Only he could. He could be polite, cool, diffident.
“And now,” Sam continued, “my sister, Leonora, will explain it to you.”
“Good luck,” Rook said, as she took a step toward the stage.
She gave him a nod, but he could see the nervousness and doubt in her eyes. Because of all those fellows who’d found her odd? Because of a mother who continually berated her, pinched her, and made her feel less than?
“This is your moment, Nora, and you will shine. Don’t let anyone dim the brightness of your star.”
He wasn’t quite certain if what he’d said made any sense. He’d never been one for poetry—spouting it or reading it, because so often it wasn’t clear exactly what the poet was trying to convey. Give him a good lengthy novel any day. But the luster of the smile she bestowed upon him hit him in the solar plexus and he was surprised he didn’t stagger back from its force.
Then she was stepping on the stage and running herlong slender fingers—as one might over the head of a favorite child—over what looked to be a rolling pin. She’d grown pale during her journey from his side to where she now stood. She wasn’t comfortable being the center of attention, looked as if she might bring up her accounts. He wanted to shout, “Focus on me!”
Perhaps he did shout it or maybe she simply felt his wanting to reassure her because her gaze wandered over the gathering and came to a stop on him. He offered her a warm smile and fought to convey with his expression that he had faith in her ability to hold this audience captive.
She gave a little nod, cleared her throat, and ran her hand over the etched flowers decorating the black iron.
“The writing machine,” she said affectionately, “was an idea dreamed up by our father, who recognized that a successful business needed a faster way to produce correspondence. Constantly having to dip a nibbed pen into an inkwell and drawing precise letters is time-consuming, especially if you are striving to communicate with a hundred customers. You want it to be legible—like handbills, printed. So that’s the approach we took here. To tonight’s exhibit, many of you received invitations that were created using this very machine, because we wanted you to see for yourselves, at your leisure, how the letters looked on parchment. Much as a typesetter’s. Although they can’t be duplicated as a typesetter’s work can be, because each page must be created individually, it does allow for changes to be made so all documents don’t look exactly the same. But ultimately, it is the uniformity and speed that will propel this machine into a vital business tool. Lady Knightly, as an author, you’ve no doubt written thousands of words.Would you be kind enough to join me at the table here for a demonstration?”
The audience was murmuring as Regina made her way to the stage, but Rook knew that Nora had her audience enthralled. It was her passion. Dear Lord, but the woman did nothing in half measures. Whether it was kissing or striving to sell potential investors on a new invention. No, it wasn’t the selling she was passionate about. Or the investors—they were a necessity because of the company’s financial straits. It was the machine itself. It was the gears, buttons, levers, and bolts. The way it all came together to make something remarkable. Something she appreciated. Something she... loved.
How fortunate a bloke would be to have her devotion directed his way.
He wondered if Camberley had the same thoughts, was noting the strength of her loyalty.
Once Regina was situated, Nora turned back to her rapt audience. “While Lady Knightly with pen and ink writes, ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,’ I shall tap it out using the keys of the writing machine. Sam, tell us when to begin.”
Her brother fairly preened. “Three, two, one, go!”
The machine was not a quiet thing, and Rook wondered if that might get bothersome over time, but there was also a rhythm to the clacking that was comforting, that spoke of something being accomplished.
“Finished!” Nora said.
Regina laughed and set down her pen. “I got as far as, ‘It was the best of times, it was.’ I daresay I think more than businesses might find a use for this machine. As a matter of fact, is this one for sale?”
“It’s only a prototype,” Nora said. “But with investors, we would make some changes to our factory so it could produce this machine en masse. Would you like to give it a try?”
“Absolutely.”
“If anyone else would like a closer look at how it works, please come nearer to the stage,” Sam said. “We’re more than happy to let you tap out a message to take with you. We brought lots of paper. Hopefully some of those messages will say, ‘Invest.’”
“Well, that was rather impressive,” King said, and Rook wondered when he, Knightly, Bishop, and their wives had wandered over.
“I certainly could have used it when I was your secretary,” Penelope said. “I think your current secretary might appreciate it.”
Knightly furrowed his brow. “But will it sell in sufficient numbers to be a profitable enterprise or will it be considered a novelty? Will it make a difference to the common man or be a toy of the elite?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Bishop looked toward the stage. “People seem to be taken with it.”
They were most definitely curious. Rook knew if he invested, as he was tempted to do, she would return to America, be beyond his immediate reach.
But not tonight. Tonight she was very much near enough to touch. Her luscious mouth, her glorious breasts, her firm bottom. How he yearned to experience them all just once more. Just once more.
He was discovering there were unintended consequences in spending time with Nora. Grinding his teeth down to a nub when Camberley was doting on her. Not that she didn’t deserve the praise or the attention. She did. He just hadn’t much liked the possessive manner in which the earl had stood beside her conversing with her as though it was his innate right to do so. Or the way that she’d smiled softly at the blighter.
Rook wasn’t jealous. He was simply... irritated. That someone—Camberley in particular—might eventually know her as well as he did. But at the moment he was winning in that little game because he knew her well enough to know what he suspected no one else did: she’d assembled the writing machine. She understood the intricacies of every lever, every bolt, every rod.
If he spent much more time in her presence, she might try to take him apart, study all the various aspects, strive to understand him, before putting him back together. That thought terrified him.
