As well as solitude in order to regain her composure. She hadn’t planned to discuss the writing machine tonight. She knew she was far too protective of it, but it was important to her for reasons other than financial. And she certainly hadn’t planned to discuss matrimony.
Because she’d been given a tour earlier, she knew which hallway to traverse in order to reach the door that would lead her onto the terrace and beyond it into the gardens. As she made her way to it, she decided she would run screaming through the flora until she reached its end. Would climb over the wall and race through the streets until they swallowed her up.
But once she was outside, she went only as far as the low wall at the terrace’s edge, grateful to discovershe still held her snifter of brandy and it wasn’t yet empty. She’d been so mortified by the earlier exchange with her mother that she hadn’t even realized she’d clung to the glass. It was a wonder with her tight grip that she hadn’t shattered it. She couldn’t excuse Mama’s rudeness or convince herself that the woman’s interest in seeing her daughter married stemmed from the goodness of her heart. She might prefer a duke for her daughter, but she’d accept a viscount. It was thelordpart in which she was most interested. She wanted only to be able to announce that she had a grandson who would one day be the bearer of a title, sit in the House of Lords, and might even dine with the Queen.
Leonora was fighting the prospect of marrying for a title like a recalcitrant child kicking and screaming because she was being hauled off to do a chore when she’d rather play with her dolls. Although she was far removed from playing with dolls and most of her life had been a chore.
Not that she’d resented what was expected of her while her father had been alive. Before she could even read, he’d sat her on his lap and shared the wonder of ledgers, as though he was reading her a fairy tale. There were villains—those who didn’t pay or sought to undermine him—and he was always the hero. Sometimes, he’d even mentioned the damsel, her mother, when she’d helped him secure an endorsement or someone’s favor. And, of course, there was the witch—another side to her mother—who was never pleased with any progress made, who always wanted more.
To live in New York where she considered Society to be of the highest caliber, until she discovered theold guard would not allow her into their elite circle. In spite of the palace her husband had built for her, and the latest Parisian fashions she wore, and the elaborate balls she hosted that were largely ignored by those who mattered.
She’d spent a fortune—her husband’s fortune—striving to prove they had more money than God. Until they had hardly any left. Leonora knew her mother wasn’t entirely to blame. Her father had made a few hasty, almost desperate investments, striving to keep the coffers flush. Perhaps because his wife was indulging her whims, he had decided to indulge his and begin his munitions company. Never mind that Colt and Winchester and Remington were known and respected throughout the country and abroad. He’d believed he could offer something better. Until she’d finally convinced him to offer something else. Of course, by then—due to his failing health—it was too late for him to achieve the additional success he craved, and he’d passed the obligation of seeing him remembered on to her. Not intentionally, of course. But she’d felt the weight of a boulder slip from him to her as though he’d been Zeus and she Sisyphus. And she’d spend the remainder of her life rolling that boulder up the hill only to discover she could never place it at the summit. Except she was determined not to give up until she’d succeeded, and her father was again recognized as the genius and capitalist he’d once been.
Having a goal and being occupied with something momentous had served as a distraction from the ravaging done by his illness, and she’d been more than willing to support his endeavors, to help him secure whatever peace he could. While the burden might restheavy now, when her father was alive she’d appreciated every moment, every achievement, every success their working together had brought them.
Sam had been only twenty-two when Papa had passed, hardly ready to take on the responsibilities of managing a company that had yet to get its legs beneath it. She was the one who had scoured through the books, determined their solvency. She was the one who recognized that they needed an influx of cash if they were to have any hope at all of building upon what Papa had begun. He’d intended to grace them with a life of ease. Instead, with his death, providing for her young brother and aging mother had fallen to her.
She didn’t begrudge her brother his lack of business acumen. But the challenge was to ensure they were well cared for while not betraying her own desires—which meant not choosing the easier path of marriage to a man of wealth and benefiting from his accomplishments rather than her own. Leonora’s last words to her father had been a vow: she would see his factory and final vision for the writing machine succeed.
Hearing the soft footfalls, she glanced over, for some reason not at all surprised when Rook came to stand beside her. Having drained her brandy, she looked longingly at his glass of what she assumed was scotch. “I don’t suppose I could have a sip.”
Without hesitation, he relieved her of the snifter and gave her the crystal tumbler. “I suspect you need it more than I do.”
Leonora took a swallow, grateful the excellent scotch warmed her throughout. The night wasn’t too chilly, and yet, she might as well have been encased in ice, she was so cold. She couldn’t look at him butfocused instead on all the shadows moving about the garden with the slight breeze. “Thank you for... your role in bringing the conversation regarding the writing machine to an end. It is easier to explain when it’s on display.”
“I didn’t mind doing so at Knight’s expense. His handwriting is atrocious.”
She almost laughed, but was very much aware of his watching her, could almost feel him outlining her profile. But she couldn’t stop the quick quirking up of the corners of her lips. “You like to tease your friend.”
“We like to tease each other.”
“So you’ve been friends for a while.”
“Since our Oxford days, gone over a decade now.”
She couldn’t imagine it. She had acquaintances and women with whom she spoke but no one she would josh around with or insult slightly as a way to show she cared about them.
“You’re quite passionate about this new machine of yours,” he said, and she heard a bit of admiration in his tone.
“I believe it has the potential to make a difference in how things are done. That it has a significant role to play in the future.”
“Which you’ll share during your demonstration.”
It wasn’t a question, but still she answered, “Yes.”
Then they both went silent. She could hear the chirping of insects. In this large city was this small garden that reminded her of the lawn they’d had outside of Chicago. She’d been happiest there, had never felt entirely comfortable in New York. She suspected she might not be comfortable here. It was far too busy and contained too many things to take apart and examine. It contained the man standing next to her. “You’rehim, aren’t you?”
Embarrassed her voice had come out all rough and ragged, she thought about blaming it on the scotch, but instead she held quiet, very much aware of his perusal. She didn’t think she needed to clarify. If he was whom she believed him to be, he would know what she was asking. Seconds ticked by. Then minutes. Then hours. Days. Weeks. She lived a lifetime as she waited.
“I am,” he finally said quietly.
She’d thought knowing for certain would have given her the confidence to face him. Instead, she kept her gaze homed in on the distance as she took another sip of the scotch. For bravery. For escape. “Why do you work there? To fulfill your fantasy of rescuing damsels in distress?”
“I don’t work there.”
She jerked her head around. The breeze lifted strands of his hair, moving them about like it would tall grass. Her fingers ached to comb through the long lengths. “But you... you came to me.”
He nodded. “The owner, Aiden Trewlove, is my brother. I’d gone to the club to deliver a message about a matter, and he was short a couple of workers that evening and he asked me to see to your needs.”
