Kathleen Y'Barbo (15 page)

With three of the four walls filled with the books Father would never allow in her bedchamber, the room might have held the scent and image of a tiny library save for the organized chaos on the table filling the center of the room.

It was there pieces of thoughts were made real, items she had crafted into partially working mechanisms and others still needing attention. Mixed in among the odd collection of metal, leather, and wooden objects were a stack of sketchpads that threatened to topple at any moment, one of Mama’s discarded Spode gravy boats filled to the brim with fat charcoal pencils, and paint brushes in need of a good cleaning standing upright in an old jar.

The scent of the leather of the books mixed with the blended aroma of linseed oil and turpentine to offer a fragrance unique to Millie’s private retreat. Thanks to a few spills, the priceless Aubusson rugs she had salvaged from Mama’s bedchamber before Father sent all the furnishings away bore far too many paint splatters to be called decent for company to see. They would accompany her to England along with the books and her art supplies, for Father and her soon-to-be groom need not know the contents of her trunks. Surely somewhere in Trueck Abbey was a place like this one she could call her own, a room where Mama’s Bible was the only item not likely to suffer some sort of minor damage due to her slight forgetfulness when returning the tops to jars of ink or keeping the metal shavings from her poor attempts at inventions from flying about.

Millie fitted the key in the lock and turned it, inhaling deeply of the intoxicating mixture as she opened the door. Repeating the process of
securing the lock on the other side, she tucked the key back into her pocket.

She would have the maid check on the repair of her broken gold chain tomorrow. Or perhaps she would go herself. Yes, that would be the better
option, as Mr. Parker, while a very discreet jeweler, had been abominably slow. His promise to return the piece intact today had apparently been forgotten.

Millie headed toward one of two wingback chairs, upholstered in tapestry with threads of deep burgundy and spun gold, that the maids had spirited away for her convenience. Likely Father would never miss them from the formal parlor, though his valet had let her know in no uncertain terms that he might be required to return them should his employer complain about their absence.

She had loved the oversized pair as a girl because they made the perfect place to hide in from her sisters. Never failing to win at their hide-and-seek games, Millie could easily disappear simply by sitting in one of the big chairs. It made her smile to know she still could, such was the height of the chairs’ backs.

She went to the bookshelf to retrieve the novel she had begun yesterday and then turned with the intention of finding a warm place to read. Only then did she notice she was not alone.

She saw dark hair and a length of leg that began with a man’s winter trousers and ended with a shoe that held not a single scuff. Millie froze. Who could have possibly found this room? Found her?

Inching forward, she held the book tight against her. Should her privacy have been breached by a stranger who meant her harm, the heavy leather volume was likely her best weapon.

A thought occurred. She could back slowly and softly out of the room and then report the breach of the premises to...whom?

Father would have the offending chamber torn apart and packed away. Still, she had to leave. To stay with a stranger about was lunacy.

Millie took one step backward and then another as she inched her way to the door. And then a traitorous board squealed beneath her foot.

At this, the intruder shifted positions to stand.

Recognition slammed into her, and she slumped against the door as if she had been shot. “You?” she breathed. “But how did you—”

“I was hoping I would find you here.” The aviator’s lifted brow belied his casual pose.

From head-to-toe he looked as if he had only just stepped out of the
bank around the corner. And yet his rakish grin belonged more to a rogue than a captain of industry.

“What...” She gulped for air as she held the volume to her chest atop her galloping heart. “
What
are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. And the place where you hide away to read your books.” He gave the room a sweeping glance, both hands in his pockets, and then returned his attention to Millie. “I like it. Very much.”

“But how...” She shook her head, her pulse still pounding as her fingers tightened around the book. “How did you get in here?”

He stepped around the chair but moved no closer to her. He produced something that appeared to be metal spikes. “I am an inventor. Finding my way into a third-floor room is not a difficult proposition.”

Curiosity almost had her walking over to examine the device he held. Prudence, however, caused her to remain in place. She thought of Father and Sir William two floors below and drew in a deep breath. Finding her here with all her books and treasures would be bad enough. Adding a decidedly handsome stranger to the mix would be a complete disaster.

“You cannot stay.”

“I have no intention of staying.” He looked away from her to scan the room.

Golden firelight traced a path along the patterns of the rugs as he made his way toward the table in the center of the room. Bypassing the jumble of objects Millie had left there, he continued toward the bookshelves on the far wall.

“No, I mean you must go
now
.” She nodded toward the window. “Now. Really.”

“So you said.” He ran his palm across the leather volumes, his gaze seemingly diverted to studying their titles. “You have an impressive library here.” He lifted a book from its place and opened the cover. “This one in particular is one I have been keen to read.” He set it back in place and reached for another. “Is this Goethe’s
Faust
in the original German?”

She merely nodded. He asked in German if she had yet read the novel, and she responded in kind. And because she could not resist, she also told him how much she loved the story but disagreed with some of the character’s choices.

In French.

With an admiring glance in her direction, the aviator turned the pages until finally he apparently found the one he sought.

“In the end, you are exactly what you are,” he read, translating to English. “Put on a wig with a million curls, put the highest heeled boots on your feet...”

“Yet you remain in the end just what you are,” she supplied, this time in Italian.

He repeated the phrase. In Latin. “I can also offer Greek, Spanish, and a few other languages that might betray my penchant for traveling abroad.”

Millie smiled in spite of herself. “Thank you, but no. I think I understand you just fine in English.”

The stranger glanced toward her. So he was no stranger to the German language. Or any of several others, if what he claimed was true. She resisted the urge to test him.

“Yet you remain in the end just what you are,” he again quoted.

