come...inside, Ms. Todd." His pause was deliberate and Marielle sensed something in the air. Some crackle of awareness tickling at her subconscious. "Since you obviously love clocks, we have some interesting items you might care to see." He smiled, his lips a perfect curve, his blue eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly at the corners. "We'd even let you play with them if you ask us nicely."
Ian laughed and Marielle dragged her gaze from Tad's. "And that, Ms. Todd, is the first time I've heard those words from his mouth. He's very particular about who gets to touch what."
Enjoying the repartee and, yes indeed, reading every little nuance from their double-entendres, Marielle smiled back. "In that case I'm doubly honored, gentlemen. It's not every day a girl gets such an opportunity. I will have to make a point to stop in and let you show me what I am allowed to play with."
She kept her expression to light amusement, aware that her pulse had quickened in response to the charm and undeniable sexual appeal of both of them. Neither was young, she gauged their ages at somewhere between thirty and perhaps thirty-five or a very young forty.
They were grown men, not boys, with the wit and intelligence to match. She found that combination very appealing.
"Until then, perhaps we could persuade you to dance?"
"With you both?" She lifted an eyebrow.
"I think one at a time for the moment."
Before she could fully grasp Ian's answer, he offered her his arm. Tad moved to her other side and with a certain degree of pleasure, Marielle allowed both men to escort her back to the little ballroom where the waltz was now in full swing.
"Me first." Ian didn't wait, he slipped his arm around her waist and before she knew it she was whirling around the floor as if she did it every single day. Blessing her high school dance lessons, which she'd abhorred at the time, she looked up into Ian's face. "I haven't met either of you here before. Have you just joined?"
He shook his head. "No, we've been members for a while. This is a wonderful resource, not only for antiques we can take on consignment but also for people like yourself who have an interest in various objects. We're not proud." He grinned, looking for a second or two like a charmingly naughty schoolboy. "We'll pick brains clean if we think there's anything in 'em."
She couldn't help an answering chuckle. "Are you often disappointed?"
"More than we'd like but less than we expected."
"Fair enough." She nodded, enjoying the firm way his arms encircled her and the command he showed as he led her easily through the steps. "So you and Tad have known each other for some time, I take it?"
"We're not gay, if that's what you're asking." Ian glanced down at her while avoiding another couple spinning around in one spot.
"It wasn't, but thanks for clearing that up."
"We met at a funeral."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Sad occasion, I'm sure." She watched his eyes, warm and alert behind his round glasses. They creased as he smiled.
"His pet turtle. We were—what—three, maybe, or four. A very solemn occasion, but the poor guy was distraught."
"I can imagine." Her lips quivered.
"It was a splendid funeral. The dandelions looked magnificent on top of the shoe box."
She couldn't help the peal of laughter his words caused; heads turned here and there as the sound rang out over the music. Over a choking hiccup, she gathered her wits. "And you've been friends ever since?"
"Pretty much, yeah. We went to the same elementary school, parted ways for high school but kept in touch, and discovered we both loved history and the stuff that went along with it. Took the same major in college and came out with complimentary degrees. Teaching was out—not enough money for greedy pigs like us—so we took our cue from the popular TV shows and got into antiques. We haven't been offered a network contract yet, but we're managing."
"Hence Time Travelers."
"Yep. Our baby I guess." He paused. "Jesus. Maybe we're closet gays and never knew it. What do you think?"
His arms pulled her a little more closely to his chest and the look in his eyes as he smiled heated things low in her body.
"Do you think there's some latent genetic disposition in me that I don't know about, Marielle?"
God, I hope not.
The thought flashed across her brain like lightning. It was accompanied by the realization that she was attracted to Ian, both physically and emotionally. He was bright, mature, funny and lovely to look at. What wasn't to like?
"I don't think I know you well enough to comment on that, Ian." She lowered her gaze.
"Well, we must correct that situation." His hand moved from a correct dancer's hold to something warmer, more intimate, his fingers threading through hers and heating her skin even though her glove still separated their flesh.
The song chose that moment to come to an end, and a flash of disappointment crossed Ian's face. But he kept in character, bowing to her with a flourish as she curtseyed back, a little self-consciously.
