Devil take him!

  What was the world coming to when a man had to moderate his blazing passions at the request of his mistress?

  3

  Planetary – and Other – Bodies Collide

  “Ah, Mrs. Hurwell.” Mr. Taft greeted Thea with a warm and relieved expression that evening moments after her clock dinged ten times. Refusing to remove his raindrop-speckled greatcoat, he addressed her from just inside the door. “I despaired over finding you at home and receiving, but I only now arrived at the hotel and was informed of your letter. Thank goodness you included your direction. I’m leaving for home early tomorrow—it’s my grandson’s tenth birthday. Can’t miss that, now could I?”

  “Of course not,” she said automatically, glancing at Buttons who’d let in the renowned clockmaker as Mr. and Mrs. Samuels had already retired.

  Upon returning from her excursion with Lady Wylde, Thea had indulged in a thorough washing and donned one of the new ensembles Madame V had graciously delivered while Thea was out.

  The dressmaker had sent round two simple day dresses, both cut down from ones she’d brought the day before, along with matching slippers. The message accompanying the package instructed Thea to present herself Monday morning for fittings on several others.

  This gown was much more to her liking than the fancy, false-fronted one of last evening. In the Grecian style, caught up beneath her breasts with a jade ribbon, the pastel green cambric trimmed with a single layer of ecru lace pleased her immensely.

  In it, she actually felt like a real lady for once, which was the only reason she was still up and attired when her late-evening visitor came calling.

  But as Mr. Taft finished his smiling greeting—after expressing his pleasure at seeing her again and his regret at needing to leave at first light—he baffled her thoroughly with his next words. “If you’re agreeable and think he won’t be overly inconvenienced by the hour, don your winter gear and we’ll go visit your Lord Tremayne and see if we can fix his orrery right up.”

  We? “Now?”

  “Of course, my dear. You don’t expect me to call upon the man without your chaperonage?” He laughed good-naturedly. “A little above my station, wouldn’t you say? But I’m pleased as a pickle to see you’ve picked up such a lofty suitor. Hate to hear Hurwell’s gone but glad you’ve moved on.”

  He thought Lord Tremayne was courting her?

  Well, shear her like a Suffolk sheep!

  Couldn’t he tell? That in truth she was Lord Tremayne’s kept woman? His strumpet?

  Her panicked gaze flicked to the nude portraits. But they were gone, replaced by a waterfall on one side and a close-up of songbirds on the other. Knowing she’d just heard clocks chime, she looked for the sinfully suggestive cuckoo, but the wall was blank. The figurines were missing as well, the only thing gracing her crimson table runner was the silver tray and a vase of fresh, peppy flowers.

  Startled, she turned to Buttons, who still stood unobtrusively to one side. Noticing what she was about (no doubt aided by her levitating eyebrows), he pointed directly overhead. Master chamber he mouthed and her heart rate settled down from its rapid-fire pace.

  Courting me? Thea mouthed back because it seemed as good a way to communicate as any. Buttons shrugged, then nodded, as though uncertain how to correct the erroneous assumption but still offering both support and encouragement.

  When the clockmaker again urged her toward the door, Thea finally acquiesced.

  It looked as though she and Mr. Taft would be paying her protector a call. Thea forbore from calling on the Almighty to deliver her from this mess. She’d made her naughty bed and enjoyed rolling around in it; now wasn’t the time to turn squeamish.

  * * *

  In moments, they were rolling swiftly through the wet streets, the jagged lightning in the distance protesting her subterfuge. Buttons had squeezed in next to the driver after whispering to Thea that he’d try to make sure “his lordship got the drift of things”.

  While Mr. Taft reminisced fondly of his past trips to London and Thea answered appropriately if distractedly, one thought kept her seated and not running for the sanctuary of her just-departed townhouse: she’d learned from Lord Tremayne’s sister that he wasn’t married.

  Thank God and chatty relations for that tidbit. It was one thing to show up on his doorstep; quite another to be confronted with his unsuspecting, betrayed wife.

  Bored with everything he’d tried (obsessed with his new mistress, more like) Daniel decided to retire at half past ten.

