Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (17 page)

I called on a long line of determined ancestors and finally retrieved my voice. “This morning’s flight was glorious,” I told him, projecting all the sincerity I could muster, “but that doesn’t keep me from being frightened by the rest of it. Perhaps I would be less so if you told me the whole,” I added, weighting each word for emphasis. Chagrin flickered across his bronze face.
Good.
“And if I looked unhappy when you came in, it is because my fears were plaguing me, not because I did not . . . um, wish to see you.”

He showed no sign of softening. His sharp gaze never left my face. He was waiting . . . demanding more of me.

More than I was prepared to give?

I grasped at a straw. Or was it merely a delaying tactic? “I thought of a name for your airship. “If you don’t already have one,” I added hastily.

“Indeed. And what might that be?”

Dear God, he sounded so ominous. “
Aurora
,” the goddess of dawn. The dawn of a new age,” I explained, feeling a complete fool. He would hate it, absolutely hate it, I knew he would. And hate my taking the liberty of offering a name.

Silence enveloped us. Was he actually considering it?

“Remarkable,” Julian said at last, his dark eyes unfathomable. “I confess we’ve been so busy building her we never thought to name her. An idiosyncracy of the male mind, I suspect.” He r
an his fingers through his
hair, his lips curled into a wry grin. “I might have wished you spent the past hour thinking kindly of your husband, perhaps even eagerly anticipating our delayed wedding night, but wishing to name my airship is at least a step in the right direction.”

If only the bed would open up and swallow me whole. Mortified, I fixed my gaze on the clenched hands in my lap.

“When you greeted my return today,” he said, “I thought you cared, but now I begin to suspect it was ship itself, the flight that mattered to you. I, but a means to an end.”

Men!
How could they be so obtuse? I drew a deep breath, frantically searching for words to soothe a wounded warrior. And he was a warrior, a man about to risk his life, his fortune, and his honor for his country. While I, surely, was the epitome of the foolish virgin.

I drew a deep breath and plunged ahead, certain anything I might say could only make matters worse. “Listen to me, Julian. I thought nothing could be more glorious than the day Elbert rolled out of the workshop, but today I was so proud of you it’s a wonder my corset strings didn’t snap.” That brought a thin smile. “And, yes, perhaps there’s no way I can separate Julian, the inventor, from Julian, my husband, but it doesn’t matter. I am more than content with my lot.” I crossed my arms over my breasts and added, frowning mightily, “Except, of course, for being the wife who isn’t.”

Eyes of steel softened to warmth, as if their charcoal color had been set alight. His fingers hovered above the small bandage that covered my head wound. “I think we might be able to do something about that,” he murmured.

He stood, blew out my candle, picked up his own, and walked to the other side of the bed. One huff snuffed his candle. A whoosh of quilted silk as his banyan hit the floor. The bed sagged as he joined me.

My heart was pumping so hard, I feared it might explode. My brain ceased to function. There had been just enough moonlight peeking through the draperies to reveal he was not wearing a traditional nightshirt. He was, in fact, wearing nothing at all.

Did brides die of heart failure? I recalled overhearing tales of men who had died
in flagrante
, b
ut women . . .?

“A lovely gown,” he whispered in my ear, his hands busy elsewhere, “but it’s very much in the way.” And in shockingly easy fashion, he winkled it off.

He was still chuckling with satisfaction when he kissed me, and my world gradually steadied. I was where I was meant to be. And no matter what trials awaited us, in Julian’s arms I was safe.

The repercussions from Julian’s trial run were strangely muted, with most of his Hertfordshire neighbors long accustomed to his fits and starts. Or so Mrs. E informed me at our daily meeting the next morning. Most, she assured me, saw the airship as “his lordship playing at balloons
,” b
ut I already knew the waters were not as calm as she would have me believe. Mrs. H, Tillie had informed me as she served toast that had been burnt and scraped, was weeping and wailing and carrying on something fierce. “The work of the devil,” she exclaimed to anyone unfortunate enough to come within earshot. “The work of the devil!”