Tad was there in an instant, taking her hand from Ian. "The next one's mine, I believe. And I'm going to hope this oaf hasn't worn you out."
"She's a wonderful dancer. I'm not an oaf. You're a clod. Don't tread on her feet." Firing off insults and instructions, Ian grinned and saluted them as Tad's arm slid comfortably around her.
This waltz was slower, more sensual to her mind, and perhaps Tad's as well. He lost no time at all in grasping her to his chest. "I wasn't sure if I'd enjoy today, Ms. Todd. But one look at you and I knew it was going to be beyond any expectations."
She raised her eyebrows at him. "Really? Seriously? Does anyone buy that line, Mr. Fisher? And please call me Marielle. Ian already does and apparently none of us are intending to stand on ceremony."
"Ceremonies are a sophisticated way of hiding behind a civilized fig leaf."
"Oscar Wilde?"
"Tad Fisher."
She laughed. "Ah. And would that pronouncement include the sad occasion of your turtle's demise? Ian told me how you both met."
He sighed dramatically. "Ah yes, poor Toby."
"You knew him well." She parroted a quote from Hamlet.
"Got a skull handy? I think I should be holding it before you say the next line."
Laughing, Marielle shook her head. "I like you. I like Ian too. Don't take this wrong, but it's so nice to have a fun conversation and not have to explain myself every five minutes."
"Likewise, my dear." Tad's arms tightened even more, pressing her breasts to his vest and pulling their bodies tightly against each other.
As he did so, she couldn't miss his erection, pressing her thigh through the fabric of his trousers and her skirts.
"You are an entrancing woman. I'm hoping there's no jealous husband watching from the patio." He lifted an eyebrow.
"No husband at all. I'm divorced." She shrugged. "Which was one of the smartest things I've done so far."
"I won't argue that, since it's allowing me to enjoy your waltzing skills, which are commendable, and your body, which is exceptional."
"Likewise, my dear." She threw his words back at him, aware to her toes that she was now flirting and there was a hotly sensual overtone.
He smiled down at her. "Glad you came today?"
She felt the heat of a blush creeping over her skin and a tiny lick of anger at herself for betraying that kind of emotion to a man she'd known for all of ten minutes. "Of course. This is delightful."
"So proper."
She got the strangest feeling he was amused. Nettled, she eased away from him a little. "We hardly know each other, Tad."
<
br /> "That has got to change."
He refused to let her wiggle free, drawing her back fully into his embrace and slowly turning her through the steps, guiding her firmly, allowing her no freedom to choose her movements. All were dictated by him and his strong arm around her.
To her amazement, she found she liked it.
As the silence deepened between them, Marielle opened her senses more fully than she had in quite some time. Both Ian and Tad were quintessential men, in the truest sense of the word. Centuries before, they'd have been knights, riding side by side, protecting the weak and probably doing a bit of pillaging and plundering on the side.
They projected that kind of confidence, not by having the muscular bodies of weightlifters, but by being aware of, and content with, themselves. It freed them to be interested in other people.
Namely her.
They also projected a sensual and sexual aura that whispered of dark nights and naked bodies sliding against each other in a sweaty frenzy of pleasures unleashed and desires fulfilled.
Oh God.
She nearly stumbled as a blinding vision of herself, naked, between the two men darted across her consciousness. It was followed by a fiery churning low in her gut and a definite dampness in her panties.
This would never do.
She cleared her throat. "Tad...I have to guess that's short for something?"
"It's my curse."
He had to have noticed, of course. She was still blushing. Perhaps she could put it down to the exertions of the dance.
But, gentleman that he obviously was, he made no reference to her cheeks. "Why my dear departed parents named me Thaddeus is anyone's guess. Especially since my mother was Italian. So was Ian's. Another shared bit of heritage there."
"Thaddeus. I like it." She nodded. "It's stylishly elegant. Perfect for this environment. But probably more difficult in high school."
"You have no idea." He sighed dramatically. "Tadpole. Tada. BadTad. MadTad. There was no end. Fortunately I had a pretty thick skin."
"Children have an amazing capacity for cruelty."
"They do indeed."
The music drew to a close and after another correct bow and curtsey, Marielle found herself between the two men once more.
Winding Her Up Page 2