  In his shirtsleeves after more tinkering with one of his working orreries, ironically slowing the rotation of Uranus on this particular specimen (darn planet put all the others to shame with its snail’s crawl of an eighty-plus year orbit of the Sun), he was just leaving his study and approaching the stairs that led up to his bedchamber when the door knocker clanged.

  Who would be calling at this hour?

  Frowning, he started down the stairs instead. He’d ordered Rumsley to bed when he found out his butler’s gout was acting up again. John had stepped out with Ellie’s maid a while ago, after seeing whether Daniel needed anything or wanted him to remain on duty. He’d sent his footman off with his blessing. At least one of them could be with their lady tonight.

  The door knocker banged again, and he descended the last few treads at a run before his quiet household was further disturbed by the racket.

  He swung the heavy door wide and about choked on his own spit. Surprise warred with astonishment.

  “Thea!” On his doorstep and with some spry, grey-haired fellow.

  Thea, the guilt in her eyes not enough to temper his pleasure at seeing her. Despite the stormy night, she fairly sparkled in the pelisse he’d given her. Thea was right—the sleeves were overly long. She worried one with several bare fingers while her other hand simply trembled, her arm crooked around that of her companion.

  “Thea,” he said again, dumbly. Numbly. What was she doing here? At his home? And why did the notion, instead of annoying him as it certainly would have with Good-Riddance-Former Mistress, only seem perfect because it was Thea?

  “Mrs. Hurwell?” The elderly fellow smiled at them both. “Is this your Lord Tremayne? And answering his own door?”

  Mrs. Hurwell?

  It sounded all wrong. How he’d started to hate that name. It wasn’t right, not at all.

  It should be Mrs. Holbrook, Lady Tremayne.

  His lady. And he should swell her trim belly with child.

  A child they’d both love whether he or she stammered or whistled or came out plaid.

  “My lord.” She raised one hand as though to ward him off and Daniel shook himself free of the fantasy with a strangled sound. When had all the air evaporated from his entryway?

  “Please forgive our late and unannounced arrival,” she began, and shot a worried look over her shoulder. A flash of lightning illuminated Swift John hovering protectively behind her. “This is Mr. Taft. I was given to understand you desired to hear him speak but that your favor for Lord Wylde prevented it.”

  At the introduction, the other man leaned forward and caught sight of Daniel’s bruised phiz (Ellie had yet to deliver that requested batch of cream). “My gracious, my lord. I do hope the other fellow looks worse.”

  “Lord Tremayne is a pugilist,” Thea explained to her companion while somehow managing to shoot Daniel a private glare that would have smote a lesser man than he. But still, he heard the pride in her voice as she defended him.

  Him! For childishly fighting to avoid the demons of his past.

  Was she an angel, perhaps? An angel masquerading as a mistress? One sent to rescue him from all his demons?

  Her subdued voice went on, something about timing and birthdays, but all Daniel heard were her lilting tones. All he saw was the woman never far from his thoughts. All he wanted was to snatch her up and escape with her to his chambers.

  As the man beside her chimed in, Daniel finally grasped all they were saying.

  This was Mr. Taft, famed orrery expert, who had somehow concluded that Daniel was a suitor for the hand of his mistress. Which would be comical if it wasn’t so close to the truth.

  Which also explained why Thea looked so miserably guilty and kept trying to edge back. (If it wasn’t for Taft’s fatherly patting of her hand upon his forearm, she might have succeeded.)

  Mr. Taft, offering to help fix Daniel’s machine. The very machine his grandfather had consulted with Taft about back in the 1770s.

  This was Ellie’s surprise?

  And it brought Thea to his doorstep?

  More than a bit in awe of the older man, never mind that he resembled a grinning, grey-tufted elf, Daniel felt his jaw tightening characteristically. Manners bade he recall himself sufficiently to usher them in.

  “P-please,” he cleared his throat, praying they hadn’t noticed the slip, “come in, b-both of you.”

  Damn! Was it nerves that made it so bad? Taft’s presence? Or Thea’s? Or was he simply overly tired after the disappointing showing at the committee meeting?

  Taft was waiting for Thea to precede him, but like a giant, unmovable oak, she appeared rooted in place.

