Victorian Dream (12 page)

It was a magical evening, and it was all Walker’s doing. Reaching the front entrance, they presented their “by special permission only” invitations, and unlike opening day in May, when 26,000 people clamored for a glimpse of the royal family, the anticipation hovering over tonight’s select group was wrapped in an almost reverential hush.

“What a magnificent achievement,” her aunt murmured. “We are part of history, child, remember this night.”

With Walker at her side, how could she forget? It was almost as splendid as dancing in his arms. Edging closer to him, she wondered if he treasured their night together too. Then, realizing she was missing the here and now by fixating on their previous romantic interlude, she took in the sights and sounds, and reveled in the drama of it all.

Along with a towering tree, grand bits and pieces of nearly every country were nestled beneath nine hundred thousand square feet of Birmingham glass. Wooden floors gleamed underfoot, louvers at the top ushered in fresh air, and in the Retiring Rooms, patrons were forming a queue to use George Jenning’s revolutionary “necessary convenience.” Only a penny per customer.

“No dawdling, ladies,” Walker advised, escorting them along. “The Queen is expected at any moment, and we’ve barely a chance to secure a vantage point from which to enjoy the ceremony.”

In a flurry, they hurried past Egyptian sarcophagi, Russian bronzes, and America’s Goodyear exhibit of India rubber goods. Not daring to lag behind, she grabbed a handful of fabric from her new dress and hiked it up to keep from tripping. The voluminous skirt swished playfully from side to side even as it threatened to lay her low. Admittedly too long, she had refused to send it back. The ensemble had arrived from the dressmaker late this afternoon, alterations would have meant not wearing it tonight—a thought not worth entertaining. Accented by the matching hat, a miracle of feathers wrought by her favorite milliner and plumassier, this was the long awaited outfit she had intended to wear for Lucien.

Guilt fought for a foothold, but nothing could conquer her delight in the costume’s unveiling being instead for Walker. Following the Michaelmas party, feelings for her American sea captain dominated her life, and thoughts of him were the balm desperately needed to sooth the horror elicited by her new nightmare. The one filled with blood and terror. The one in which she was the central character. It was the first disturbing vision she’d had since her parent’s accident. And the only one she’d ever had about herself.

With a shiver, she glanced up at Walker. When he was at her side, the nightmare seemed cowed and far less threatening. He made her feel safe and able to overcome anything thrown in her path. Swallowing her fears, she defied the unease. She would let nothing ruin a night holding so much promise.

Walker glanced down at her, giving her hat the once over. He opened his mouth as if to comment, but instead fell silent, and smiled at her. She wasn’t sure if he approved of her chapeau, or was suppressing an urge to laugh. He was more of a mystery than any man she had ever known. And perhaps if elegant did not describe him, virile and self-confident surely did. Proud to be on his arm tonight, she wished they might stroll along leisurely, savoring the experience, but they rushed onward like children at the fair—reaching the South American exhibit with only moments spare.

Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, seated majestically beside the display, appeared more than ready for the ceremony to begin. With royal flair, the great woman nodded, and the botanical masterpiece was unveiled. Shiny green leaves, nearly three meters across, drew a murmur of awe from the crowd. Then drenched in moonlight, the exotic white female flower opened. Astonishment turned to delight. Tomorrow at sunset, the mysterious plant would bloom pink, and transform into a male flower.

Jockeying for a better view, Trelayne shifted about. To accommodate her attempt, Walker eased her sideways to stand in front of him. After that, the ceremony became a blur as every fiber of her being was devoted to sensing Captain Garrison’s rock solid body at her back.

The essence of manly soap and cologne issued around her, and the warmth of his breath played across the nape of her neck. Without thinking, she leaned back ever so slightly. As if answering the silent call of her body, he pressed forward, sending a desperate yearning coursing through her. These were not the pangs of girlish desires. These were cravings raw and lustful, beyond anything she had ever known. It was an awakening. All previous thoughts of love and romance were reduced to mere watercolor illusions when compared to the dazzling vibrant emotion evoked by simply standing beside Walker.

“The lily pales in comparison to you,” he whispered in her ear.

