Genevieve settled softly on the edge of the bed and fed her bread and cheese. Imogene ate most of it, then fell into a deep, vanilla-scented sleep.
* * *
Henry was long gone by the time she woke. The butler had been reprimanded for not listening to Imogene. There was a militant expression in Genevieve’s green eyes that suggested, once the sun set, the vampire queen was next to be scolded.
Imogene wasn’t sure who would come out on top with those two.
There was a small, warm weight next to her hip, and at her movement, two bright black eyes and a set of ridiculously fluffy ears perked up. Someone had let Skoot in. She put a hand down to caress those silly ears and he wriggled in pleasure.
The inventor hadn’t gone to the potting shed, much to Imogene’s surprise, but was sitting at a little escritoire near a window, wearing a set of spectacles and sorting through a stack of correspondence.
Imogene lay, petting Skoot, and watched her for a while. She allowed herself to admire the elegant curve of the other woman’s neck as she bent to read. There it was again – peeking out the back, exposed by her short hair – some kind of scar?
“Is that a birthmark?” Imogene’s voice was husky with too much sleep. As the inventor had now seen all of Imogene, it seemed a less intrusive question.
Genevieve looked up and smiled – dimples flashed. She rose and came to Imogene’s side.
“You are awake. How do you feel?”
“Much improved, thank you. Less sore because of the bath, and in better spirits. I’m sorry I was so sentimental earlier. I didn’t mean to cry.”
“Perfectly understandable, do not even think upon it. You look better too.”
“What time is it?”
“Gone three.”
“I’m glad I woke then. Sleep any more and I should never rest tonight.”
“Are you hungry?”
“In a bit. Would you sit next to me a moment first?” Imogene was not above using her invalid status to garner more contact and attention.
Genevieve removed Skoot, mock-reprimanding him in French, and folded herself into his spot next to Imogene. Much to Imogene’s delight, the inventor took hold of her hand in a reassuring clasp. There was nothing sexual about it, yet it felt nice.
“What is the mark on your neck?” Imogene asked again. “At first I thought you’d been bitten, but it’s too dark, almost black, and not shaped right.”
The inventor actually blushed. “It is a tattoo of an octopus. I belong to a sort of club and it has become rather a totem animal of mine.”
“Not the wicker chicken?”
“No, that is someone else’s totem. It was an octopus that landed me here.”
“It was?” Imogene was all ears.
“I built a massive octomaton and went rather wild with it. Knocked down the old hive house in London. And a few other houses, too. The countess had kidnapped my boy, you see? I had no other choice. Well, I maybe did have other choices, but I didn’t think so at the time.”
Imogene could understand. If Genevieve was so fiercely protective of a mere assistant, she must be awesome in defense of someone she truly loved.
“What happened?”
“Alexia. That is, Lady Maccon. She worked a deal whereby Quesnel would be kept by the hive. It has to do with the legal standing of his blood mother – he is not my child by birth, you see, but by adoption – anyway… Where was I? Oh, yes. Quesnel would stay with the hive here until he reached his majority at eighteen. I would be indentured for ten years, in order to stay with him, and as punishment for the octopus terrorizing London incident. Then, of course, Quesnel had his own opinion on the matter and convinced us both – the countess and I – that he would be best going away to university early.” She paused then. “He was right. He’s thriving at L’École des Arts et Métiers.” Pride suffused her voice.
“But it left you here alone, without him.”
“Not so bad.” The dimples were back. “I have you now.”
I’m not your daughter, Imogene wanted to say. But instead, she basked in the glow of those dimples. She does like me, Imogene decided. It’s just she’s holding herself back. And it has to do with some other part of her past. She took solace in the fact that this had been a breakthrough of sorts, learning what had caused Genevieve’s indenture. Imogene would be patient and learn more. Learn enough to chip away at the inventor’s reticence.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In Which There are More Dimples
The queen made no further moves in Imogene’s direction. Unfortunately, neither did Genevieve.