I sighed. Though I suspected the vicar, Mr. Truesdale, was Church of England through and through and barely tolerant of Mrs. H’s evangelical faith, I wondered if we might expect a call. Hopefully, he was among those who thought Rochefort
was merely playing at balloons.

And then there was the proble
m of entertaining
my multitud
e of guests
. Which was
precisely what I should be doing at the moment, but my heart wasn’t in it. I snuggled into a comfortable chair, upholstered in gold and white brocade, and gazed almost blindly at the cheerful morning room, suddenly lit to its full glory by the sun breaking through a cloudy sky. Surely a metaphor for what happened last night. So many clouds . . . and then the sun. Fire, assassination, treason, revolution . . . and in a few glorious hours Julian swept it all away.

Not that the storm clouds wouldn’t come back, but my euphoria was strong enough
to carry me through.
No matter what happened, I was no longer alone.

And surely I had ample reason to think my husband cared for me. Not that I knew much about wedding nights, but I rather suspected mine was better than most. Considerably better. But for this type of information Phoebe and Lexa were useless, and I’d cut out my tongue before I’d broach the subject with any of the other ladies in the household.

I yawned. It had been a
very
short night. Of sleep, that is. Truthfully, I had no idea a man could—

Guilt struck me. I had guests. Guests must be entertained, and there was no airship trial today. Julian and his minions were inspecting, adjusting, and generally tinkering with every aspect of the airship before it would once again take to the skies. Which reminded me . . . I rang for a maid and told her to find Drummond. A trip to the wine cellar was in order. Today there would be a christening.

I wish I might have preserved the look of horror on Matt Black’s face when our rather large party of female voyeurs descended on the airship. He popped back inside the ship, and in moments Julian stood in the doorway, a bemused expression suffusing his weary face. He gave me a look, and I swear his lips twitched. “Ladies.” He nodded. “How may I help you?”

“We have come for a tour,” I told him.

“An inopportune moment, my dear,” he returned blandly. “The floor is strewn with nuts and bolts, and other bits and pieces.”

“Then may we peek in the door, one by one? I fear we are all grown quite tired of secrets.” Was I pushing our rapport of last night a trifle too far? Very likely. But why should ladies be excluded from knowledge just because
we
are female?

“Very well,” my husband pronounced. “One at a time.”

I stood at the foot of the steps, acting as conductor, motioning each lady forward in turn. Lexa hung back, even after Lady Carlyon indicated she should go ahead of Lady Wandsley. For a moment I feared she might grab Lexa’s arm and drag her to the ship. I motioned to Lady Wandsley, who stepped forward with alacrity, defusing the awkward moment. Lady Thistlewaite and the others ladies followed suit until only Phoebe and Lexa were left.

Offering an encouraging smile, I motioned them both forward, leaning down to whisper for their ears alone. “I’m going to walk with each of you.. We are friends, are we not? Lexa, you’re first.” Giving her no opportunity to refuse, I offered my arm, and we walked the few steps to the airship together. The narrow stairs were not wide enough to accommodate us both, but I clasped her hand tightly in mine until Julian could take her arm and boost her inside—something he had not done for anyone else. Through the open door I could see him speaking quietly to Lexa, pointing out each feature of the airship.

“Special treatment?” Phoebe whispered in my ear.

I nodded, offering a friend-to-friend grin. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn.”

After helping Lexa descend and giving her a brief hug for her bravery, I looked up to find Lady Carlyon staring at me, and not in a friendly manner. Turning my back, I motioned Phoebe forward. When she came back out, with Julian exiting directly after her, I announced, “I believe now is a good time for the christening.”

My husband’s
face remained grave, but I’d swear I saw his lips twitch. “The gentlemen might not appreciate being left out,” he suggested.

“Then by all means send for them.”

