The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh (The Cavanaughs 1)

He’d been gazing, unseeing, along the lane the steam carriage, the horsemen, and the traveling coach had taken; as, frowning, he refocused, he realized he didn’t have to go to London—his uncle would be at the exhibition in Birmingham in two days’ time.

His resolution firmed. “I’ll go to the exhibition, find him, and tell him—then I’ll see if I can get a closer look at the Throgmorton engine and whatever other machines are on show.”

He’d recognized the tug he’d felt as the steam-powered engine, gleaming in the well of the carriage, had puttered past. It was the same tug he felt when he saw certain buildings in certain landscapes. For some odd reason, his artist self was attracted to the new machines.

“Who knows?” Turning, he continued down the lane toward the track along which he’d left the gig he’d hired. “Sketching mechanical inventions might be the next big thing.”

* * *

Later that night, Felicia lay in the bed in her room in the Reinedeer Inn in Banbury and listened to the creaks as the timbers of the old inn settled. The footsteps that, earlier, had tramped past her door had faded, and silence had descended on the upper floors. If she strained her ears, she could dimly hear the distant sounds of revelry issuing from the taproom.

Relaxing between the crisply laundered sheets, she let her mind wander. In retrospect, the day had passed in a curious mix of excitement and enforced patience.

She, Mary, and Ryder had not only taken turns riding beside William John in the horseless carriage, but also, at her brother’s insistence—after he’d taught Rand how to drive the engine to the point that Rand had tooled the steam-powered carriage along the winding lanes with increasing confidence—they had each been taught to steer and manage the engine. To their considerable surprise, it hadn’t proved that difficult, and each of them had thoroughly enjoyed their moments behind the steering wheel.

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Passing through villages had also been a thrill; people had dropped what they were doing and rushed to watch the horseless carriage putter past. More often than not, the steam carriage had been cheered on, certainly by the children, who had thought it a great lark to run alongside and shout questions. Only a few ancients had scowled and raised their fists. Most other adults had contented themselves with staring in wonder, then, once the steam carriage had passed, shaking their heads and returning to their interrupted tasks.

In contrast to the thrills and excitement, riding in the closed coach for hours on end had been enervating. It had also left her with plenty of time to imagine possible attempts to sabotage the engine while they were resting overnight at the inn.

But when the traveling coach had rocked to a halt in the inn’s yard and she and Mary had been helped down to the cobbles by Rand, she’d seen the steam carriage being pushed into a barn and heard Ryder issuing orders to his men, setting a rotation of groups of four men at a time to watch the carriage. On top of that, William John had looked around the barn, seen the hay bales stacked along one side, and announced his intention of sleeping there, within sight and sound of the precious invention.

Rand had exchanged a look with her, and neither they nor Ryder and Mary had argued.

Although there’d been plenty of light still remaining in the day, none of them had felt any desire to wander the town. Instead, they’d eaten an early dinner in the splendor of the inn’s Globe Room, which dated from Elizabethan times—as did a great deal of the half-timbered inn—then they’d spent an hour going over their plans for the next day and their arrival in Birmingham.

She was dwelling on their decision to take the road through Stratford-on-Avon, rather than swing farther north to the larger highway through Warwick, when a soft knock sounded on her door. She hesitated for only a second, then thrust back the covers and, the wooden floor cold beneath her bare feet, pattered across to the panel. “Yes?” she softly inquired.

“It’s me—Rand.”

She unbolted the door and held it open while he slipped inside, then she closed the panel and slid the bolt home again. She turned to him as his hands closed about her waist, hard palms burning through the fine linen of her nightgown.

He looked into her eyes and arched a brow. “Do you mind if I stay?”

She smiled and raised her arms to drape them over his shoulders. “Of course not.” As she stepped into him and stretched up on her toes, her lips hungry for his, she murmured, “I hoped you would come.”

As she pressed her lips to his, she felt his curve, then they firmed, and the kiss deepened, and he waltzed her and her greedy senses into the flames of what was becoming a familiar and welcome fire.

He’d shared her bed for the past four nights, and she’d already grown accustomed to having him there.

As he steered her back until her legs met the mattress, she gave thanks that Flora had deemed the presence of Mary, Felicia’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, as well as that of Rand, her all-but-announced fiancé, sufficient chaperonage in the circumstances and had elected to remain and hold the fort at the Hall.

Mentally blessing Flora for her sense, Felicia set her fingers to Rand’s neckerchief. “You’re wearing far too many clothes.”

He didn’t bother replying, instead devoting himself to rectifying that situation.

Then he drew her into his arms, kissed her with undiluted passion, closed his fists in the folds of her nightgown, then he broke from the kiss, stepped back, and drew the garment off over her head.

Hot as a flame, his gaze streaked over her. Before the nightgown even hit the floor, flicked loose from his fingers before he reached for her, she was in his arms, crushed to him, skin to naked skin, and they were burning.

With that delicious flame she’d come to crave.

He took her down to the bed, and they rolled across the sheets, seizing and savoring, seeking and claiming.

Neither felt any need to rein in their rampant desires; both gave the moments their all—their undivided attention and their unstinting commitment. Him to her, and her to him.

Through gasps and smothered cries, through moans and achingly guttural groans, giving and taking and sharing.