For a full two months, Imogene resumed the established daily pattern – potting shed, sums, dimples, tea, lab, dimples, luncheon, equations, more dimples, supper, and if she was lucky, one last set of dimples before bed. The intimacy of that bath was never discussed, although the inventor seemed to have elected to throw herself into a caring parental role as a result.
What Genevieve failed to realize was that Imogene was just as stubborn as she, only quieter about it. All I have is my beauty. Surely it won’t fail me the one time I really wish to apply it?
Imogene was determined to try her hand at seduction. Remembering the way the village girls pursued their flirts, she set out to wage a similar war. Of course, she knew full well she was nowhere near good enough for the inventor, but surely they could at least share a bed? Imogene wouldn’t ask for anything more. (Although what more was there between two women? Certainly not marriage. Not in England, anyway.)
In the laboratory, Imogene concocted reasons to touch her inventor. A hand to her arm, a press against her side when they were both crouched to examine something. Some device would spark and Imogene would gasp, reaching for Genevieve’s hand.
The inventor would blush, or nudge back, then seem to remember herself and pull away. She clearly wanted more, but she didn’t respond in a manner that encouraged Imogene to press further.
Once, leaning over Imogene to consult on a sum, Genevieve forgot her reserve. A hand, cool and rough-skinned, caressed the back of Imogene’s neck, fingers dipping into her hair. Imogene leaned into the touch, turning her head to inhale vanilla, pressing her cheek into the other woman’s bare wrist (her sleeves were rolled up as usual). Imogene dared to brush her lips on the delicate white skin there.
Genevieve let out a little whimper. The needy murmur was so quiet, yet it cut through the clattering of machinery to sting Imogene’s ears. Her inventor sounded both frustrated and very sad.
Imogene stopped the kiss and pulled back. Crushed. I don’t want to hurt her. Lord, that’s the opposite of what I want. How do I beat this? How do I fight for what I want when the object of my desire is holding everything away from me despite herself? Imogene wished she had someone, anyone she could ask for help. Any words she might say or actions she might take that would encourage Genevieve to open to her. If only a little. But she didn’t know what she was battling against. This is the emotional equivalent of a fistfight with an octopus.
Still Imogene persisted, trying to prove that her interest was genuine. She found herself in a heightened state of awareness most days, attuned to the inventor’s smell, the way her hips moved under her trousers, the tendons in her hands, the sound of her voice. She ached to press tiny kisses to the corners of her mouth. She wished to know how the rest of Genevieve’s skin tasted. She wanted whimpers, just not sad ones.
Imogene was also painfully aware of her own experience with Henry. She refused to impose herself as he had done. She took pains to be more tempting than predatory. Making a great effort with her appearance, fixing her hair high and soft to show her neck. Pinching color into her cheeks.
She caught Genevieve looking a great deal. Looking but never again touching, or even talking much beyond pleasantries and instructions. Those green eyes stayed hungry, and they stayed sad.
And while Imogene lay restless and aching in her own cot, she swore she could hear, in the other roo
m, Genevieve tossing and turning just as much.
* * *
They might have gone on forever this way (although Imogene suspected she would have burned to a crisp with her own wanting were that the case) except that the countess tried again.
Imogene had become almost comfortable with her routine and she was careful to be in their bedchamber by nightfall (well, Genevieve’s bedchamber), but with the autumn full upon them and the nights getting longer, they didn’t always manage to finish in the potting shed before dark.
Imogene had intended to nip out and check on an experiment while Madame Lefoux took a bath. Unfortunately, the experiment ran longer than expected, and by the time it finished, the sun had set.
She hurried up the servants’ stairs, avoiding everyone she could. The staff were all mostly frightened of her since Madame Lefoux’s display of defensive squeezing. (Witnessed by some, it was thus known by all.)
Unfortunately, Imogene couldn’t stick entirely to the servants’ section; there was always the part where she must walk down the main hallway to get to the bedroom door.