Did he also entertain a reckless thought or two?

Her knees went weak, and a sweet lightness filled her chest. She wished they were alone in the moonlight with no one to see as they slid to the ground, lost in one another’s arms.

Suddenly a cheer rose up, jolting her back to reality. She’d missed the entire ceremony. Everyone was clapping as the Queen and her consort took their leave. Still under the spell of enchantment, Trelayne brought her gloved hands together intending to follow suite. Instead, she clasped them in prayer, and gave thanks for such an exceptional evening of newfound delight.

Walker turned her around to face him. The heated expression in his eyes left her fighting for a decent breath. Lips parted, heart pounding, she felt herself being drawn closer and closer to him, and although it was only in wayward thought and delicious contemplation, in her mind, they kissed—long and sweet and passionately.

“Garrison, you old scallywag. You’re a sight for these sore eyes.”

As if caught doing more than simply staring at one another, they reared back in unison. A tall rambunctious man bore down on them, halted at their side, and slapped Walker on the back.

“Sam Colt,” Walker exclaimed, the joy evident in his voice. “You rough ridin’ son of a gun. Dressed in such finery, I hardly recognized you. You haven’t gone citified on me have you?”

“Hell no. Oh, pardon the language ladies,” the fellow begged, with a tip of his hat to her and Aunt Abigail. Then he tugged at his shirt collar, and tried to tame his riotous beard and mustache. “I’m simply out to impress some of the gentry here about in the hopes of procuring financial backing.”

Walker nodded in understanding, then introduced his friend. “Samuel Colt, may I present Miss Abigail Royston and Miss Trelayne St.Christopher.”

Trelayne extended her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Colt.”

Colt gave Walker a strange look then bowed over her hand. She could have sworn there was a questioning expression in the man’s eyes, followed by a spark of curiosity.

“Exactly what is this project of yours?” she asked, when he relinquished his hold.

“It’s my new Navy revolver, Miss Trelayne. Even more striking than the Army Dragoon—if I say so myself. Here’s the one I promised you, Garrison.” He liberated a pistol from beneath his frock coat, and held it up for all to see.

“It’s a shade lighter than my other weapons,” Colt said, hefting the revolver. “Could have used this back in ’46, eh friend?”

“It couldn’t have hurt,” Walker agreed.

The men appeared lost in a shared memory, indicating they were longstanding friends with an intertwined past.

“Is your weapon already in production?” Trelayne asked, breaking the silence.

“It surely is, ma’am,” Colt acknowledged, cradling the pistol in his arms. “She’s a .36 caliber beauty with a lovely seven and a half inch rifled barrel. A six shot like the Dragoon, but a bit more diminutive in size.” As he spoke, the glow of pride and enthusiasm returned to his aura.

“You sound like you’re extolling the virtues of a woman rather than a weapon,” Walker joked.

“Either one can cause a man considerable pain,” Colt ventured. His voice had lost its teasing edge. Walker stood a little taller and glanced down at the floor. Again Colt perused Trelayne with a speculative air.

“How many grains of powder would you recommend?” She issued the question with genuine interest, as well as an attempt at furthering the conversation.

“Around twenty-eight grains,” Colt replied. “She’s accurate up to fifty yards, depending on who’s shootin’. But the most remarkable and innovative aspect of my creation, is the fact all the parts are interchangeable, and preloaded cylinders are available.”

“Is that important?” Aunt Abigail interjected.

“Absolutely. It will revolutionize the gun industry. If’n something breaks, you replace that part, not the whole darn pistol. Makes protection available to the common man as well as the rich. The equalizer, it’s been called.” As he spoke, he broke the pistol down into three parts, barrel, chamber, and frame. Then he quickly reassembled them. “Child’s play,” he quipped.

“It certainly is a formidable looking piece,” Aunt Abigail added. “Will you be in England long, Mr. Colt?”

“Well, I reckon I’ll be around a few months.”

“You must see your way clear to visit us at Royston Hall,” she graciously offered. “When you come, you might bring along a few of those. We’ve a shooting range outback, and we women pride ourselves on being as proficient as the men. Perhaps you could give me some personal instructions.”

