The Golden Spider (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 1) Page 9

  She agreed‌—‌in principle‌—‌that their emotions were inappropriate and misplaced. The deep attraction developing between them, if allowed to surface, would jeopardize everything. Her schoolwork. Her research. Her marital prospects.

  She was a fool.

  If his stare invited such thoughts, what urges would his touch unleash? For already she longed to press her palms against the rough surface of the beard that darkened his face, to slide her fingers into his inky locks and pull his mouth against hers.

  Staring in the mirror, Amanda traced a finger over the exposed curves of her breasts, her nipples tightening as she imagined how Thornton’s calloused hands might choose to explore her intricate bodice. If given license, would he skim the surface, trace the lacings? Delve beneath the edges? Or would he drag her into a shadowy alcove and work the knot free, pulling the cording from their tabs?

  Amanda pressed her hand to her stomach and forced her breath to slow. The man who haunted her thoughts wasn’t coming. Lord Thornton had yet to be sighted in a ballroom‌—‌and wasn’t likely to be.

  With the deteriorating condition of his leg, dancing would be difficult. Soon, it would be impossible. She’d been so moved, so distressed when he’d confided in her the extent of his injury that she’d forgotten herself and whispered his name in sympathy. That whisper had torn through a nameless barrier, shocking them both. Unable, or rather, unwilling to explain her impulse, she’d made her excuses and fled to the safety of her waiting coach.

  “Daring, but effective,” Olivia said, snapping Amanda from her thoughts. Her sister stepped into the reflection of Amanda’s mirror. Behind Olivia followed her lady’s maid, Steam Cora. “In that gown, you’ll have a proposal by the end of the night.”

  With a proposal, with an acceptance, her world would narrow. “And if I don’t want one?”

  “Then you’d best wear something else.”

  “Something like yours? Pink ruffles to hide every feminine curve?” Amanda asked, raising her eyebrows at Olivia’s choice.

  Her sister sighed. “Carlton hates to see other gentlemen looking at me. Until the final contract is signed…‌.”

  “And after, Olivia? What then?”

  Olivia shrugged. “The usual. A wedding. Babies.” Her sister turned away and fiddled with a number of ribbons laid out upon Amanda’s dressing table. If Carlton’s controlling nature bothered her, she did not wish to discuss it. “Black velvet, I think. Sit. Let Steam Cora wind this in your hair.”

  Olivia handed the ribbon to Steam Cora whose finely articulated fingers began to twine the velvet around locks of Amanda’s hair, creating an updo to rival all others. Many of Olivia’s friends begged her to share the Babbage cards that created the hairstyles for which she was famous, but she guarded them closely, lest they reveal her secret, that she herself was the designer. A lady didn’t dabble in programming.

  Amanda met her sister’s eyes in the mirror, noting her drawn face. There was something more on her mind. “What’s wrong?”

  Olivia sighed. “Father summoned me to his study. He received some distressing news today. He told me he suspects Emily has taken up with Luca.”

  “Has married Luca, you mean.” Father must be preparing Olivia for the worst case scenario: discovery.

  A derisive snort. “You know as well as I gypsies refuse to take out a marriage license. Not that that would help. Mother has taken to her bed. If this becomes public…‌”

  “Carlton will set you aside,” Amanda finished. Since Olivia seemed set on Carlton, she prayed for both her sisters’ sakes that Emily was nowhere near London or its outskirts. “Father will keep this quiet.” She hoped.

  “Speaking of which, Father is to escort us to the ball tonight.”

  “Not Ned?” Amanda frowned.

  “He’s already at the Whitmore’s, preparing the orchestra.”

  “I see.” Occasionally, Ned would accept a private commission. He would then spend the entire evening behind a stand of potted palms, ostensibly overseeing his clockwork musicians.

  “I can’t blame Ned for hiding.” A flush crept up Olivia’s neck. “I suspect from the foul mood he’s been in that he’s had more…‌ inquiries.”

  Olivia referred to certain young ladies, having had no luck on the marriage mart, who offered their hands in marriage to Lord Edward. Marriage to a cripple in exchange for a future title. Many hoped to be relieved of their marital duties. A few, however, had been so bold as to offer, with Ned’s permission of course, to produce an heir outside the marriage bed should he prove incapable.

  Horribly embarrassing, all of it.