Rochefort looked over my head toward several of the airship’s ground crew. “Fetch Carlyon and Wandsley, ” he ordered. “Try the stables, the gameroom, the library, the Abbey workshop.” As the men scattered like quail before beaters, Julian turned back to me. “I suppose you came prepared with champagne.”

I produced a bottle from the overly large reticule I had been dragging about for the last hour. Rochefort shook his head. Oh, no! He would have preferred to make the arrangements himself. I dashed up to him, scattering his mama and honored guests. “Julian, I’m so sorry. Would you rather wait?”

He took me by the shoulders, leaning down to speak directly into my ear. “Minta, I was well aware I was not marrying a quiet mouse without a thought in her head. Yes, sometime’s you surprise me, but that is your right. I have ruled the roost alone for far too many years. I need my ears trimmed back, on occasion.” He raised his head, addressing all of us, his voice pitched to carry to Lord Carlyon and Lord Wandsley, who were coming toward us at a rapid pace. “I am delighted to announce that my wife will now christen our airship. Though you’d best whack it on the propeller instead of the bow,” he added more softly. “I doubt wicker will provide the necessary crack, and the front viewport can do without being smeared by champagne.”

I was such an idiot. A wicker basket was a wicker basket, no matter how large or what shape its construction. Meekly, I removed the bottle from my reticule and walked toward the propeller. And if the bottle didn’t break, I’d be the laughing stock of every guard, every crewman, peers of the realm, their wives and daughters.

I grasped the neck of the bottle in both hands, sent up a quick prayer. “I christen thee
Aurora
!” I cried. And swung with all my might.

A great cheer went up. I was soaked in champagne but smiling from ear to ear.

Aurora
, goddess of the dawn.
Aurora
, harbinger of a new day.

After I changed my clothes and sadly consigned my bonnet to the poor box, I joined the others in the courtyard, where Drummond had arranged a picnic luncheon. If the food was not quite up to Mrs. H’s customary standards, the ambiance made up for it. The sun had decided to stay out, adding a warm glow to our sheltered space. Over the fountain’s continual splashing, birds twittered, bees hummed, butterflies flashed their glorious wings. The enticing odors from the kitchen garden vied with the blossoms in the formal flower beds. An enchanted land, almost worthy of a storybook. As chatelaine of Stonegrave Abbey, I noted “picnic in the courtyard” as a form of entertainment worth repeating.

Chatelaine.
Araminta, Baroness Rochefort. The words had a nice ring. Hopefully, I was finally on my way to fulfilling the duties expected of me.

Not to mention other, far more . . . well, ah . . .

My wifely duties
, I concluded, ruthlessly stifling all warmer thoughts as I forced myself back to our all-female garden party. After an interminable half hour of social niceties, I drew Lexa into a more private spot near the rose garden. “Tell me about Lady Carlyon,” I said. “Why do you allow her to order you about?”

“She is a very powerful woman,” Lexa returned, obviously taking care with her words. “She was lady-in-waiting to . . . to the Duchess of Kent before she fled to the continent. And I am infinitely grateful to Lord and Lady Carlyon for freeing me from my mother, who is also a woman of power . . . and intent on seizing more. Believe me, Minta, compared to my mama, Lady Carlyon is an angel. ”

“You’ve not had an easy life,” I ventured.

Lexa sighed. “I have come to despise my mother and her lover who think only of how to seize power for themselves. Power to which they have no right at all,” she added with more decisiveness than I had yet heard from her.

“So you have exchanged one tyrant for another.” I offered a sympathetic smile.

“I fear so, but truly I have no complaints.”

“What do you want, Lexa?” I asked, abruptly changing the subject. “What would you do if you had no dragons looking over your shoulder?”

Suddenly, her face glowed, her eyes sparkled. She was another person altogether. “I love to draw,” she said. “I could spend all day at my sketchbook. And I love to ride my pony. I actually enjoyed what Mama calls the ‘wilds of Scotland.’” I liked the crisp, clean air, even the bagpipes.” She offered a gentle smile. “And I like to read. I do not mind the improving tracts and the sermons other young ladies scorn.”