DisobediencebyDesign

by Regina Kammer

  His sweat-sheened forehead wrinkled in splendid agony above his blank eyes, his lips parted and rounded. She knew the signs of his crisis. Unexpectedly her own burgeoned, matching his, until her body clenched around him, drawing a wail from her lungs. He jerked and held himself against her in one final thrust, groaning his ecstasy.

  He gently collapsed on top of her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. “Henny, Henny,” he whispered reverently. “Darling. My wife.”

  She stared at the shadowed ceiling, astounded at the sensation of pure joy. Tears threatened her eyes then fell in an uncontrollable flood down her cheeks.

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing her hair, her face. His hardness waned and he slipped from her body. He rolled to her side, still touching her, still murmuring in awe of their love.

  “Come to my bed,” he said, wiping damp strands from her forehead. “Stay part of the night with me.”

  “Oh Arthur, that was simply extraordinary!” The flush of satiation still suffused her skin. “We should have done that a long time ago.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, we should have.” He cupped her breast.

  “Now whenever I’m in this room I’ll think of what we did,” she said, biting her lip playfully.

  He laughed then stood and extended his hand. “Up. And gather your clothes, my sinful mistress.”

  “Rakehell.” She laughed.

  As they fussed with the pile of clothing, Henny breathed a sigh of relief that she was out of the clutches of truly evil sin.

  * * * * *

  Sophia stopped on the vast lawn of the Harwell estate to toss her head back and look at the threatening clouds.

  She grinned at her own audaciousness. The past few days and nights spent dreaming of Mr. Phillips—Joseph—had emboldened her.

  Before Henny left she had told Sophia to make the most of her freedom while it lasted, to be as a carefree young girl but to pepper that girlish exuberance with a bit of womanly flirtation. Sophia understood the covert meaning of Henny’s advice. Royston loomed large in Sophia’s fate and if she actually did marry him, every scrap of freedom she once enjoyed would be buried forever in a horrid existence.

  Sophia presumed Henny had meant a flirtation with Geoffrey but Geoffrey only came to the estate occasionally. Their relationship wasn’t so much flirtation anymore—it was more like arrangement, planning when they could both get away and meet. Their rendezvous were still daring and fun but Geoffrey had said he wouldn’t go any further than necking and a bit of touching on top of their clothes.

  And Sophia wanted more than that. She had wanted more than that the minute she had seen Joseph in the billiard room with his shirt undone, smelling of cigars and brandy, tempting and tantalizing her with gallantry and masculinity.

  Now she practically swooned whenever she saw him. And she really liked how she felt around him, the warmth in her belly, the tingle up her spine, the swollen dampness between her legs.

  She even liked the nerve-racking thrill she got as she walked—skipped, really—across the rolling lawn to the wrought iron folly. She had to slow down as the studio came into view. Its occupant would be able to see her approaching and would wonder what she was doing skipping on the lawn in the middle of the estate. She paused. She hadn’t yet thought of an excuse. Of course it could simply be that she was out for a walk and saw the studio and thought she’d pop in for a chat with her brother. She wouldn’t tell Joseph she knew Arthur had gone to Little Bytham to check on a tenant’s ill mother.

  The front windows framed Joseph standing by the stove, pouring water from the kettle into a teapot. He placed the teapot on a table nestled between two stuffed armchairs, a wonderfully domestic act in such a cozy setting, which for some reason inspired all sorts of naughty thoughts. She was futilely trying to dismiss those thoughts when Joseph caught sight of her. He stood by the drapes at the front window and waved a welcome. She inhaled a fortifying breath and went inside.

  The studio was pleasantly warm from a fire crackling in the corner hearth opposite the stove. Some of the discarded furniture had been grouped into a seating arrangement, giving the space a homier feel. Books had been stacked neatly on the floor and on a chair. Joseph pulled the front curtains closed then motioned for her to sit.

  “All this glass,” he explained. “The drapes will keep the heat in. I’ve tea enough for two if you’d like to join me.”