Lovely words, though she would never again think of them in the same way. Not after today.

She watched in silence as he closed the book and returned it to the shelf. “And who are you?” he asked when he had once again found her gaze.

“I am sure you know by now,” she said with more bravado than she felt. Inside, she quaked. Outside, she hoped she appeared at least somewhat collected.

“I do not, actually.” He moved away from the bookshelves, focusing his attention on her worktable.

“What do you mean?” She took a few tentative steps away from the door and then paused, her grip tight on the book. “You found me. How can you not know my name?”

“Because I choose not to.”

Emboldened, she shook her head. “I do not believe you.”

“Fine,” he said. “But it is the truth. We agreed names were not necessary. You are to be married, and I am...” He paused. “You are going
your way very soon, and tomorrow I will be going mine. What would be the point?”

She nodded, praying he told the truth. Her situation was already far too complicated without adding an inventor and his flying machine to it. Still, she glanced around the table, looking for anything that might bear her name.

“Of course. What would be the point? And I rather like it. It gives you an air of mystery I will not forget.”

“An air of mystery,” he echoed. “Yes, I like that. Nor will I forget you, my society scientist.” The stranger reached for the topmost sketchpad in the stack. “May I?”

When she nodded, he began to flip through the sketches until he paused to study one intently. She came closer, curious as to what had caught his attention.

The Porter dirigible.

“You know about Rufus Porter and his plan to fly miners west to the gold mines in California with his dirigible?”

“Though he had some setbacks, the concept was a good one. It should have worked...” she said before falling silent again. There was no need to encourage the stranger to stay, so conversation on any topic was a poor idea.

“You understand then.” He gave her an admiring look. “I see now why you were not afraid of flying with me. Well, not after I convinced you that the two of us together would not keep the device grounded.”

Millie joined him at the table. “That is a copy of the sketch I found in Father’s library. A pamphlet on aerial navigation he had kept from his youth.”

“‘The Practicality of Traveling Pleasantly and Safely from New York to California in Three Days.’” He shrugged. “I own it. Brilliant work for forty years ago. As you said, his ideas were sound, but his dream was too big for the time.” He paused as if to weigh the sketchbook in his hand. “This is a very good likeness.”

“Thank you.”

He turned to the next page and then the next, giving each drawing its due consideration before going on. The slow pace of his reading was maddening, as was her inability to capture his attention and channel it
toward making an exit.

“Tell me something,” she said and his head jerked up, his attention shifting again to her. Millie closed the distance between them to take the sketchbook from his hands and close it.

Their fingers brushed as he allowed her to set the book aside. Millie stood with her back to the table now, her hand gripping the edge. “Why did you go to the trouble of coming here?”

“This is going to sound foolish, but I had to see you one more time.” He paused when a log cracked in the fireplace, sending a jolt of firelight up the chimney. “To see if you were real.”

Millie let out a burst of laughter that died quickly when she realized he was serious. “I don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would.” He allowed his gaze to travel around the room. “Do you have any idea how unique you are?”

“Oh, I am acutely aware of that. And lest I forget, my father takes particular care in reminding me.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but your father is a fool.” At her sharp intake of breath, he reached to follow the line of her jaw with his knuckles. “Let me rephrase,” he said gently. “Your father apparently does not understand that a woman of your intelligence and beauty is a rare gem and should be treated as such.”

“You are toying with me,” she said, though her lip trembled. “And it is not appreciated.”

“I am doing nothing of the sort.”

She met his steady gaze, willing her heart to believe he spoke the truth. If she could believe that one man found her more than just an oddity, then perhaps the man she was to marry would too.

He bent his head, and then his lips followed the trail his knuckles had traced. Slowly the aviator leaned toward her. He would kiss her, this Millie knew. She should not allow it, should not want him to.

And yet she leaned into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around her and fitted his lips to hers. The kiss was one she would not forget. For when it ended and he pulled back, she felt his absence keenly.

“There,” he said as he pressed his index finger to her lips. “I have done what I came to do.” He shook his head. “No, that is not exactly
right, is it?”

“No?” she somehow managed, though her knees threatened to betray her and send her tumbling to the carpet at any moment.

“No.” He linked arms with her, led her to the chair by the fire, and then asked her to sit.

She obeyed, thankful for the excuse to give up the battle to remain upright. He knelt beside her, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, the other on his knee.

For a moment Millie was not sure he would speak. Then he cleared his throat and let out a long sigh.

“This man you will wed, is he good to you?” He looked at her and then at their surroundings. “Will he allow you this?”

“He is not unkind. And, yes. It is our agreement that I shall have the freedom to establish my own household.”

“Establish your own household? What does that mean?”

“It means I shall have the workshop I have wanted as well as the library I need. And I shall enjoy both without being made to feel that neither is suitable for a woman.”

His smile was instant, dazzling. Dimples framed his grin and bid her to touch them. Were she made of lesser stock, Millie might have given in. But she had been raised a lady, and except for her unfortunate penchant for allowing this stranger to kiss her, she managed to keep within the strictures of those expectations.

“You have his assurance on this?”

She dipped her head in a nod that had the dual benefit of responding to him as well as removing his face from her line of vision. Without the aviator’s countenance to cause her confusion, Millie found her thinking clearer and her resolve to avoid yet another kiss stronger.

“We have not discussed the specifics of the arrangement, but I intend to pack up all that you see here and send it ahead so that when I arrive at my husband’s household, I will not be left without the things I love. This much I have already secured permission to do.”

“Secured permission?” He rose abruptly and began to pace. “Were it not impossible, I would suggest you tell this man you have changed your mind. That you do not need his permission for such activities as
reading books or—”