  Amanda closed her eyes for a moment. “While that may be, his mood is more likely due to the speed with which Georgina’s marriage contract negotiation is proceeding.”

  “Faster than mine.” Her sister sighed. “Carlton keeps negotiating for more. He wants the house in Kent.”

  Carlton’s demands were like his opinions: ridiculous and selfish.

  Amanda couldn’t shake the feeling Ned was avoiding her. Her request this evening, that he program a card that would instruct the neurachnid to repair Thornton’s fibular nerve, had been met with fierce refusal. Ned could not see past his own problems. But Olivia, she also had talent. If she could overcome her aversion to anatomical images…‌ “I wonder if I might convince you to program a Babbage card for me?”

  Her sister blanched. “For your spider?”

  A minor lie and a major sacrifice would be necessary to cajole Olivia’s help. Worth the price if she could erase the look of despair she’d read on Thornton’s face when he admitted his leg was likely beyond hope. “Ned lacks a certain…‌ finesse with needles.” Olivia swayed. “If you’ll help, I’ll promise to keep my books and specimens from the breakfast table.”

  Speculation lit her sister’s eyes. “And the parlor?”

  Amanda grimaced, but nodded her agreement.

  “Then I’ll have a look. Tomorrow. On an empty stomach.”

  Chapter Twelve

  WITH THE HOUR OF receiving lines long past, Thornton finally dressed for the night’s ball. He climbed aboard the steam carriage that bore his family crest and directed it to the Whitmore’s London home.

  Earlier, he’d made final adjustments to the newly implanted acousticotransmitter in an agent’s ear, then watched, not without envy, as Black left with the man‌—‌still a bit unsteady on his feet‌—‌to take to the dark, foggy streets for a bit of practice with the new device.

  An evening wandering the streets of East London held more appeal than any ton ball. Especially as both Lady Amanda and a particularly irritating student, one Mr. Simon Sommersby, would be in attendance. Likely Sommersby would be found no less than an arm’s length from her side. Thornton didn’t trust the man. Under a seemingly carefree demeanor, Thornton recognized a streak of possessiveness. Sommersby was also annoyingly persistent.

  Lady Huntley had called Thornton to her side after Lady Amanda’s departure. “You should know,” she began, “that Mr. Sommersby managed to track me down outside of Lister Laboratories to press his case for a position in your laboratory.”

  Thornton frowned, knowing Lady Huntley valued her privacy. “Inappropriate.”

  “Very,” she replied. “However, the man is highly recommended by his professors. He may only be an adequate medical student, but I’m told he has a decided talent for chemistry. Are you certain you wish to dismiss him out of hand?”

  “Yes,” Thornton replied without hesitation. Sommersby rubbed him wrong. Why, exactly, he couldn’t say. Certainly, his pursuit of Lady Amanda played a part, but there was something more about the man, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint, that set his teeth on edge.

  Yet Lady Amanda encouraged Sommersby’s attentions. Why? She could reach much higher.

  His hand tightened on the top of his cane. The thought of Sommersby winning such a woman as his bride elicited many foreign emotions. Among them, jealousy was the one Thornton least enjoyed. He had
no wish to see her in another man’s arms.

  His steam carriage stopped before the Whitmore residence. The broad marble stairs that led upward were alight with the latest in proximity-sensing bioluminescent lanterns, their blue and green lights flashing and swirling as he passed. Inside the great hall an automated coat rack held out an appendage of sorts, and Thornton hung his hat on the outstretched hook, but held onto his cane. A tell-tale ache was settling into his leg. Soon, it would require another injection.

  He greeted familiar faces with a mere nod and side-stepped a giggling flock of young ladies in a cloud of pastels and white lace who eyed him with unconcealed interest.

  Skirting the ballroom, he passed down a long hallway and through a door into the library. The Duke of Avesbury sat in a shadowed corner holding court in a wingback chair. He caught sight of Thornton and crooked his finger. The duke’s men scattered as Thornton approached, providing them with a moment’s privacy.

  The man’s face was grim. “I understand you need to speak with my daughter, Emily.”

  Thornton nodded.

  “A headstrong child. Short of locking her in a tower, there was little to do to stop her from following an unusual path.”

  “Are you certain you don’t speak of Lady Amanda?”