Trelayne’s eyes widened at her aunt’s innuendos. Did she detect a glow of interest as well as adventure in her demeanor?

Samuel handed the pistol off to Walker. “You can depend upon it, dear lady,” he promised, ambling closer. “Care to mosey around a bit? There’s sights here I’ve yet to see.” Boldly taking her aunt by the elbow, Samuel Colt escorted her to the nearest exhibit.

Stunned and openmouthed, Trelayne stared at Walker.

He shrugged. “Don’t look at me. When he puts his mind to it, Samuel has that effect on women.” He slid the pistol under his belt, giving him the air of a highwayman, then extended his arm. “Shall we join them?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

As they turned to follow, a group of onlookers blocked their advance. The rowdy bunch seemed to materialize out of nowhere, crossing their path without care or concern. One man stepped backward, and jostled into her. Off balance, and caught in the too long hem of her dress, she nearly fell on her face. Without missing a heartbeat, Walker gathered her close. Cheek to cheek, a whimper of pleasure escaped her, and she relished the urge to nestle her head against his shoulder.

The group rushed on, leaving them standing alone. She should push Walker away, but she held fast, yearning to wrap her arms around his neck and seduce his mouth with hers. To prevent answering the wicked desire, she pressed the fingertips of her gloved right hand to her lips, creating a barrier not to be crossed.

Walker stepped away from her. “We’d best move on,” he suggested, his voice thick with emotion.

She nodded, glancing straight ahead, afraid to meet his gaze; afraid if given half a chance she would drag him off behind a potted palm so they might continue where they had left off. Lord above, she felt positively bold and brash and barely able to contain the shameless ideas threatening her good senses.

In silence, they meandered past McCormick’s reaper and a very unromantic hydraulic press. Then to her surprise, Walker tightened his grip on her elbow and urged her off the walkway and into the shadow of one of the hulking iron contraptions.

She felt light headed, and her cheeks grew warm with the unstoppable heat caused by his intense perusal.

“That’s some hat you’re sporting,” he said.

His unexpected comment took her off guard, leaving her confused. “You don’t like my new hat?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, just that it was really something.”

“That’s a bit vague.
Something
can mean good or bad.”

He canted his head and studied her more thoroughly. “It’s unique, I’ll give you that.” He flicked a finger at the bright bow and scarlet ribbons cascading down one side of the creation. “And unexpected.”

“Do you like surprises?” she ventured.

“Not generally,” he admitted. “But I do like discovering new things, taking my time, savoring each revelation, wondering what will come next.

Capturing her left hand, he toyed with the buttons on her glove. Entranced, she waited restlessly, conjuring naughty images of what he might try to discover next. One by one, he slipped the buttons free, splaying open the soft leather. Cool air slipped beneath the material as he rolled down the top, exposing her skin. The pulse in her wrist jump beneath the pressure of his fingers. Raising her hand to his mouth, he whispered something, but she couldn’t catch the words, only the feel of his breath on her bare skin. He lowered her hand, and little by little peeled the kid leather away, turning it inside out, sliding the softness over her knuckles, down her fingers, off the tips. She wished he would undress the rest of her just as completely and slowly—oh so slowly, one little piece of clothing following another.

“Your fingers are cold, Trelayne,” he said, cozying her bare hand between his strong warm ones. “But I’ll wager there’s fire in your heart.”

Speechless, she strangled the moan threatening to escape her. There was fire in more than just her heart, and it was near to burning out of control. Was it proper for a woman to ravish a man? For that was exactly what she wished to do.

A hint of smile lingered on his mouth, but his eyes darkened, and there was nothing humorous about the way his gaze made her feel.

She wished to speak, but words escaped her. Rarely at a loss as to what to do or say, she tried to recall what she’d been taught in deportment about keeping up lively conversation and witty dialogue. Nothing came to mind to cover a situation in which her body ruled her mind. All she could think about was what it would be like to kiss this man, make love to this man, be naked beside this man.

“Fires can be dangerous,” she murmured.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Especially the ones that burn long and slow and incredibly hot.”

Illustrations from the books she read in secret seared across her mind—scandalous, wonderful imaginings.