Photographs & Phantoms (4 page)

Magick? Fate? Simple attraction? Kendall honestly couldn’t have told anyone why he did it. He just knew pulling her close was something he needed to do. The next was kissing her senseless.

Her slight squeak of surprise when his lips closed on hers allowed him to escalate the kiss rather more quickly than he otherwise might. Sliding his tongue into her mouth was the most natural thing he’d ever done.

Amy stiffened slightly as if in surprise, before softening against him. Her fingers dug into his upper arms, holding him close rather than pushing him away. After a little while, she began to mimic his actions, her own tongue darting and exploring alongside his.

Her backside in his lap put just enough pressure on his groin to tantalize, but not enough to relieve the building tension. Her curves were protected by layers of clothing and the rigid boning of her corset, so running his hands along her spine and sides became an exercise in frustration as their lips and tongues slid together. Their awkward position, however, left her hoops pointing straight upward, giving him unexpected access to her legs beneath her skirts. He’d slid one hand up under her petticoat along her thin silk stocking-covered calf and was beginning to cruise up the rounded curve of her thigh when she gasped, breaking the kiss and allowing reality to crash in to Kendall’s consciousness.

Kissing a gently bred young woman was a dangerous pastime at best. Shoving his hands under the skirts of Lord Drood’s great-niece was just asking for a quick trip to the altar—if not some even more unpleasant fate.

“I’m sorry,” he began, his voice husky as she slid off his lap and straightened her clothing. “I didn’t mean…” What? He had meant to kiss her. He just hadn’t planned on it. What the hell was the right thing to say?

A bell in the studio chimed, identical to the one in her workroom, and she gave a brief, shallow laugh. “Of course you didn’t mean…anything. Neither did I. As far as I’m concerned, the last ten minutes never happened. Agreed?”

“Of course.” He stood and bowed slightly as he helped her to her feet. What had he done? Confusion and disgust for his own behavior gnawed at his gut. “Anything the lady wishes. What about the bell?”

“Supper, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. Just give me a few moments to…compose myself, if you don’t mind.” She fussed with a strand of her honey-brown hair that now hung loose, shining and straight, nearly to her hip. When Kendall nodded, she darted through the work area, presumably to the lavatory. Kendall walked over to a mirror on the wall opposite the window, straightened his suit and smoothed back his hair while he worked to get his breathing—and the rest of his unruly body—back under control. Finally, he waited for her in the reception room until she emerged, cheeks still flushed, but otherwise unruffled.

With a deep breath, he took her arm and led her back to the main house.

Thank heavens for Mrs. Bennett.
The phrase echoed through Amy’s mind as she sat down to supper across from Kendall at Mrs. Bennett’s crowded table.

What in the world had she been thinking to kiss Kendall—Lord Lake—like some wanton hussy? Granted, she was a career-minded woman of twenty-six, and she’d been kissed before, but never,
never,
like that. If he hadn’t caught himself and stopped, how much further would she have let him go? He was a marquess, the son of a duke, who would expect his wife to be a social asset, content with balls and teas and managing a household. She worked with her hands and wanted to continue to do so. To placate her parents, she’d had one Season in Montreal and learned that social chitchat bored her to tears. Yet, something about being close to him made her lose all sense. Clearly, when it came to Kendall, Amy was in over her head and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to swim.

Kendall was deep in a conversation with Sergeant Peterson about the soldier’s mechanical hand, which, though government issue, he had refined until it was a work of art. Seated between the Stapleton sisters, Amy let their discussion of the qualities of various wools and dyes for knitting wash over her as she tried to regain a grip on her sanity. Mostly, she couldn’t drag her attention away from the man across the table.

“Amazing how well you’ve managed to articulate the fingers for fine detail. The wires are controlled by the nerves in your upper arm?” Kendall appeared genuinely interested in the sergeant’s work.

“Yes, they’ve been surgically attached, so the base unit of the arm isn’t detachable. I can, however, swap out the fingers for specific tools if necessary.” Peterson beamed, enjoying the attention. He rolled up his coat and shirtsleeve to show off the elaborate network of bronze plating, iron “bones,” copper wiring and pneumatic pistons. A large ruby ring in an intricate gold setting was set into the actual framework of the middle finger. Four smaller sapphires had originally flanked it. But now there were two on one side, and only one plus an empty setting on the other. Amy wondered when that had happened. It had been there the last time she’d paid any attention to the ring.

“Is the ruby—I assume it’s a gem and not glass—a part of the structure or merely ornamentation? It’s an excellent piece. Indian?”

Amy had wondered that herself—why the man wore such an obviously valuable ring on his mechanical hand rather than his flesh-and-blood one. Moreover, why hadn’t he sold it? The square-cut, flawless stone and the gold setting together would probably pay for a modest house on a street like this one.

Peterson nodded. “It’s a souvenir of sorts, from a hellhole outside Calcutta—a reminder of my glory days, as it were. I removed it from the body of the bandit who took my arm, so it seemed apropos to build it into the prosthesis rather than wearing it normally.”

