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The Designs Of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh: #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns with an uputdownable new historical romance. Stephanie Laurens
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He straightened and caught the swift glance she threw his way. “Thank you for confiding in me.” He held her gaze. “I can’t promise that this will pan out as we all hope, but rest assured I will do everything I can to ensure the weight of your father’s last invention is lifted from you, your family, and the household as soon as possible.”
Openly, she searched his eyes. “Do you think it’s possible? That at this late stage, William John can sort out the mechanisms that to date have eluded him?”
He didn’t look away. “I can’t say. However, I can guarantee that our only option is to forge ahead and do everything possible to assist William John in that endeavor.”
She looked toward the house. For a moment, he thought she would merely nod in dismissal, but, instead, she raised her chin and said, “Thank you for the assurance of your support.” She paused, then went on, “While I might not be overjoyed about the project continuing, I understand the situation and accept that it must. That, as matters stand, we all need this invention to be a success.” Finally, her eyes touched his again, and she gracefully inclined her head. “Rest assured that I’ll do nothing to make the road to success more difficult.”
Rand tipped his head in response. “Thank you.” That was the assurance he’d come to the rose garden hoping to get. He stepped back. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
She murmured an agreement and returned to trimming the roses.
Rand turned and walked out of the rose garden, then he slid his hands into his pockets and strode across the lawn. On his way to the rose garden, he’d passed the still-open doors of the workshop; a breeze had sprung up, and the sulfurous fog had almost cleared. He turned his steps west. Circling the house would afford him time to sort through his thoughts as well as giving him the lie of the land.
Speaking of which, he should learn Miss Throgmorton’s given name. Not that he expected to get all that much closer to her, fascinating creature though she was. She was intelligent, prickly, and capable—more than clever enough to manipulate any man.
Precisely the sort of clever lady he’d long ago barricaded his heart against.
And if his heart wasn’t involved...given the circumstances, pursuing any sort of relationship with her was entirely out of bounds.
Yes, he was aware of the visceral tug he felt in her presence, but that didn’t mean he had to do anything about it.
Aside from all else, he was there, walking the lawns of Throgmorton Hall, for one burningly urgent reason. He had to ensure the Throgmorton Steam-Powered Horseless Carriage made its debut in appropriate style at the upcoming exhibition.
If he failed...
Unlike the Throgmortons, he wouldn’t be ruined, but the setback would be severe.
Clearly, he and William John would get no active help from Miss Throgmorton, not that he could imagine how she might actively assist. But she’d agreed to manage the household around them, around the completion of the invention, and that was really all he could hope for from her.
He walked on, boots crunching on the gravel of the forecourt as he approached the front door, through which he’d left the house.
As he started up the porch steps, he inwardly admitted he would have preferred Miss Throgmorton to be more engaged with the project—to be an invested supporter, rather than a highly reluctant one.
But he’d gained a clear statement of commitment, and having heard the reasons behind her attitude to inventing, that was realistically all he could hope for.
It’s enough to go on with. The words rang in his mind as he opened the door and walked into the front hall.
Felicia swept through the door of the breakfast parlor at her customary hour of eight o’clock. Dinner the previous evening had been an entirely uneventful and rather stiff affair; she’d still been grappling with the ramifications of the revelations Cavanaugh’s arrival had brought, William John had been frowning and muttering over what had caused the explosion, and Cavanaugh had seemed disinclined to push further regarding the invention, perhaps wanting to wait until he’d seen it. He’d spent more time chatting with Flora than with anyone else.
As usual, Felicia found William John already at the table, frowning direfully at several diagrams while he sipped his coffee, but she nearly jumped when Cavanaugh rose from his chair farther around the circular table.
Her eyes wider than she would have liked, she managed to smile with reasonable composure and wave him back to his chair. “Good morning, my lord.” I didn’t expect to see you before noon. “I trust you slept well?” She headed for the sideboard.
“I did, thank you.” He resumed his seat. “The bed was comfortable, and after the constant noise of the capital, the silence of the country at night is a welcome relief.”
She glanced briefly his way. “You live in Mayfair?” Why had she asked that? She didn’t need to know. She gave him her back and concentrated on helping herself to a portion of kedgeree—and tried to drag her wits away from their sudden obsession with whether her bodice was straight and her hair properly pinned.
“I have lodgings in Jermyn Street.”
Of course he did. The street inhabited by all the most fashionable bachelors.
“That said, I spend most of my time in my office in the City.”
Turning, she approached the place opposite him. Johnson arrived with a teapot and a fresh rack of toast; he quickly set them down and pulled out and held her chair for her. She thanked him with a smile, sat, then glanced again at Cavanaugh. “I suppose you have to meet and discuss projects with your investors.”
He lowered his gaze to his plate of ham and eggs. “That, and meet with my contacts so that I hear of any new inventions looking for funding.” He raised his gaze and, across the table, met her eyes. “That takes more hours than I like, but it’s essential to keep on top of the field. Inventions arise more or less unheralded—one has to keep one’s ear to the ground.”
She nodded and, fixing her gaze on her plate, sampled the kedgeree, then settled to consume it. To her irritation, she was keenly aware of her every movement. Was there a bit of herring on her lip? She must be careful not to overload her fork.
Such thoughts—such awareness of her appearance and how a gentleman might be seeing her—were so alien, they jarred.
What was the matter with her?
Whatever it was—whatever affliction Cavanaugh had inflicted on her—she needed to ignore it.
Feeling his gaze on her, she very nearly squirmed.
“You know,” William John said, “I think you’re correct.” He leaned across to show Cavanaugh a diagram. “If I move the inlet valve to here, then the gauge should be more sensitive to the changes in pressure.” William John frowned. “Theoretically, anyway.”
Cavanaugh shrugged. “At times, one simply has to try things and see if they work.”
Slowly, still frowning, William John nodded. “Once we have the workshop cleared and the boiler replaced, we’ll try it. That, however, won’t be the only change we’ll need to make.”
Accustomed to her brother’s ramblings, Felicia, nevertheless, pricked up her ears at his use of “we.” Ever since their father’s death, with respect to the steam engine, William John had always spoken in the singular.
She continued to eat her kedgeree and sip her tea, and surreptitiously watched as Cavanaugh made another suggestion, and William John readily discussed the pros and cons...freely, without the slightest reservation.
In