His Clockwork Canary (27 page)

Deceit.

As Willie leaned into Simon, as she intensified the kiss she’d initiated, he swore
he tasted deceit. Absurd that her fervid affection should leave an unpleasant tang
in his mouth, yet he could not dismiss the feeling that this was a calculated seduction.
That she wished to distract him with sex, to turn his thoughts away from . . .
what
?

This was not the first time that Simon sensed Willie was keeping secrets, but it was
the first time he sensed a deliberate and colossal betrayal. What he did not sense
was malevolence.

Wary, curious, he disentangled her hands from his hair and eased away with a raised
brow. “Should we proceed down this path, I’ll end up taking you on that Oriental rug,”
he said with a nod, “or perhaps over the back of the sofa. It would seem my passion
where you are concerned runs unchecked.”

“If you meant to dissuade me with that threat, you should rethink your tactics, Simon.”

“Simply warning you that at this rate I cannot promise we’ll make it to the bedroom.”

“Why delay what burns between us now?” She gripped his lapel with one hand whilst
using the other to palm his arousal through his trousers. “I have heard it said in
the pressroom that some of the most astonishing . . .
alliances
occur after a heated row.”

Stirred by her boldness, Simon nipped her earlobe and palmed her rear. “I shudder
to think of all you heard from other men whilst masquerading as a man yourself.”

“Consider it an education.”

“I strive not to consider it at all,” he said whilst leaning into her brazen touch.
It still chafed that she had felt compelled to deny her gender and race all those
years. Nor did he enjoy contemplating the rows she’d no doubt encountered whilst incognito.
A man did not dwell in London or circulate in skytowns without engaging in confrontations
of some form or fashion. But of course she would have developed a fierce independent
streak as a layer of protection. Even now, when she no longer needed to go it alone,
the Canary persisted in flying solo. How the devil could he earn her confidence? Her
unadulterated trust? Bad enough that his brother had kept him in the dark regarding
intimate details of his life. By God, he would not be shut out or misled by his enigmatic
wife.

As her seduction grew more bold, Simon embraced his own calculated agenda. How better
to weaken her defenses than to pleasure her senseless? She thought to distract or
somehow manipulate him with sex? “Fair warning, pet,” he said as she loosened the
buttons of his trousers. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Warning noted and rejected.”

Simon escaped her touch and, after locking the double doors, plucked her off her feet
and backed her against the massive wall of books. Their kiss was wild, their actions
frenzied. There would be no foreplay this moment, no lingering or teasing caresses.
Simon pushed up her skirts as she struggled with his trousers.

Her hand around his rock-hard shaft.

His hand up her silky drawers.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, and cupping her backside, Simon plunged deep.
One swift stroke and then another. He made love to Willie with primal urgency, his
thoughts ash as his blood burned. He felt her clenching around him, felt her body
trembling as he stroked her to orgasm.

Harder.

Faster.

Novels and scientific journals tumbled about them as he nailed his beautiful and perplexing
wife against the overcrowded literary shelves.

Deeper.

Slower.

One last thrust . . .

She cried out and he held still. Held back as she shuddered with a tremendous and
lingering climax.

Heart pounding, Simon nuzzled her ear. He’d only just begun. He would unravel this
woman. He would know her secrets. Motivated by love, driven by passion, he would strip
away years of deception and cynicism and lay bare her heart and mind. “I suggest we
retire to the bedchamber.”

“I have no need of a bed.”

At once she slid from his body and to the floor, to her knees. Sweet Christ, she took
him in hand, working magic on his throbbing member. Adjusting pressure as she stroked,
fingers gliding, lips . . . “Ah.” His knackers tightened and his heart stilled when
he felt the warmth of her sweet, sassy mouth. At this rate, she would have the best
of him in three seconds. “No.”

