A Love by Design, page 23
Sitting here like a fool and drinking in the sight of him? That was illogical. A waste of time. An unnecessary indulgence and the prelude to a heartbreak. He needed to leave.
Grantham could not be her partner.
With a grace that belied his great size, Grantham got to his feet in a single movement. Margaret caught her breath as his body clenched then unfurled to standing. A small miracle of muscle and sinew occurred when his thighs bunched beneath the lawn of his trousers and the linen of his shirt clung to the slope of his biceps.
Lust as thick and sweet as treacle rippled through her. The ghost of horehound sweets and willow leaves filled her nose and Margaret marveled at the way her body, which she’d been so convinced had succumbed to age, now sprung to life the same way it had fifteen years earlier.
“Do you need help?” he asked, extending a hand.
Here was another revelation. Something as mundane as a man’s hand could be erotic; the tripod of bones moving beneath the skin on his hands, the pulsing blue veins, the knobs of his knuckles and the dips between them. Margaret set her hands in his and bit her lip at the bliss of contact.
Grantham’s pupils widened and he hissed as he pulled her up, not being subtle when he wrapped her arms around his waist, pushing his hips against hers, giving her the evidence he’d noticed and approved of her attraction.
His kisses were hot and hungry. Although Grantham had told her he no longer felt the urgent lust of his seventeen-year-old self, the terrible yearning from that summer settled beneath Margaret’s skin. She fumbled for his buttons, for the knots and folds keeping his body hidden from hers, searching his mouth for the remembered taste of licorice and bliss, teeth against teeth, tongue against tongue. Margaret couldn’t pull her mouth from his even when he groaned in frustration at the buttons of her dress.
“Pick me up,” she told him between biting kisses, making an approving sound when he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her so she could wrap her legs around his narrow hips.
“Desk.”
Grantham hesitated until she bit his lower lip and sucked away the sting. Within seconds he had her bottom on the edge of her drafting desk and had laid her on the slanted surface.
“Brilliant.” He spoke with his lips against her neck, hands reaching beneath her skirts even as his hips ground against hers.
For a moment they writhed, stymied by the layers of linen and canvas, rows of buttons and knots, then Grantham reared back and yanked Margaret’s skirts to her waist in one move, pulling the tapes of her drawers apart with shocking speed. Pushing her higher on the desk, he set his shoulder beneath her leg, exposing her to him. With one hand palming her breast, he put his mouth to her core and with the flat of his tongue licked the seam of her.
“Oh, wh . . . oh . . . yes, please,” she managed to stutter as he proved to her he’d remembered well the lessons from the other night. Gentle at first, he pressed his forefinger into her slick passage, pressing against her delicate flesh as he pushed down with his mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut while red and gold sparks flew as her toes curled under in her boots and she breathed in and out in tiny pants.
Clever, clever man, he twirled his tongue around her clit and she arched off the desk, the sensation so strong, she almost told him to stop, but it reached a point where there was no need for words, no need for any communication, because he’d driven her so high into the atmosphere, she’d crashed into the stars, and as she exploded, the tiny sparks from the collision burned away the last of her defenses.
16
SHE HAS MY eyes,” Grantham told Kneland as they sat in the library of Beacon House. He held Baby Georgie in his lap and tried to make her laugh. “Probably got my brains as well.”
“Out of respect for your family, I believe I shall leave them a body part after I kill you, so they have something to bury,” said Kneland conversationally without looking up from his newspaper.
“Be sure to leave them my cock,” Grantham said as he breathed deeply the smell of baby, delighted when she opened her eyes wide and laughed at him. “The women of England will need a relic for their shrine.”
“Do not say the word ‘cock’ in front of my daughter,” said Kneland, setting down a copy of The Chronicle in outrage.
Baby Georgie giggled again.
“It makes her laugh,” Grantham protested. “Watch.” He made a face at the baby and enunciated, “Cock.”
A stream of hysterical laughter followed, and Grantham grinned at the baby, giddy with joy.
Kneland left his desk and stood behind Grantham, hands on hips. “She is laughing at your face.”
Grantham knew better and said it again. “Cock.”
This time there was no mistaking the baby’s amusement. Her laughter was like tiny golden bubbles going straight to Grantham’s head.
Kneland’s as well, for he nudged Grantham aside and leaned over his daughter.
“Cock,” he said.
Baby Georgie screwed up her face and for a moment both men reared back, ready for one of her famous vomit spouts. Instead, she screamed with laughter, the kind that left her red-faced and breathless.
“Cock,” said Grantham merrily.
“Cock,” echoed Kneland. “Cockity cockity cocks.”
“It’s one o’cock. Time for tea,” Grantham informed the baby.
Peals of laughter bounced off the spines of the musty old books and brought sunshine in through the crimson velvet curtains.
“And at two o’cock, we take our nap,” Kneland added.
They made it to eleven o’cock before Baby Georgie laughed so hard, she forced a surprise out from her other end and Kneland hastily rang for the maid.