“I understand,” Kendall said. “I spent some time based out of Bombay. Lost a number of good friends, some to enemy soldiers, but more to wandering brigands.”

“You were military?” Peterson looked up and down Kendall’s expensively clad form with one eyebrow raised. “Officer, I assume?”

Kendall shook his head. “Diplomatic attaché, actually. As an only son, I was asked rather pointedly not to purchase a commission, but I did manage to get myself in the thick of things a time or two—which I’d rather my mother not know about.”

“Don’t blame you there, old chap.” Peterson laughed, but there was no warmth in it. Some sort of challenge was brewing. “Best to keep some things from the ladies’ ears. Right, Saunders?”

The old sailor chuckled and rubbed his bristly white mustache. “Aye, that it is, boys. Still, the fair sex deserves to know what goes on in the world. Did my share of fighting, too, you know. Pirates, mainly. Not so different from bandits on horseback or today’s airship marauders.”

“Weren’t you at Trafalgar, Mr. Saunders?” Amy never tired of hearing his stories, even if they were the same ones over and over. “That wasn’t fighting pirates, now, was it?”

“No, that was a proper battle—proper nightmare it was. Midshipman, I was then, if you can believe it—sixteen years old and just promoted from cabin boy. Fifty years ago, now.” With that, he was off, taking the conversation away from any possible confrontation between the two younger men.

If only she could transfer her attention as easily. Honestly, all she could think about was Kendall’s kiss. If they didn’t solve the problem so he could return home soon, she was liable to find herself in a very great deal of trouble.

Kendall paced restlessly in his small but pleasant room at Mrs. Bennett’s. He’d spent another hour after supper going through Amy’s equipment and her studio, and he’d found nothing new. Nothing but a vague, oily sense of unease on the back of his neck. He could tell there was something here, something malevolent, but nothing he’d encountered before. Quite honestly he longed for something simple, like Mr. Saunders’s pirates or a blood-sucking vampyre. Anything he could simply fight.

Knowing Amy was asleep in the room right beneath him wasn’t helping ease his mind. Kissing her today had been a mistake of phenomenal proportions. He almost hadn’t stopped. Kendall had never been particularly impulsive. Even during his rebellious days in India—two short years between university and his formal Order apprenticeship—he’d planned his moves with excruciating detail. What was it about the delectable Miss Deland that made him act so out of character? Whatever it was, he’d be on guard now to make sure it wasn’t repeated. The last thing he needed was to find himself leg-shackled to a woman as curious and independent as Amy. She’d tear apart his carefully constructed world and be off taking photographs without bothering to pick up the pieces.

The floorboards over his head creaked. Peterson was up there tinkering with his toys, from the sound of it. There was something about the man that bothered Kendall, though it may have simply been the sergeant’s determination to claim Amy as his own. Half a dozen times during luncheon, Peterson had made offhand remarks about ladies who shouldn’t be forced to labor for a living, and how the delicate sex was designed to keep home and hearth instead. Though he’d only met her today, Kendall could have told the man that was the last way to win Amy’s regard. She didn’t consider her photos a labor—they were an extension of her very soul. Giving it up—which he knew she was considering if he couldn’t solve her problem—would wound her deeply.

He heard Peterson walking and then the creak of the attic stairs. Mrs. Bennett had mentioned that she left bread, cheese and sliced meats in the cold box in the kitchen, so her tenants could help themselves to a midnight snack if need be. This would be a good time, Kendall decided, to spend some time chatting with the sergeant. He’d taken off his coat and cravat, but for raiding the kitchen, shirtsleeves would be fine. He grabbed his cigar case and walked out into the hallway, just in time to see Peterson at the stair landing.

“Heading down for a snack, are you? Mind if I tag along? Thought I’d grab a bite and step out back for a smoke.” He waved the leather traveling case. “Join me?”

“Why not?” Peterson motioned for Kendall to join him. “I’m sure you’re used to just ringing for a meal whenever you’re hungry.”

Kendall shrugged. Peterson appeared to have a grudge against Kendall’s wealth, but he wouldn’t be the first. Public school hadn’t been a dream for the grandson of a duke, especially when he’d been forbidden to use his Knightly abilities to defend himself. “Sometimes. Others, I fend for myself. Depends on where I find myself at the time. Right now, I live in rooms in London with one manservant. I don’t wake him up every time I want a drink or have to piss.” He lived on his own because living with his parents made him insane. He much preferred his privacy to his mother’s social whirl, and maintaining an entire townhouse for one person was simply stupid.

The two men made their way to the kitchen where they made thick sandwiches of the roast beef left over from luncheon and poured mugs from Peterson’s small cask of ale, which Mrs. Bennett allowed him to keep in the cold box. They took their bounty out to the garden, and after eating, each smoked one of Kendall’s cigars.

“So how did a soldier end up working with automatons?” Kendall leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigar. “Were you a military mechanic?”