  “I’d love to.” She placed her bonnet on a table and sat.

  “Are you out for a walk on this dreary day?” His tone suggested it was a slightly ridiculous notion.

  “Well, it’s not raining.”

  “Yet.”

  He smiled at her and she could swear his eyes twinkled. He often got such a look where his eyes revealed he knew a lot more about a situation than was being said, but he always held his tongue. Sophia liked that about him, although he seemed to be implying now that she had chosen a time of day when it might start pouring rain and she and he would be trapped together for hours upon hours.

  A wonderful thought…

  He poured out two cups of tea then added milk from a little jug into one cup. He held out the jug and raised a brow at her.

  “Yes please.”

  “There’s sugar in the cooling cupboard, if you like.”

  “No thank you.”

  Not only was this the first time they had been alone together, they were engaged in one of the most mundane acts of the day. And she loved every minute of it. His every move fascinated her—so careful, deliberate, measured. Like his drawings of railway carriages.

  “Are you drawing today?” she asked, sipping her tea.

  “Yes. I’ve just finished some preliminary designs. I always like to take a break afterward then go back and look things over. Taking a break can stir up new ideas.” He moved a stack of books from a chair onto the floor then relaxed into the seat with his teacup.

  She glanced at the books. On the top was a well-read copy of The Odyssey. Impulsively she picked it up and flipped through the pages.

  He chuckled. “A rather appropriate story for a traveler like me. Have you read it?”

  “Not thoroughly, I admit. Is it good?”

  “Lately I’ve been reading literature whether I enjoy it or not. I’m trying to gain an understanding of the literary references in upper-class society. I don’t want to appear uneducated in such company. My accent is unsophisticated enough.”

  That he felt comfortable enough to reveal such an insecurity moved her deeply. “I can’t see anyone thinking that about you,” she said, subdued. “You’re very confident, you know the railway business and your accent is exotic.” And ridiculously seductive. She could listen to him reading railway schedules and be riveted.

  He sipped his tea. “Thank you,” he said. “Still, I have to mingle with the Cambridge and Oxford set to get investors. There’s only so much ignorance I can attribute to cultural difference.”

  “I admire that very much. Does Arthur know you put in all this extra effort?”

  “He does. He says I shouldn’t worry.”

  Sophia stood. “Well you shouldn’t. Would you want to take money from someone who minds if you don’t know your Homer from your Shakespeare? I’d rather my investors cared that I knew about railway parts.”

  He smirked. “That’s what your brother said.”

  “Well it’s true!” she said, her hands on her hips. She went to the writing desk. “May I see what you’ve done today?”

  “Of course.” He got up and joined her.

  Before them were multiple pages of drawings of machines. Some of the drawings appeared to be of the same machine, as if Joseph was trying to get it just right but didn’t quite know what was missing. The mechanical pieces were just that—mechanical. Nothing special. Nothing spectacular. Nothing that would incite a man with money to lay it down very readily.

  “They’re so precise, so perfect. So…lifeless.”

  “They’re machines. They’re s
upposed to be lifeless.”

  “Well yes, but…” The drawings lacked something but what? She looked around the studio at the ornate metal rafters, the disused furniture of forgotten eras, the stacks of books… One very large book stuck out in the middle of one of the stacks. A folio.

  The Grammar of Ornament by Owen Jones. Perfect.

  She grabbed the pasteboard folder and opened it on the floor, spreading out the plates. “What if you put some decoration on your machines?”

  He pursed his lips as his gaze followed her finger tracing a curling tendril of Greek design. “They go under the carriage—one really does not see them.”

  “But a railway carriage is big. You have to step up onto it. So you might see all these bits?” She waved over at his drawings on the desk. “Like if you were a passenger and walked by it on the platform.”

  “You might.” He eyed her with a smirk.

  “And what about the men who build the carriage?”

  “What about them?” His challenge was tinged with enthusiasm.

  “They’ll see all these parts, won’t they?”

