Outrageously Yours (12 page)

Only once did Lord Harrow break into a gallop on a wide, flat expanse of trail, prompting the mare to sprint in pursuit. Nearly smothered by her own pounding heartbeat, Ivy leaned forward and hung on for dear life, but when it was over and she discovered that she had survived, she was exhilarated and proud and willing to do it again . . . well, sometime soon.

Especially bolstering to her courage was when Lord Harrow swept off his hat and laughingly exclaimed, “Take
that
, everyone who ever believed Ned Ivers too studious to be intrepid.”

Those were the glorious times, when her duty became almost a joy; when, for the first time in her life, someone saw through her exterior to the person inside, not the woman, but the scholar, an individual guided by the principles of science and discovery.

Those times made Ivy exultant . . . and wretched. Once she discovered the whereabouts of the stone, she would never—
could
never—see Lord Harrow again. For the person Lord Harrow saw each day, whom he had come to know as Ned Ivers, would cease to exist.

Her sister Laurel had faced a similar dilemma when she’d gone to Bath last spring disguised as a wealthy widow. Laurel made friends, fell in love . . . and feared she would never be forgiven for her masquerade. But
this
was a thousand times worse. Ivy would just as soon enter a brothel as ever admit to anyone that she had worn trousers and kept company with men. And while she refused to allow society’s opinions to rule her, Lord Harrow’s esteem was beginning to matter—more than she had ever imagined it could.

 

“You’re walking a bit stiffly today, Ned,” Lord Harrow commented as they entered his laboratory that Friday morning. “Has Butterfly not been providing a smooth enough ride?”

The teasing glint in his eye prompted Ivy to grin. “I’m afraid it’s not the mare that’s at fault, sir.”

“Never mind. You improve daily.”

As on the previous few mornings, Lord Harrow shed his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. After an initial hesitation Ivy did the same, keenly aware of how she stretched propriety’s limits. Being in shirtsleeves freed their arms, which made working so much easier. She had grown more accustomed to wearing trousers as well and no longer tripped over her own feet. But the combination of trousers and no coat exposed her rear, her hips, and the shape of her thighs in alarming ways. She felt on display, almost naked.

This state of dishabille exposed astonishing aspects of Lord Harrow’s anatomy as well, and made Ivy’s task more difficult still. As her initial delight in the laboratory began to subside, more and more her attention was drawn to him: his sleek hips, his broad shoulders and chest, his tight abdomen and powerful thighs . . . and the part of him that formed such a mysterious, formidable bulge at the juncture of his breeches, unsettling her to a degree that worsened rather than eased with each passing day.

“I’ve a surprise for you today, Ned.”

She didn’t say that each day with him brought surprises, both joyful and disconcerting. Instead she watched him cross the room and shovel coal into a huge furnace, her ungovernable fascination drawn to the wide stance of his brawny legs, the knotting of the muscles in his forearms, the arc of a rear that made her wonder, scandalously, if it would be as hard to the touch as it appeared.

As she pondered this possibility, Lord Harrow abruptly turned and caught her staring. With a start she flicked her gaze upward to a more appropriate vicinity of his person, but too late. His pale eyes flashed with surprise and then darkened with acknowledgment, and all Ivy could do was look away while her cheeks burned and her vision swam in a haze of embarrassment.

Lord Harrow cleared his throat, and Ivy died a small death inside. Had she revealed the truth in that careless moment? Surely he would realize that only a woman, an inexperienced, spinsterish woman at that, would gaze upon him so brazenly and with such longing. Unless he thought her one of those odd young men with irregular predilections. Surely that would be worse. Surely Lord Harrow would never stand for such a thing.

After an interminable pause he said, “Well, Ned, aren’t you going to ask me?”

Ivy’s breath trembled. “Ask you what, sir?”

“About the surprise. Aren’t you burning to know?”

Oh, yes, burning . . . in his presence, she always felt flushed, inwardly ablaze. His smile grew when she didn’t answer. He raised the shovel, then half turned to bring the furnace behind him to her attention.

Her eyes gone wide, Ivy sprang forward. “The generator?”

“We’re going to turn it on. If you think you’re ready, that is.”