She hurried along, head down, hand to her cravat pin.
Countess Nadasdy flitted before her. Vampires walked so silently, it was impossible to hear them coming. The hive queen was wearing a dinner gown of ruched cream lace with an over-jacket of blue brocade. It was very beautiful and very expensive. It also looked, to Imogene’s untrained eye, ever so slightly like an undergarment.
Imogene brandished her cravat pin.
“No need for that, my dear child.”
“Oh, I think there might be.”
“What are you doing to my inventor?”
“Me?”
“She has been overly flustered of late. As much as you are protected by Lady Maccon’s patronage, so Madame Lefoux is protected by mine. Whether she likes it or not. And I’ve noticed her to be quite… off lately. Why is that, do you think?”
“I’ve no idea,” lied Imogene.
“I’m sure you don’t. Are you two having… difficulties?” The vampire grimaced as if to imply that the affairs of mortals were so trivial, it pained her to enquire. Then she added, “Do you need someone to explain the necessary details? A demonstration, perhaps?”
Well, yes. But not you! Imogene backed away, edging towards Genevieve’s bedroom door.
“Kind of you to offer, but I’m sure we don’t need your help, ma’am.”
The queen didn’t look convinced. She followed, stalking.
Imogene found her back against the door. One hand still clutching the cravat pin, she turned the knob with the other. Safety!
“Mortals. Everything is so complicated with you.” Countess Nadasdy looked even more disgusted.
Imogene closed the door in her face and leaned back against it, letting out a shaky breath.
A dainty fist with supernatural power behind it hit the door from the other side.
Imogene jumped away, heart racing.
Madame Lefoux, who appeared to have fallen asleep in her bath before the fire, was out of it and across the room in a trice, dripping and gloriously naked.
“Are you all right, Imogene?”
“She is quite horrible!” Imogene attempted to thread the cravat pin back into her dress collar with shaky hands.
Genevieve tutted, took the pin, and did it for her. Imogene could hardly breathe, to have a wet, naked Genevieve so close to her.
Then, sensing that Imogene was reacting to her proximity, the inventor grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself.
Imogene banged her own head, much less violently, back against the door. “This is ridiculous!”
“Did she try with you again?”
“She suggested we might need her help in figuring things out. You and I, between us.” The statement hung in the air like a damp sponge, dripping with implications.
Madame Lefoux closed her eyes in horror. “I am so sorry. I never meant my preferences to impact you. She misconstrues your inclinations because I made you my assistant. That she would even suggest such a thing must offend and shock.”
Imogene marched over and stood with her hands on her hips. She fixed Genevieve’s green eyes with her own brown ones.
“For goodness’ sake! She certainly does not misconstrue my inclinations. The only insult extended is that I might choose her over you! I am not interested in men. I have never been with a man and do not ever intend to be so. For as long as I can recall, I have only ever looked at girls. This is not something you have done to me, nor some insult she has foisted upon me. This is the way I am.”
Breathless, Imogene leaned in. Frankly, she felt some small sympathy for the vampires and their needs after so many months of denial. She pressed her lips to those of the inventor, who was standing, stunned, and still only in a towel.
This was absolutely fine by Imogene.
When Genevieve didn’t respond to the impassioned embrace, Imogene’s heart sank.
She backed off and hung her head. Her gaze focused on Genevieve’s long legs – still dripping. “Since that first walk in the garden, you are all I have thought of. I’m at a loss. How to convince you? I’m not half good enough, I know, no more than a parlourmaid, and trouble for you with the hive. But I’m also not her. Whoever she was who hurt you so. I’m not! I deserve a chance. I shouldn’t be blamed for the sins of some other woman. Unless it is that truly you do not want me. If you don’t think we’d suit… if you don’t want… then perhaps we should reconsider the terms of my indenture. I don’t wish to be an imposition. I—”
The inventor kissed her.