Simon swept her up and laid her back on the rug, shoved her skirt and petticoats to
her waist, and buried his head between her legs. “This.” He ravished her with his
mouth. His tongue, his teeth, his lips. He savored. He tortured. He endured as her
fingers bit into his shoulders, as they clutched at his hair and pulled, as she bucked
wildly beneath his erotic ministrations. When she peaked, his pulse raced and the
need to possess her completely, to find his own release, burned with a vengeance.
He thought to take her again here, now, sprawled on the floor or perhaps on her knees,
but then it would be over much too soon. Where lovemaking was concerned, Willie had
made her adventurous streak clear. Her curiosity and ravenous appetite challenged
his normally versed control.

“I want you naked,” Simon said, tugging her skirts down and his trousers closed. “Now.”

Chest heaving, she blinked up at him in confusion and he wrestled with a moment of
self-recrimination, knowing he was halfway to pleasuring his wife into mental and
emotional submission. Believing he had her best interest at heart and prompted by
bone-deep passion, Simon snuffed the flames of guilt licking at his conscience.

Sweeping Willie off the floor and into his arms, he stalked out of the library and
across the hall, locking them in his master bedchamber. Setting her to her feet, he
lazed against the wall with a cocky grin and a lustful gleam in his eye. She’d started
this game, but he was the master. If she thought to take charge, she best think again.
“Strip.”

•   •   •

Muted golden light seeped through a crack in Simon’s drawn curtains. Light from the
newfangled electric lanterns lining the street in front of his town house.

Willie blinked into the darkened room. When they’d tumbled into this bed, it had been
early evening—predusk. Their lovemaking had been shockingly intense, each vying for
control. Simon’s stamina had been absurdly and wonderfully impressive. No matter her
efforts to unhinge him completely, he had rallied and turned the tables, pleasuring
her again and again. When she’d been too sated, too weak in the limbs and mind, to
counter with her own passionate assault, only then did he surrender to his own need.

She did not remember drifting off. She knew not how long they’d been asleep. It was
all she could do to remember her name.

Wilhelmina Darcy.

Her eyes burned with sudden emotion, her heart squeezed.

She had taken Simon’s name without pledging her love, and even now, even after he’d
declared his affections, even now as she lay in his bed, in his arms, a dazzled and
dazed recipient of his spectacular lovemaking, Willie had not spoken her heart. She
had never considered herself a coward, but in this instance she could not deny her
bone-deep fear. She was too unsure of the future to commit her feelings aloud. Speaking
her heart would be opening her heart to possible obliteration. Staying silent afforded
her a chance to live in denial, should the worst happen. As a writer she could imagine
endless scenarios that would involve being ripped or thrown from Simon’s life. Her
chest ached at just the thought of it.

“What’s wrong?” Simon tightened his hold and stroked a hand down her bare back.

How could he know her misery? Her head was tucked beneath his chin and although her
mind had raced, her body had been most still. “How long have you been awake?” she
asked, without looking up.

“A while.”

“Why did you not stir?”

“Given our extreme alliance,” he said with a teasing smile in his voice, “I am not
sure that I can.”

She snorted lightly against his chest. “I’m certain you have exerted similar energies
in similar circumstances.”

“There have been no similar circumstances.”

That brought her head up. “Knowing what I have heard, what much of London gossips
about, do you really expect me to believe you’ve led a chaste life?”

“Certainly not. But there has been no one like you. No interludes that can compare.”

Willie’s heart fluttered as she gazed upon his handsome face, into his earnest eyes.
Her night vision ensured that his expression was indeed sincere. “In our long yet
spotty association, you have said some wonderfully sweet things, Simon Darcy, but
that is by far the most romantic.”

His brow furrowed. “More romantic than my declaration of love?”

“Let us not speak of love.”

“I know you care for me, Willie. I know you desire me. And I know, once upon a time,
you loved me.”

“Travel down this road if you wish,” she said, pushing off his hard, warm body, “but
I shall not join you.”

Simon caught her hand. “What are you afraid of?”

“Losing you,” she said honestly, then broke free and rolled out of bed. She pulled
on a shift and dressing gown just as Simon flicked on an incandescent lamp. She felt
even more vulnerable, knowing he could now read her expressions clearly. She felt
unhinged by their lovemaking and by his emotional commitment. She felt like a despicable
rat for not telling him about the portion of the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium within
her possession or about her plan to surrender the memory disk to the horrible man
who’d threatened her loved ones and livelihood. However, she did not trust Simon not
to intercede. He would want to protect her and he would want the ACC. Meanwhile the
clockwork propulsion engine would be at risk.