“I’m ready.” Her voice surged an octave. “I’m quite ready, sir.”

“Good. Bring me the lucifers from my desk. The long ones.”

Ivy brought the friction matches to him. Within a few minutes the coals glowed brightly inside the grate. “It’s going to take a little while for the water to heat. Damn, but I wish steam weren’t necessary. I’ve tried electromagnetic and electrochemical induction, but thus far they haven’t generated a strong enough charge to activate a motor of this scale. That is what I am hoping you and I together will devise.”

“You seem to have a classic paradox.” Ivy loved an intricate puzzle, and the challenge Lord Harrow described sent an electrical-like charge through her. “You’ve developed a device that can potentially replace nonelectrical sources of power, but which is nonetheless dependent on those sources. What you need is something entirely new, something as yet undiscovered.”

“Exactly, Ned.” His features took on an animation that matched her own excitement as he crossed the room to her. “
That
has been the focus of my experimentation.”

“It isn’t so much
what
you wish to power, as
how
.” Ivy’s pulse took off at a near canter. “That is why your challenge centered on the process of electrolysis. That’s the meaning of your question, the answer to your elusive
why
. You’ve been separating compounds in the hopes of discovering a powerful new element.”

Her gaze fused with his, and their combined zeal all but sent sparks shooting in the air between them. “You are hoping,” she whispered, “to recombine elements in a manner that improves upon nature. You are dabbling in a whole new kind of physics.”

“More than dabbling.” A slight tremor shook his voice. “And more often than not, practically blowing myself up in the process.”

Her hand flew to her lips, but she quickly dropped it upon remembering that men didn’t use such gestures. “Hence your caution in allowing me to operate the equipment.”

He drew closer, his next words a caress against her ear. “Can’t be blowing up my assistant along with me, now can I?”

He raised a hand, and for one exhilarating, startling moment, the warmth of his expression led her to believe he was going to reach for her, take her in his arms. How eagerly she would have gone, her passion for science and her growing passion for him impossibly entwined.

The moment throbbed with anticipation and uncertainty and nervous fear, and ended all too soon. Lord Harrow merely gripped her shoulder and gave her the shake that had become so familiar, so endearing, and so dreadfully insufficient. No man had ever tempted her like this before, because with every other man came the unhappy prospect of setting her interests and aspirations aside.

Ivy had never wished for a husband, but daily now she found herself wishing for Lord Harrow. Wishing for more than these affectionate gestures of his . . . wanting everything she could never have.

Across the room, the vat began to hiss. Lord Harrow grinned and his eyes lit up. “We’re ready to begin. Sir, let us start our engine.”

A
trill of elation banished Ivy’s regrets. “What do I do?” A release valve at the top of the vat whistled. Jets of steam shot out. From a cabinet against the wall Lord Harrow dug out two bulky pairs of woolen gloves. “Put these on. They’ll protect you from both steam burns and electrical shock.”

Ivy remembered the pair he had worn to protect his hands during his challenge. The ones she tugged on now reached to her elbows, while a stiff lining restricted the movement of her wrists and fingers. Lord Harrow brought her to where the ductwork met the generator’s four upright coils.

“Stand right here, Ned, and hold the lever. At my command, you’ll give a single, forceful flip, opening the valve and releasing the charge into the coils.”

“Am I responsible for ignition?”

“You are.” He couldn’t seem to stop grinning now. Moving to the room’s curving wall, he gripped a crank that operated a pulley and cables that stretched to the ceiling. Slowly the skylight opened wide to offer a gaping view of the bright morning sky.

“Allowing too great a buildup of energy in the room could possibly result in an explosion,” he explained with a wry pull to his lips that led Ivy to conclude he spoke from experience.

A twinge of apprehension tightened her belly.
The Mad Marquess . . .

“Now, then.” He strode to the furnace and climbed onto a stepladder. At the top of the vat was a spoked wheel like that of a ship’s helm. As if navigating treacherous waters, he gripped the wheel in both hands. His shoulders bunched and the muscles of his back strained his linen shirt. He cast a glance at her from over his shoulder, his brow pulled in concentration. “In a moment I’ll open the preliminary valve and send the steam through. Be ready, Ned.”