It became patently obvious that she did indeed have a great deal more experience than Imogene. But Imogene was a good student, tilting her head, relaxing her mouth, allowing Genevieve’s tongue to sweep through.
God, her lips were so soft, and she tasted of vanilla too. Sweet, or maybe that was Imogene’s imagination, her nose playing tricks on her palate. Imogene felt her brain seize up, like an engine without oil. All she could feel was that tongue, a wet brand, and those lips, and the inventor’s vanilla scent tendrilled about her.
When Genevieve would have pulled away, Imogene refused to allow it. Desperately she chased her lips, offering hers up again. Her hands were frantic and a great deal more bold than if she’d been thinking about what she was doing. She wanted to touch every piece of skin not covered by the towel. Oh, very well, she wanted to touch under the towel too.
Genevieve caught the frenzy driving Imogene and molded it. Returning touch for touch, kiss for kiss in a restrained fury. Her cool, callused hands, damp from the bath, seemed just as frantically interested in mapping Imogene’s body. Stroking over the fabric of her dress, testing the weight of the flesh beneath.
If Imogene had imagined anything, it had been moving slowly. She’d fantasized about stripping Genevieve of her layers, one masculine piece at a time to show the female body underneath, lean and muscled and sweetly curved.
But Genevieve was already stripped and Imogene wished for nothing more than to be bare herself. To press her body fully against Genevieve’s. But she couldn’t unbutton her own dress without stepping away, and if she stepped away, the inventor might come to her senses. Might decide to stop everything so as to save Imogene from exploitation.
Then, blessedly, Genevieve’s fingers were fumbling with those very buttons, working one after another, trembling slightly. The high collar was smoothed back so the inventor might lay reverent little kisses about Imogene’s neck and down to the swell of her breasts above her chemise. Imogene had stopped wearing stays. If Genevieve thought she looked better without her corset, then she would never wear a corset again.
And then, horrible stillness.
Imogene wasn’t certain what happened; perhaps the inventor’s hand brushed against the cravat pin. A reminder of what had nearly occurred in the hall. Imogene’s own hands stilled in reaction, tingling with the memory of smooth, damp skin.
Ge
nevieve backed away with an expression of horror on her face. Then she whirled and fled the room.
Imogene wanted to cry.
But she was also determined. Genevieve must come back eventually (it was, after all, her room), and Imogene would be ready. With quick hands she stripped and, pulling pins from her hair, let it down. Genevieve liked her hair; occasionally, when she wasn’t being overly cautious, Imogene had caught her touching a loose strand.
Moments later, the inventor returned.
“I’m only wearing a towel! Merde.” She closed the door with a bang and turned to find Imogene, now utterly naked, standing before the fire.
Imogene firmed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and glared.
Genevieve Lefoux, famous inventor, generally charming, usually forceful, looked utterly terrified.
Imogene stalked towards her.
“This is not a good idea, choupinette. I am far too old for you.”
“Good, you’ve some experience in these matters. So, come to bed with me, Genevieve.”
“I will corrupt you.”
“Exactly what I’m hoping for.” Imogene took her firmly by the hand and began to lead her to the big bed.
“You are too much, Imogene. You are too exactly what I have always wanted. You are too beautiful, and too good-natured, and too loyal. I cannot trust you.”
Imogene winced at that. “Only one night, Genevieve. I’m not asking you to trust me with anything more.” Although of course she wanted that terribly.
She released the inventor’s hand and lay back. Offering herself, because the only possible way forward was for Genevieve to choose in truth.
Choose me, please. I will do the best I can, I promise. “I’m a quick study, Genevieve, you know I am. Just tonight, come to bed.”
The inventor gave a sigh of acceptance, and relief, and possibly joy, dropped the towel, and came to bed.
* * *
Genevieve Lefoux had dimples when she smiled. She also had two little divots above the swell of her bottom that Imogene decided were also dimples.
Romancing the Inventor Page 11
