Felicia held his gaze and felt his words resonate deep inside. Tension had risen between them—but this wasn’t a tension she’d felt before. This tension excited. Tempted and lured.
But he made no move, and she told herself she was grateful for that. They’d met only five days before. Surely that was too short a time to have developed a meaningful connection. And yet...there they were.
In the dark of the night with secrets already spoken and shared.
Still holding his gaze, she inclined her head and stepped back from the lure. “Goodnight.” Her voice had lowered to a sultry tone.
Her nerves leapt and prickled as she turned, opened the French doors, and slipped into the drawing room.
As she crossed the shadowed space, absentmindedly avoiding the furniture, she told herself she was deeply glad he’d refrained from reaching for her; if he had, God alone knew what she might have done.
She passed through the open drawing room door and walked slowly into the front hall. She’d been kissed before, been waltzed and wooed, yet nothing had prepared her for Randolph Cavanaugh and his effect on her senses, her wits—on her will.
Nothing had prepared her for her own desire—no other man had ever evoked it. She’d never before had to deal with this sparkling compulsion.
Yet another novel and unexpected twist in her new direction—courtesy of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh.
Rand stood on the night-shrouded terrace and let Felicia walk away from him.
He waited—not thinking, not allowing his mind to speculate—until he felt enough time had elapsed for her to have gained her room.
Only then did he haul in a deeper breath, shove his hands into his pockets, and turn to look out over the south lawn.
The silvered expanse remained empty.
Lips setting, he opened the door through which Felicia had gone, stepped inside, then snibbed the lock. He checked the second pair of French doors and found them already locked. Satisfied that he could trust Johnson to have seen to the rest of the house—the butler must have glimpsed Rand and Felicia outside and left the French doors, the pair most often used by his mistress to go outside, unlocked—Rand followed Felicia’s trail across the darkened room and up the stairs.
Her room lay opposite his, her door a few paces farther down the corridor. He hesitated, vacillating in the darkness between his door and hers; on hearing no sounds from her room, he turned and entered his.
He hadn’t bothered to leave a light burning. After shutting the door, he crossed to the uncurtained window and stood looking, unseeing, at the dark shapes of the trees in the woods.
In retrospect, he’d been a coward to allow that moment on the terrace to pass. He should have seized the chance when it offered and trusted to Fate to see him right.
At least it was only a step forward he hadn’t taken; he hadn’t lost any ground. He would continue onward—and hope his moment of strategic caution wouldn’t be one he would come to regret.
CHAPTER 8
Two mornings later, Felicia entered the breakfast parlor at eight o’clock to find William John and Rand already at the table.
Both were frowning.
They raised their heads and nodded a reply to her cheery “Good morning.” In William John’s case, his gaze remained unfocused and his nod absentminded, but Rand’s attention locked on her. His gaze, intent, swept her, then rose, and he met her eyes. He smiled fleetingly and inclined his head, then he glanced at William John and his frown returned.
She helped herself from the sideboard, then joined them at the table, sliding into her usual chair opposite Rand, with William John to her right.
As she poured herself a cup of tea, William John muttered something, then more volubly grumbled, “I just don’t understand it. It should work perfectly, but it’s not.”
She told herself it wasn’t any of her business—except, of course, now it was. She’d agreed to help, even if she remained uncertain of the wisdom of doing so. If she grew to enjoy the pastime and fell victim to its lure, what then? She was a lady, a female, and nothing could change that. She took a bite of the slice of toast she’d liberally slathered with raspberry jam, then glanced at Rand.
He was waiting to catch her eye. “As you can hear, William John’s stumped.”
Her brother turned to her and eagerly explained, “It’s something to do with the drive mechanism. Now everything else is working perfectly, it’s somehow getting out of kilter. I think we need an adjustment to the gears, but I can’t see where. And there’s some other wrinkle in the pressure in the lines. Not major, but I suspect if we don’t get it perfectly correct, the engine will work for only a relatively short time before...” He raised his hands in a “who knows?” gesture. “It’ll probably blow a gasket or something and come to a shuddering halt.”
Rand’s gaze hadn’t left her face. “We were wondering if you would take a look at the problems. You might see something William John has missed.”
She glanced at William John, only to have her brother fix her with a pleading look and reach across and grasp her hand. “Please, Felicia.” He squeezed her fingers. “I know it’s not something you expected to have to do, but any insights you have—any hints you can give me—would be greatly appreciated.” He held her gaze, then quietly stated, “I need your mind to work my way through this.”
She heard the sincerity of his plea and saw it in his eyes. Inside, a stone wall of resistance, built through years of enforced disinterest and bolstered by self-protective caution, wavered, then crumbled and fell. She felt herself nod. “All right.” She glanced at her plate. “Just let me finish my toast and let Mrs. Reilly know I’ll meet with her later, and I’ll come down and see...what I can see.”