She almost said, “Aye, aye, sir.” Instead she flexed her fingers inside the rigid glove and tightened her hold on the lever.

“Ned!”

His shout seized her attention. The vat emitted a piercing screech. Spurts of steam erupted into the high, domed ceiling and snaked out through the open skylight. Goose bumps rippled down Ivy’s back.

“I nearly forgot. Once you flip the lever, move back several paces. Since we are not powering a mechanical device, the current will not be directed into a controlled outlet. The result is that the charge will simply flow into the room, the excess wafting out through the skylight. You’ll feel a strange tingling, but don’t be alarmed. It’s quite safe.”

“Oh,” she said somewhat weakly as she briefly questioned the validity of his claim. Excitement won out and she said more firmly, “Yes, sir.”

“On my command, then.” His forearms thick and corded, his biceps bulging beneath his pushed-up sleeves, he heaved on the wheel, once, twice, again. It gave an inch or so. He tightened his grip, and another determined yank brought it half around. A gushing sound echoed inside the copper duct. A frenzied buzz raced closer and closer to Ivy. Beneath her hand, the lever vibrated furiously.

“Now, Ned!”

Her teeth clamped on her lower lip, she flipped the lever. The moment her hand came away, an invisible force propelled her backward. She stumbled, landed on her bottom, and slid several inches.

A column of steam burst from the duct and into the generator’s four coils, creating tiny bolts of lightning that crackled as they spiraled around each coil and zigzagged between them. The gears began to turn, the pistons to pump. The voltage ran along the center beam until it began a steady rocking motion that forced the wheel to turn and the bellows to expand and compress.

Pulsating energy fanned out in all directions. A few sparks flew, like shooting stars. Lord Harrow’s box of gadgets slid off the table and spilled its contents across the floor. The galvanometer needles spun. Cupboards rattled, and the doors of the locked wardrobe shuddered as if about to burst open.

Ivy’s skin became charged with sensation while the hair at her nape prickled and rose. At the furnace, Lord Harrow tugged again at the wheel. Ivy bit her tongue to keep from calling out to him in fear, to beg him to cut off the power.

Could he? He’d told her that once his generator started, it continued even without the steam-generated charge. The room began to spin in Ivy’s vision. A numbing tingle spread through her limbs. Overwhelming and frightening, the current now controlled the rhythm of her breathing and even the beat of her heart, speeding it to match the rocking of the beam and each whir of the wheel.

She shut her eyes. An instant later snapping sparks on both upper arms forced her eyes back open. Having removed his gloves, Lord Harrow closed his hands around her and gently raised her to her feet. With an arm slung around her shoulders, he pressed her to his side. The contact produced a grounding effect, and the awful tingling subsided until only the bottoms of her feet and scalp itched.

She glanced up at the man beside her. His head was thrown back, exposing his corded neck, the strong lines of his jaw and nose. His chest swelled as he drew air deep into his lungs.

His obvious lack of alarm banished Ivy’s remaining fears. The air crackled and buzzed like a swarm of bees, surrounding them within the electrical charge they had created. Together they stood as one—one mind, one passion—bound like two separate elements into a single entity by the pulsing electricity and by their shared pursuit.

Thus, when Lord Harrow raised his voice to ask if she had had enough, Ivy shook her head and yelled back, “Never!”

Yet his arm snaked away, leaving her disconnected and solitary, once more vulnerable to the current’s effects. Lord Harrow strode to one of the tables, where he had stacked the folded squares of black canvas. With a flick he unfolded the first, brought it to the motor, and tossed it over the coils. The energy in the room palpably lessened, releasing its grip on Ivy. The sparks ceased; the motor decelerated and came to a standstill.

Still hovering where Lord Harrow had left her, Ivy struggled to catch her breath, to blink away the haze that continued to cloud her vision. Holding a fist to her bosom, she ventured a step, then another, surprised when her trembling legs didn’t fail her. She pulled the gloves from her hands.

Gradually her heartbeat slowed, but the force of Lord Harrow’s gaze had her tingling all over again. “Are you all right, Ned?” He hurried back to her. “You have a peculiar look about you. Were you hurt?”