  “Yes,” he admitted, “they will.”

  “And the investors. They’ll see all your drawings, won’t they?”

  “Many of them, yes.”

  “So make it beautiful for them.”

  He crinkled his forehead. “For whom exactly?”

  “For all of them.”

  “But the passengers—surely they won’t even notice,” he countered.

  “The women will notice. And the children. The parts will be at their eye level.”

  “And the laborers—they’re just workers. Surely they do not matter?” he said with playful antagonism.

  “How will they ever be elevated from their base and horrid state unless they are exposed to beauty?” she said in a teasingly condescending tone.

  “And the investors?” A quiver at the corner of his mouth revealed he fought to quell a grin.

  “What better way to appeal to the classically educated investors from Cambridge and Oxford than to make the designs more classical in form?”

  Joseph beamed. “You have a point.”

  “And you could convince my brother such elegance will be good for the business. Surely the wealthier railroad men could be enticed by their vanity into having the most beautiful machines? You would simply charge them more for the privilege.”

  “Sophia, you’re a genius!” He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her hair.

  Her breath hitched, her head tingled where his lips had touched her. She drew back slightly and looked up at him. He gazed down at her with a grin until a faraway gleam flashed in his eyes and his expression softened. His face moved toward hers almost imperceptibly. Every muscle in her body tensed in anticipation as her heart thudded in hope.

  Suddenly he pulled back. “God, what am I thinking?” he muttered.

  “Joseph?”

  He took her hands in his. “Sophia, you’re brilliant. And I thank you.” He gazed at her with something akin to joy then shook his head and looked away, releasing his hold.

  She searched his face. “You were going to kiss me,” she said boldly. “Weren’t you?”

  His gaze met hers, a tiny crease deepening between his lovely gray eyes. “Look…I apologize if I caused any distress.”

  “Distress? I want you to kiss me! Don’t you see?”

  He stared blankly at her, sucking in his lower lip, biting it. “Sophia, that cannot happen.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because you are Lady Sophia Harwell, engaged to marry a duke. And I am a poor American commoner. That’s why.”

  “I don’t care who you are. I like you. I like spending time with you. And besides, I’m not engaged actually. It hasn’t been settled.”

  “It’s been settled as far as your father is concerned.”

  He was right. Still… “I don’t see why we can’t, well, pursue something.”

  “Such as me ravishing you in this studio?”

  “Well yes!” Her words came out far too sharply.

  “That is not going to happen. Royston would discover you’re not a virgin on your wedding night and attempt to find the ravisher.”

  “But it might not be you!”

  “I would at the very least be among the accused and both your brother and I would be ruined as far as our business was concerned.”

  “How do you know I’m a virgin anyway?” A foolish question only an annoyed virgin would ask.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Because you’re the eighteen-year-old daughter of a marquess. That’s how.”

  She flopped down into the armchair and pouted. He knelt beside her and took her hand.

  “Sophia, I’m flattered. Believe me I am. And if the circumstances were different, I would be willing, oh so very willing…”

  Every nerve in her body sparked with desire, utterly at odds with the tears that threatened to fall.

  “I’ve thought about you ever since the night we met as strangers,” he said gently. “I would have kissed you then if Arthur hadn’t appeared.”

  “I’ve thought of nothing but you since that night, Joseph.” The tears welled and trickled down her cheeks.

  “God, don’t do this to me,” he murmured with a rasp.

  He placed his fingers under her chin and steadied her as he drew his face nearer. He closed his eyes and tenderly touched his lips to hers.

  The desire flared, flushing her skin, rushing to her head, enthralling her. The kiss lasted but a few fleeting seconds, seconds that left her astounded and wanting more.

  He pulled back, a dreamy look in his eyes. She touched her fingers to her still-tingling lips.

  He smiled. “Let me think about your proposition. But right now I think you ought to leave. Not only because rain is imminent but because I need you to. Before I really do ravish you.”