  “Thea?” Daniel stepped outside and forcibly shepherded her across the threshold. She gave him a grateful look. Weighted with more guilt.

  Using the excuse of helping her with her pelisse, he whispered in her ear. “’Tis fine, really. I’m—” Pleased. Delighted. Blighted by your beauty. “Stay with my—blsng.” Blessing got smothered against her nape when he took advantage of the situation to press his lips to her soft, sweet skin. To inhale her unique and calming fragrance. Essence of Thea.

  When his lips lingered, he swore she gave a silent moan and leaned into him. Then she nodded, straightening as she pulled her arm from the long sleeve, only to reveal a delightful new dress. He smiled his approval, reluctant to release her, but beyond curious about this unforeseen visit.

  * * *

  After Lord Tremayne asked a single question about that afternoon’s lecture he’d missed, which started Mr. Taft on a whirlwind of excited explanations, the men headed up the staircase.

  Buttons nudged Thea.

  She left off staring at the opulent chandelier overhead. “Aye?”

  “Go on with you,” Buttons told her in a low voice. “Look there—” He nodded toward the stairs. “His lordship’s waiting for you.”

  He was, standing stalwart and strong, gaze intense, hand outstretched. And that’s when she noticed his attire. Clothed the most casually she’d ever seen him—save for in her bedchamber—his thick hair was finger-tousled, linen shirt billowing and dark breeches thigh-hugging. No tailcoat. No waistcoat. Neckcloth loose, practically cast aside.

  Though he stood there, beckoning to her, she had the uncanny feeling the tiled marble floor she stood on was flinging energy spikes through her slippers and straight up her legs, spikes that loudly proclaimed You don’t belong here. You don’t belong!

  Lord Tremayne’s townhouse put hers to shame. Everything around her exuded tasteful elegance on the grandest of scales. This townhouse could swallow her entire abode several times over—and that was just for the appetizer.

  But it was the man himself who created the longing to stay.

  The man with the discolored face and charming smile, the broad shoulders subdued by nothing more than quality linen. The man whose quiet but decisively spoken, “Thea?” tamed those condemning floor spikes into ones of Welcome.

  The motion concealed by her long dress, she stamped her feet. Yet still, it came again: Welcome.

  Flashing Buttons a grateful smile, she climbed the stairs after them, glad more than ever for her new dress when Lord Tremayne took stock of it and nodded as she came abreast. “Lovely.”

  That was all he said. But ’twas enough to have her heart galloping in response. She could repent or regret tomorrow; tonight she intended to collect every glimpse of the inner man Lord Tremayne deigned to share.

  “’Tis a beauty!” Mr. Taft exclaimed upon entering the study, going unerringly to the largest orrery in the room. Five or six feet across, it was easily higher than her waist. By far the biggest one Thea had encountered, all of her previous experience being with the miniature clock-top models and an occasional tabletop orrery.

  “I’d seen the plans on her,” Mr. Taft continued, “but not the finished apparatus. She fulfilled her design and then some. What seems to be the problem with her, my lord?”

  “Uranus,” Lord Tremayne said succinctly, following Mr. Taft over to the piece while she remained just inside the open door, ready for a quick escape should one prove necessary. “Refuses to or…bit.”

  “Well then, it’s our duty to practitioners of astrolatry everywhere to get her running smoothly, is it not?” While Mr. Taft reached the device and started evaluating the individual planets and parts as he might a hotly desired horse at auction, she worked to puzzle out the meaning of the unfamiliar word. Astro was easy: celestial or heavenly bodies. Latry had her stumped, until with a mental snap she recalled idolatry and quickly deduced Mr. Taft referenced enthusiastic sky-watchers, worshipers of heavenly objects.

  After investigating the orrery’s perimeter, he bent to peer into the central shaft where all the planetary orbits originated. “Have you trouble with any others? Or do they all run like clockwork, heh?”

  Lord Tremayne smiled at his jest. “Just Uranus. B-b—” He coughed into his hand. “Finished in seventy-eight, you see.”

  “Ah. That explains it.”