Grantham made rhymes with cock under his breath when the baby was taken upstairs to be changed and Kneland returned to his seat, resuming his perusal of The Chronicle.
“Dear Sir Science,” he read aloud. “I have lately been visiting with a lady of my acquaintance. While I would like to ask her to go walking, I cannot ascertain whether her interest in my company is of an amorous nature or not. How can you tell if a lady has an interest? Sincerely, Wondering in Woolsley.”
Against all odds, the Sir Science column had become a sensation. They sold out of every issue of the newspaper this week and the offices were flooded with heaps of letters from young men desperate to learn the science behind romance.
Wolfe had accepted the teasing of the staff with good-natured grace and he, Sam, Mala, and Althea were in talks about expanding the women’s role at the paper.
Kneland continued reading.
“Dear Wondering in Woolsley, have you considered instead whether you are showing the lady signs of your interest?”
“Hence we return to the importance of cocks,” said Grantham.
Kneland frowned over the top of the paper. “A cock is not the answer to every woman’s dilemma.”
“I beg to differ.”
Margaret had come undone in his arms yesterday. She’d melted into a puddle of woman that he drank like the finest of wines. His mind was full of nothing but her skin and her smile—her smile.
For the first time in so long, her smiles had come without pause, without hesitation or fear. He tried to imagine sex with anyone other than her and could not. How could his release be anywhere near as poignant, as all-encompassing if it weren’t with her?
She must feel the same, must she not?
“Women need more than sex to be happy,” Kneland said.
Grantham resented Kneland’s knowing tone. Simply because the man had more experience did not render him some sort of expert on what women needed.
“You were the one who said actions were better than words,” Grantham reminded him. “My actions leave Marg—er, women, lots and lots of women—very, very happy.”
Kneland studied him so long and hard, Grantham’s glow cooled.
“First,” Arthur said, “I consider Madame Gault to be under my roof for all she resides at Athena’s Retreat. If your intentions . . .”
“Oh ho. I’ve known Margaret since she was eight years old,” Grantham said, pointing a finger at Kneland. “Your intentions are irrelevant when it comes to her. Her intentions are what matters. No one does anything to Maggie without her permission.”
The Scot swallowed this and nodded. “Violet has no idea, does she?”
“No,” Grantham said quickly. “To protect Margaret from any embarrassment, you shall not breathe a word of this to Vi.”
There was no argument from Kneland. Everyone knew Violet could not keep a secret if her life depended on it.
Kneland wasn’t finished lecturing. “Second, you might consider Madame Gault’s situation.”
“Her situation is she is being adroitly taken care of by a man with a large—”
“Her situation is she is an untitled woman in a man’s profession, not an aristocratic debutante. There is a difference in your stations that in polite society is unbreachable.”
Grantham scoffed. “I am aware—”
Kneland’s voice carried a rough edge to it. “I know what it is to marry someone with a title and drag them down. Madame Gault is in an untenable position.”
That shut Grantham’s mouth. Drag them down?
Did Kneland see himself as a burden to Violet? How could that be?
“You do not drag Violet down, Kneland,” Grantham said. “You lift her up. Violet is the happiest I have ever known her. You’ve made her whole.”
Kneland’s gaze burned despite the blackness of his eyes. “That may be, but I cannot change I am the son of a tenant farmer and work for a living. She is the daughter of a viscount and the widow of the same. We are not accepted any longer in certain homes where Violet was once welcomed. It affects the club, and though she might deny it, it affects her. And from what Violet tells me, Madame Gault has a plan for herself.”
“Yes, she is starting an engineering firm,” said Grantham.
“And you are an earl. With properties and a title you must maintain—even if they came to you unexpectedly. Isn’t that why you wanted to marry Violet in the first place?”
Grantham knew this. He’d said it to himself a hundred times.
“Madame Gault cannot do both,” Kneland said. “She cannot be a woman who earns a wage and a countess at the same time.”
True.
“Greycliff whisked Letty away to Herefordshire so she wouldn’t be subject to so much attention. She can continue with her mathematics because it’s theoretical and done behind closed doors,” Kneland continued. “Even so, once she has her child, the work will be put aside. Madame Gault does not have either of those luxuries.”
Picking the paper up, Kneland raised it in front of his face.
“If and when she realizes she cannot have both you and her profession . . .” Kneland cleared his throat and gentled his voice. “She’s not the only one who might be hurt.”
It was the nicest thing Kneland had ever said to Grantham.
Feelings.
They were bound and determined to escape, weren’t they?
* * *
MARGARET SAT SLUMPED over her drafting desk and thumped her head against its surface.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
After a moment, she stood and stretched, setting her hands to the small of her back. Her stomach rumbled but she was too far gone to worry about food.
She needed a breakthrough.
Geflitt had procured her the drawings by the Thames Tunnel’s chief draughtsman, Joseph Pinchbeck, and she pored over them with a deep appreciation for their detail.
In 1818, Marc Brunel had invented a tunnel shield that made it possible to dig the first tunnel ever constructed below a navigable river like the Thames. At first, the biggest hurdle was the construction of the initial shaft, which sank in under its own weight. Margaret would not have that problem as engineers now understood the shaft should be wider at the bottom than at the top.