  Chapter Four

  Joseph speared his fingers through his hair and stared blankly through the glass walls of the studio at the well-tended lawn. Over a week had passed since he dared kiss Sophia and he could not stop thinking about her. Well, when he wasn’t engrossed in new drawings for railway parts…but even as he added little flourishes here and there he was reminded that it had been Sophia’s idea to do so. Then drawing was forgotten and she filled his thoughts all over again—what he wanted to do to her, knowing she wanted him to do all those things to her…

  He needed to take a swim in a cold lake or a long walk to Little Bytham and back again with nothing but farms and woods and strangers, alone with his thoughts…his thoughts about Sophia. His very salacious thoughts about Sophia. Even the long journey to Lamberton to visit his new home for a few days didn’t help, vistas of England’s gray-green coast only heightening the romanticism of lust denied flesh.

  Upon his return to Harwell Hall, Arthur noticed Joseph’s funk and suggested an outing to Stamford to explore the bookstore there. Jacobs Books had anything and everything, and if Mr. Jacobs did not have a particular title, he could get it for you through his vast connections with booksellers around the world. Joseph just wanted some transportation engineering studies to spark his creative spirit, which had, of late, been dreaming up all sorts of creative things to do with a virgin…

  He shook his head. He simply had to stop thinking about her. A railway trip to Stamford would be just the thing.

  The bookstore fronted on High Street, an elegant Georgian façade rising three stories, its golden stone capturing the remains of the morning light. Inside, the store was filled with books, stacks upon stacks of books, on tables, on library ladders and of course on shelves lining the walls. A sign on a staircase indicated the upper floor was similarly inundated with books. The short, wiry, middle-aged man who greeted Joseph with a wave turned out to be Mr. Jacobs himself, a consummate businessman who, when he wasn’t fawning over one customer, was running about retrieving tomes to place before another.

  He knew Joseph by reputation—how many American guests of
earls could there possibly be in Lincolnshire?—and directed him to the engineering section, a bookcase in the back corner obscured by a disused ladder piled with the overflow of architectural and medical treatises. From his vantage point Joseph could see most of the store. Two young women tittered together by the novels, an older woman and her charge leafed through fashion plates, a young man stood engrossed with a law book, his lips moving as his gaze scanned across the page. Except for the occasional squeal from the novels section the store was wonderfully quiet, perfect for a contemplative discussion with one’s muse.

  The section on engineering did indeed have everything, and in several languages. Until that moment Joseph hadn’t really ever thought to peruse a book in another language. Mathematical models were in the universal language of equations and the drawings were comprehensible to anyone who knew what they were looking at. A volume on Ottoman ships proved quite illuminating in putting into practice Sophia’s idea of decoration.

  Sophia. Damn. Even staring at Arabic script couldn’t distract him.

  Mr. Jacobs’ jovial “good afternoon” to the Earl of Thuxton jolted Joseph back to reality. Lord Thuxton was fabulously wealthy and a notorious rake with mistresses ensconced—and apparently kept satisfied—at his Lincolnshire estate, at his home in London and at his coastal cottage near Penzance. Arthur had been wooing the earl as he enjoyed investing in modern schemes. Joseph had met the man only once but knew him immediately, his shock of close-clipped gray hair, striking Roman profile and sportsman physique singular among the ruddy-faced and paunch-bellied visitors to Harwell Hall. Joseph was certain it would not be correct to present oneself to a potential investor in a bookstore and Arthur had said he would take care of all such contact anyway. From deep in the agricultural section, Mr. Jacobs waved the earl over and handed him a nondescript tome. Mr. Jacobs then made his customary bow and left the man alone. The earl seemed happy, a smile creeping over his lips as he leafed through the volume. Joseph resumed his own perusal of the suddenly more fascinating Ottoman study.

  The bell on the entrance door drew his attention once again away from his musings. He looked up just in time to see Lord Thuxton exit and chase after a woman in a billowing blue skirt. Another mistress perhaps? Joseph chuckled to himself. Ah the life of the aristocracy—words and women.