  Explains what? Thea wanted to venture but was hesitant to speak, hesitant to draw attention to herself. No matter what his eyes and actions conveyed, breaching the home of one’s protector was ill-advised—if not an outright hanging offense. The Mistress Code of Expected Behavior Susan and Lady Wylde planned to pen was surely catching fire at Thea’s brazenness.

  Seeing a yawning dog emerge from beneath a huge mahogany desk, she relinquished her post to make her way to one of the large chairs near it. She perched on the edge but the leather was so very comfortable, she found herself sinking right in. She held out her hand and was rewarded when the big canine sniffingly advanced.

  “You must be Cyclops, hmmm, boy?” she whispered to the ugliest dog she’d ever seen, one eye vacant, muzzle scarred and askew, drool drizzling from one side of his jaw. Nevertheless, there was something endearing in the way he nuzzled her thigh and pushed his head under her hand, not content until she was scratching everywhere she could reach.

  When she approached the underside of his chin, she swore the dog purred. She giggled to herself. He angled his head and gave a happy, slobbering bark, and Thea couldn’t help but cringe when she noticed they’d unintentionally captured the men’s attention.

  So she braved speaking up. “What does seventy-eight explain?”

  “Uranus was discovered in 1781, a handful of years after this beauty was built,” Mr. Taft told her, arms wide as though he’d hug the huge, broken contraption if he could. “Thought it was a comet at first, but the scientists of the day soon put that to rights. I can just imagine after all the effort put into this darling how its creator would be vexed beyond reckoning to miss out on the greatest astronomical discovery in his lifetime.”

  When she nodded with interest, he continued, his enthusiasm for his topic growing. “The planets through Saturn were discovered back in ancient times, you see. For centuries, nothing so exciting has been identified so conclusively. And now she has us to set her to rights!” Taft fairly glowed at the challenge.

  “Aye,” Lord Tremayne confirmed, touching a gentle fingertip to the bright blue ball representing Uranus.

  A faraway look came into his eyes as he skimmed his fingers over the longest arm. The light touch was at odds with the hardness she glimpsed in his flexing jaw, the growing tension she sensed emanating from him. Perhaps he realized the absurdity of having his mistress occupy his study, and with a witness he so obviously respected?

  She shifted, tempted to flee all over again. But just then Cyclops closed his eye and sighed, nestling his head heavily upon her lap.

  * * *

  “Was added then,” Daniel forced out. “Worked.” His bloody neck was starting to seize up on him. He wanted to howl, or at least curse his blighted mouth. Instead he ungritted his teeth and tried to explain. “Then stored. A-b-bu-bandoned.”

  Son of a bitch!

  “Difficulty getting the words out, my lord? Just take your time.” Smiling serenely, the man gave Thea an understanding look during this little speech—the speech that threatened to destroy Daniel’s composure if not his life. “I’m in no hurry, not when in the company of such a magnificent specimen and people who appreciate her.”

  While Daniel felt his world tilt on its axis, sensed more than saw the rigidity that came into Thea’s posture, the way she quickly turned from stroking Cy to studying them, Taft blithely carried on. “My uncle was the same way. Got tripped up by stubborn letters now and then…”

  Goddammit, why now? Just when he’d started to believe he could tell her, could admit his weakness and it might not condemn him back to silence, might not mean the immediate end of what they shared.

  But he’d thought to tell her his way, in his own time. Perhaps next month, after getting her bosky on fine brandy or sauced on wine. Or next year, after getting her with child—

  Good God? Where had that come from? On the heels of his earlier thoughts too. Damn him. Twice in one night he thought to impregnate her?

  A child wasn’t a pawn. Wasn’t, in truth, anything he’d ever thought about before, not in relation to his fathering one. But he imagined it now? When the sun had exploded and blackness crashed in around him?

  Nay, he only sought to hold on to the woman he loved, to keep her by his side—and in the dark about his defect—a little (or a lot) longer.

  Daniel didn’t have to look at Thea to see how still she’d gone. How alert. How her eyes no doubt narrowed with suspicion when all he could do was keep his gaze fixed on the planet he no longer saw and jerk a nod, agreeing with his idol that he was a clodpated ninnyhammer.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15