Once they reached the optimal depth, they would install the shield. The iron structure was made up of twelve frames lying side by side over three stories, which equated to thirty-six spaces for workmen. The back end of those spaces was open, and the front had removable boards. As the workmen removed the earth from the front and dumped it out the back of each cell, bricklayers would follow behind, shoring up the tunnel.
Closing her eyes, Margaret visualized the riverbank. In her head she placed her workmen and prepared the site. Lower and lower, she sank below the earth and her imaginary workers constructed the tunnel borer.
Sitting at her drafting desk, Margaret rubbed her forehead and scrabbled through the pile of reports on her desk.
No matter how hard she tried, the images would not stick. For the hundredth time, Margaret pulled out the report on the soil composition of the riverbank and reexamined the path of the railway.
Geflitt and his preliminary surveyors insisted the placement of the tracks called for a tunnel rather than a bridge. That part of the Thames bent sharply. To reach the preferred location on the opposite bank, they couldn’t use a viaduct bridge because of the uneven elevations of both sides.
Something about the soil composition report had Margaret reading it a third and fourth time.
If it were up to her, Margaret would simply alter the proposed locations and design a suspension bridge. Such an undertaking would be as difficult and controversial as a tunnel. However, what if . . . ?
Margaret stopped and placed a finger on the reports.
She wished her father were here.
A quiet man who lived in his head most of the time, he’d been the first to prompt Margaret to ask, “What if?”
“Science is much like art,” he would tell her as they sat together on a rotting wood bench in the tiny garden of their London home. “Both the scientist and the artist ask themselves, what if? The artist has no restrictions on his answer. He might paint or sculpt any solution that strikes his fancy.”
This struck Margaret as unfair, and she told her father so.
“Yes. A scientist must answer the question ‘what if’ using scientific principles,” her father said. “He must work within the confines of what has been proven—unless he figures out what has been accepted before was incorrect.”
“I would much rather be a scientist than an artist,” she’d told him solemnly. “I like to follow the rules.”
Those had been wonderful times before her father became too sick to work and when her mother believed Margaret would stop growing.
Now, Margaret stared at the reports and the frustrating equations that added up to a disaster. On a whim, she went downstairs and spoke with Geflitt’s clerk. Half an hour later, she’d gotten the name of the geologist who had completed the soil surveys and wrote to him, asking for more details than she’d been given.
Unable to sit still any longer, Margaret returned to Athena’s Retreat and walked through the halls in search of company.
“The greylag geese are majestic creatures deserving of our respect.”
That stopped Margaret in her tracks. Majestic flesh-eating terrors is what they were, but Margaret kept that opinion to herself.
As she peeked around the doorway to the small lecture hall, Flavia stood at the other end of the room at the lectern in front of a row of mismatched chairs. There sat a handful of scientists, Violet and Althea among them.
“Railways cause great devastation to the animals and fauna around them when they are built. The amount of . . .” Flavia halted and stared over at her audience. “Is ‘poisonous residues’ too scientific? Should I say ‘nasty rubbish’ instead?”
Violet set a finger beneath her chin in thought. “ ‘Nasty rubbish’ has a nice ring to it.”
“Do not be afraid to use scientific language,” said Willy. “You must use all the gravitas you can muster. The more scientific the better, in fact, for most folks will have dismissed half your arguments before you open your mouth since you are a pretty young woman.”
Damn. There must be another rally scheduled for the Society for the Preservation of the Greylag Goose in Great Britain, and Flavia was practicing her speech.
“If she is to use scientific arguments, why not simply declare herself a scientist like Madame Gault has declared herself an engineer and be done with it?”
Milly was there as well.
Margaret hadn’t seen her at first since she sat on the far side of the room, her arms crossed over her chest, a truly magnificent cap of burnt gold silk with bright puce ribbons folded into roses at either side.
She looked furious. Willy appeared similarly angry, and tension saturated the air.
An immediate and overwhelming urge to go find Grantham swept through Margaret as she pulled away from the doorway and stood against the opposite wall. Certainly, he could distract from her worries, but for how long? Grantham could hold the world at bay for only a few hours at most. The women of Athena’s Retreat and the conflict between them would not disappear anytime soon. Not unless Geflitt could be made to change the site.
Margaret peered back into the room. Flavia seemed flustered by Willy’s directions and Milly’s remarks. Margaret considered intervening, despite her conflicting interests. Poor Flavia had worked so hard over the past two years to overcome her self-doubt.
“Well,” Flavia soldiered on. “I thought I would tell people about the history of the greylag goose throughout Europe. The Romans credit the greylag geese with warning the city of the Gauls’ approach in 390 BC.”
“Hmmm.” Willy frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why don’t you describe the goslings and how they will suffer if the railway trains run over their nests?”
Margaret hovered in the doorway, heart heavy. Here were her friends, doing what they were supposed to do—helping one of their members protect her field of study.