“No, just a hobby.” The other man inhaled deeply. “My father was an inventor, always building something. He died shortly after I left the service, left me all his tools. I was adrift, with nothing else to do, so I started tinkering with my hand, trying to make it work better.”

“Well, you’ve done a bang-up job. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a better one.” Kendall puffed out a ring of smoke. “And you say your workshop is up in the attic?”

“It is.” Peterson gave the smug nod of a man proud of his craft. “Care for a look?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Looking around up there was exactly what Kendall wanted.

“Come along then.” Both men stubbed out their cigars and returned their beer mugs to the kitchen. Then Kendall followed Peterson up an exterior staircase to a small but neat workshop under the eaves.

Nothing. Kendall neither spotted nor sensed anything awry in the workroom. There was no trace of magick in the attic, nor on any of the tools or toys. The only thing, in fact, to give off any trace of power was the man’s mechanical hand, and having a spell or two set on a prosthesis wasn’t uncommon if you could find someone to cast it.

Finally, Kendall said goodnight and made his way down to his own room. Lost in thought, he didn’t register the woman curled up in the single armchair by the window until after he’d closed and locked the door.

“Amy? Is something wrong?” Her light brown hair fell to her waist in a single thick braid and she wore a soft velvet dressing gown over a high-necked white nightdress. Kendall immediately imagined her stripped of her prim nightwear and sprawled across his sheets. Hopefully the bed didn’t squeak too badly. He shook his head in an attempt to clear that image from his brain. “What brings you here at…” he checked the small clock beside the bed, “…quarter past midnight?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said in a whisper. “Though my room would be better. Clarence Milton—you know, the bookseller—has the room right next to yours, and his hearing is keen. Mine is beside the Stapleton sisters, who can’t hear a thing once they remove their amplification buds.”

Kendall nodded. He’d noticed the small devices in the ears of both the elderly sisters, so he gestured back toward the door, but Amy shook her head.

“This way,” she whispered, and then unlatched his window. “Peterson insisted on having an outdoor staircase, as he’s apparently afraid of fire. Your room and mine both open onto it.”

He got a lovely view of her dressing gown stretched tightly across her rounded derriere as she nimbly climbed out the window. His cock pointed the way as he followed her, only slightly discouraged by the cool midnight breeze while he descended the wooden stairs and clambered into her room behind her.

Her room was essentially a feminine version of his. Modestly sized bed, a desk and a single comfortable chair, though her wardrobe and bureau were larger, probably to accommodate a woman’s more extensive clothing needs. It also had the personal touches his borrowed quarters did not—brushes, a small porcelain dog and a jewelry chest on the bureau, photos on the walls that had to be of her family, and a silver filigree inkwell on the desk. The gas lamps had been turned down low, and a single oil lamp burned softly on the bedside table.

Amy pulled out the desk chair and sat, gesturing toward the armchair. She kept her fingers tightly twisted in her lap, her lower lip caught between her teeth as Kendall eased himself down into the armchair. “What can I do for you, Amy?”

Her shoulders straightened and she drew in a deep breath before looking up, into his eyes. “Are you married, Kendall?”

Ah.
This afternoon had unnerved her too. He could understand that. “No. Nor engaged, nor even walking out with someone. That doesn’t make my actions this afternoon appropriate, but you needn’t worry that we were betraying anybody.” No one but Amy herself, at least.

“Thank you. That is a relief.” Still, her nervous posture didn’t relax. “Kendall, can you tell me? Why did you kiss me? Surely if you were simply in need of a woman, you could find someone to…sate your appetites.”

Now he was the one squirming in his chair. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, knowing the posture would hide his body’s reaction to this line of discussion. This was the last thing he wanted to talk about, but he supposed she deserved some sort of explanation. “It was a spur-of-the-moment impulse,” he began carefully. “It had nothing to do with me being ‘in need’ and everything to do with you.”

“There’s no need to sugarcoat things, Kendall.” She shook her head. “I know I’m nothing spectacular to look at.”

“You’re not the perfect fashion plate,” he admitted, smiling when her eyes flew open at his bluntness. “A bit more curvy than is strictly the thing, but most men tend to prefer that. And your freckles are enchanting. Surely you know you’re a damned appealing woman?”

“Thank you.” Even in the dim light, he saw her flush and she once again nibbled on her lower lip. “Was it a momentary thing, then? Or do you still find me attractive?”

Kendall groaned. “Far too much for my peace of mind. In fact, we really shouldn’t be having this conversation, especially in your bedroom. I’m trying to remain a gentleman, but it’s difficult when you’re sitting there in your nightclothes.”

“Truly?” Her broad smile nearly lit up the room.

“Truly.” How could she not realize her appeal to the male sex? He was tempted to stand up and let her see the effect she had on him.

She wet her lips with her tongue and his problem grew even larger. “Then, since you’re not attached, and you are attracted…” Her deeply indrawn breath pressed her full, unbound breasts against the fabric of her dressing gown, and Kendall swallowed hard. “I wonder if I can ask you a favor.”

“Go ahead.” His voice came out thick, nearly choked.