Surely she was right to proceed as planned. Appease Strangelove with the compendium,
locate and surrender the clockwork propulsion engine to the Jubilee Science Committee.
Queen Victoria would order the engine hidden away, under lock and key. Simon would
claim the Triple R Tourney prize, ensuring the financial welfare of their families
and restoring glory to the Darcy name. Aye, she would do well to focus on the greater
good.

She realized then that Simon had pulled on loose silk trousers and a robe as well.
He knotted the sash whilst stepping into a pair of slippers. Was he walking out on
their argument? On her? “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know about you, but I worked up an appetite and we missed dinner. I can promise
you Fletcher set something aside.” Simon moved closer and pulled her into his arms.
“I say we raid the kitchen and discuss whatever you learned from Thimblethumper. The
sooner we submit the engine to the science committee, the sooner we can get on with
our life. The sooner you’ll realize I’m not going anywhere.”

She wanted to believe, was desperate to believe. She’d been living on her own for
so long—her mother gone, her father distant, her brother estranged. She’d trusted
no one with her true identity or race—no Freak, no Vic—and therefore no friends. Phin
had become her friend and Simon . . . She smiled up into his eyes. “I find I am indeed
most famished.”

“It’s settled, then.” He gave her waist a squeeze, guided her into the hallway . . .
and straight into Fletcher.

Willie yelped and Fletcher, who balanced an oil lantern in his hands, gasped.

“For God’s sake,” Simon said to the man whilst flicking on an electric wall sconce.
“Step into the new age, man, and stop skulking about like a character in a gothic
novel.”

“I do not skulk,” Fletcher said. “And I do not see the need in lighting up the house
like a Christmas tree when a lone lantern will illuminate my way.”

“Very practical,” Willie said in the man’s defense. She realized then that Fletcher
was staring at her. Self-conscious, she smoothed a hand over her bed-mussed hair,
but then realized her eyes held his attention. She’d forgone her corneatacts.

“Ah,” was all he said.

“I hope this won’t present a problem,” Willie said outright.

“No problem,” Simon said. “Right, Fletcher?”

The stiff-postured man raised one brow. “You won’t make it rain inside the house when
you’re feeling melancholy, will you, ma’am?”

Willie’s lip twitched. “That would be within my brother’s power,” she said. “But not
mine.”

“You’re not one of those shape-shifters I heard about, are you? I would not be keen
on cleaning up the shedding fur of a wolf or some such.”

Smiling now, Willie hugged herself, feeling somewhat exposed in her morning gown.
“I promise you, I do not shed, Fletcher.”

“Then I foresee no problem, Mrs. Darcy. I’ll see to your dinner now,” he said with
a curt nod.

“No need,” Simon said. “We’re on our way to raid the pantry.”

“I see.”

“But you don’t approve,” Simon said with a grin. “Go back to whatever you were doing,
Fletcher. I thank you, but we’re fine.”

Willie admired Simon for not taking advantage of hired help. She liked not having
to hold to strict conventions. The undercurrents of true friendship between these
two very different men bolstered her outlook on a more utopian state where Old Worlders
and New Worlders, Vics, Freaks, and Mods could coexist equally.

Fletcher stopped midway to the servants’ stairs that led to an upper level. “I say,
Mrs. Darcy, are you able to move objects with your mind?”

“Telekinesis?” She shook her head. “Definitely not.”

“Pity. It would have been a boon in helping to clean up the mess Mr. Darcy will no
doubt make of my kitchen.” With that, he disappeared up the stairs in a haunting wash
of flickering flames and shadows.

With the distinct impression that she’d been officially welcomed into this household
and accepted by yet another Vic, Willie’s spirit soared.

“Fletcher may be mired in old ways,” Simon said as he guided Willie to the landing,
“but that vexatious coot has a big heart.”