Felicia narrowed her eyes, but as she kept her head bent and her gaze directed at the path before their feet, the gesture had no effect on the gentleman who had so adroitly claimed her company. Her senses, thrown into disarray by their collision, hadn’t yet completely settled. Her nerves were still flickering, all too aware of his powerful, very male presence so close beside her.
She shouldn’t have acquiesced, but her silly feet had followed his lead...just as her thoughts were now following his.
Given that, invention-wise, he seemed intent on involving her as a collaborator, his question—his curiosity—was, perhaps, understandable. And while his wasn’t a question she’d ever posed to herself, she did know the answer.
Raising her head, she looked down the path along which they were slowly strolling. She half expected him to press, but he remained attentively silent. Encouraging, but content to allow her to marshal her thoughts.
More than anything else, that silent yet focused attention prompted her to speech. “When I was a young girl, I spent a great deal of my time in the workshop, along with William John. I expect my...talent, as you call it, stems from those days. From all the hours I spent listening to Papa talk through his work. Probably because, until recently, he’d always worked alone, he was one of those inventors who, when he was working, spoke his thoughts aloud.” She paused, remembering those days. “Instead of dolls, I had wrenches and spanners. And I still can’t embroider to save my soul. In place of the usual lessons a young girl learns, I was playing at building things with gears and levers. Mama loved Papa too much to try to curtail my time with him, and I adored—simply adored—the different world that existed downstairs.”
She stared unseeing into the deepening darkness that cloaked the end of the garden. “But that time passed. William John and I grew older, and as we did, Papa focused on William John, of course. I was a girl, and increasingly, Papa paid less and less attention to me—and feeling cut out, I went down to the workshop less often. That meant I spent more time upstairs with Mama, and that made me aware of the...counter side of Papa’s obsession with inventions. As the months and years went on, I saw and increasingly understood the pressure Papa’s
obsession placed on everyone else, but on my mother most of all. Papa left her to manage everything. He cared for nothing but what went on in his workshop. By then, I’d stopped going down there. I simply couldn’t—not while knowing what him working down there was costing Mama.”
She drew breath and raised her head. “I grew increasingly angry—and what you’ve termed my antipathy grew and grew, until ultimately, I turned my back on everything to do with inventing.” She paused, then went on, “If it wasn’t for William John—if it had been left to me—I would have closed the workshop after Papa’s death.”
The long-fermented rancor elicited by her father’s behavior still pulsed in her veins.
She tipped her head toward Rand and felt her curls brush his shoulder. “Given all that, it’s hardly surprising that I simply didn’t realize I...had any real ability in that sphere. Even after Papa died, the very last thing I would have thought of doing was going down to the workshop and offering my help.” She thought of it, then softly snorted and looked down. “Had Papa been alive...what happened two days ago would simply never have occurred. He never—ever—thought of me as a potential colleague. He had William John, and I was just a girl.”
They’d reached the end of the path. The seconds they took to swing around to pace back toward the house were time enough for her to realize and acknowledge another truth. As they strolled freely again, she murmured, “In hindsight, me distancing myself from inventing was a mistake on both my and Papa’s parts. Had I participated in his work, even if only occasionally, I would have understood what drove him.” She drew breath and admitted, “It wouldn’t have changed how I felt about inventing, but... I would have understood him.”
She frowned and looked down, suddenly aware that she now had regrets she hadn’t previously harbored. Nevertheless...raising her head, she stated, “I still firmly believe that people—especially those close to us, the people we love, our family—are in all situations and at all times more important than any invention could ever be.”
His voice, deep and faintly gruff, rumbled across her senses. “Even as engrossed in inventions as I am, I entirely agree.”
She glanced at his face, but the shadows were now those of full night, and she couldn’t make out his expression.
Rand continued, “Inventions should help, not harm—not in any way, not even in their developmental stages. There is no other purpose behind inventing, so to cause harm while inventing...to me, that runs counter to any inventor’s purpose.”
Her explanations and revelations had pushed him to consider his own views, to review his own feelings. How far would he go in pursuit of an invention if someone dear to him stood to be harmed, even if only emotionally? The answer was very clear in his mind. He couldn’t imagine allowing such a situation to proceed.
“Thank you for trusting me enough to explain.” He glanced at her face and, through the dimness, met her shadowed eyes. “It helps to understand how you feel about things.”
Despite the darkness, he saw her lips curve. “In that case, I claim turn and turn about.” She tipped her head, her eyes still on his. “What led to your interest in inventions? From what did such an esoteric interest spring?”
When he didn’t immediately answer, she murmured, “It would help to understand how you feel about things.”
That surprised a short laugh from him. “Very well.” He faced forward and wondered where to start. Then he knew. “I had no interest in inventions until six years ago.”
When he didn’t go on, she prompted, “What happened six years ago?”
She’d been open and honest—and brave—in telling him all she had. He couldn’t be less, do less. “Six years ago, my mother died. She fell to her death from an upstairs window while trying to escape being taken up for the attempted murder of my half brother, who was and still is the Marquess of Raventhorne. She tried to kill him so that I would inherit—a scheme I and my other brothers and sister had no notion of. She...was a master manipulator and had pulled the wool over all our eyes. Everyone knew she didn’t like Ryder, but that she would do such a thing...” He shook his head. “It was incomprehensible.”
“You’re close to your half brother—the marquess?”
“Nothing so mild as merely close. That was why our mother’s treachery...hurt so much. Ryder’s six years older than I am, and I’m the eldest of the four children my mother bore our father. To the four of us, Ryder was our hero. He was the magnificent big brother who always took care of us. Even now, he’s our family’s rock—the one all of us would turn to for help, knowing he’ll always—always—gladly give it.” He felt his lips twitch upward. “Ryder’s our shield, and I suspect he’ll think of himself as that to his dying day.”
She paced beside him, then softly said, “It must have been—must still be—quite something to have a brother like that.”
He glanced at her, reminded that her older brother had never supported her; in truth, it was she who supported William John. Rand closed his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. “As I said, we’re more than close.” His thoughts rolled on, and he drew in a deep breath. “It was the aftermath of my mother’s death that set me on the path to becoming an investor who specializes in inventions. I was twenty-four when she died, and I’d...done nothing worthwhile with my life to that point.”
He paused, letting an echo of those long-ago feelings, the strongest ones that had pushed him down his present path, ripple through him again. “I had never wanted to nor expected to inherit the marquessate. Managing a noble estate had never been of interest. But the shock of my mother’s death opened my eyes and made me ask what I stood for. What the name of Randolph Cavanaugh would mean to others—and I realized that, at that time, me and my name meant nothing at all.”
He glanced briefly at her and saw she was watching him. “I came to that realization a few weeks after we buried my mother. I decided on that day that I would carve a place for myself in the world, so that the name of Randolph Cavanaugh would someday mean something.”
“So that you would leave a positive mark on the world.”
He inclined his head. “In whatever way—it didn’t truly matter how. So I started investigating what arena I might have a more-than-passing interest in and discovered the answer was investing. For several years, I stuck as close as I could to another nobleman—a connection of my sister-in-law, Ryder’s wife, Mary—who has long been an acknowledged force in investment circles. He was kind enough to teach me everything I needed to know. Through him, I stumbled into investing in inventions, and it was there I found my place.”