  Lord Avesbury barked a laugh. “Perhaps you’ll have more success directing her future than I.”

  Thornton doubted that.

  “Emily is at Putney Heath,” Lord Avesbury continued, his voice low as he revealed the location of his potion-brewing, runaway daughter. “She stays with her new family, living a quiet and unremarked life. Am I clear?”

  “Indeed.” Thornton could speak with her only, revealing her location to no one. The social implications for the duke and his family, should Lady Emily be discovered not to be in Italy as supposed, were dire.

  He would await Black’s return before departing to question Lady Emily. They could be at the campsite by dawn.

  “My daughter, Amanda, is she useful?”

  “Very,” Thornton replied. And a terrible distraction.

  “Good.” Lord Avesbury stared at Thornton, his eyes seeming to bore holes through his skull as if it would allow him to read his thoughts. His next words caught Thornton off guard. “Amanda has waited too long to marry. As have you. I would advise you both to choose carefully.”

  Thornton blinked, and hesitated, both uncertain how to respond and why the duke would concern himself with his marital status. Did the duke issue a warning? Or a suggestion?

  Another gentleman drifted silently to Lord Avesbury’s side. “Keep me appraised,” the duke said and turned away.

  His time was over. He bowed his goodbye and stepped aside.

  For some time, Thornton remained in the library, speaking with a number of other gentlemen involved in government affairs, discussing the recent German atrocities and the likelihood that the King of Iceland would seek to interfere in European affairs.

  As the hands of the clock approached midnight, Thornton’s leg could no longer be ignored. Each step he took sent pain radiating behind his calf and spiraling down to his ankle. At least the pain reassured him the nerve still worked. When the numbness began…‌

  Thornton stepped into the hallway, searching out an unoccupied side room. When the pain reached this level, it was time to administer another dose. He’d calm the nerve, then return to the laboratory to await Black.

  He stepped into a darkened room containing a couple of chairs and a sofa. Perfect. He closed the door softly behind him. The injection would take mere minutes. He’d taken not more than five steps into the room when the door behind him opened again and slammed shut. He heard the key turn in the lock.

  Spinning, he turned to find Lady Amanda leaning against the door.

  She gasped, her eyes growing wide with surprise as they met his, and pressed an index finger to her lips.

  Not that she needed to ask for his silence, for he was struck dumb. The lacing of her bodice snared his gaze, focusing all thought directly upon a portion of her anatomy where his eyes ought not linger. He swallowed, the pain in his leg forgotten. Black silk cords crossed repeatedly over her chest, twining their way down her bodice to form a knot at her narrow waist.

  “Lady Amanda?” a confused voice called from the hallway.

  Sommersby.

  Thornton raised his eyebrows.

  She shook her head, her eyes begging him to say nothing.

  The footsteps moved on, and Amanda exhaled in relief, brushing past him as she crossed to stand beside the window. Moonlight flooded in, setting her skin aglow. “Thank you,” she said. “Mr. Sommersby is overly solicitous tonight. I’m afraid we’re trapped for a few minutes. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Mind? He minded quite a bit. “Not at all, Lady Amanda,” he said. Then moved, flinching, to a nearby chair.

  “I’m surprised to find you here. To think I envied your ability to remain in the laboratory, to work late into the night.” She flicked him a glance. “Though I don’t suppose you’re here to find a bride.”

  Did she pry? Or merely state the obvious, for he would not seek a wife among young women who viewed his injury as an opportunity to easily acquire a title. “No.”

  “Mr. Sommersby is a good man, if predictable,” she said. “I could do worse.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.” He shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t encourage this discussion.

  She sighed and sank onto the chair across from him. Thornton struggled to keep his eyes on her face. “I’m not a fan of society’s expectations. Nor of balls, teas or garden parties. The privileges of a peeress are many, but the expectations are constrictive.”

  If she did not wish to marry, why was she here? “As an earl, I concur.” Rather contradictory, her behavior. Encouraging Sommersby one minute, hiding from him the next.

  “Ah, but you have many years before society will force a woman into your arms.”

  “Force? Am I that distasteful?”

  “Not at all.” She leaned forward, her breasts straining against the silk cords that bound them.

  “No?” He leaned forward as well, lowering his voice. “I must warn you, locking me in a darkened room might not have been the wisest choice. For I’m anything but predictable.”

  Her smile fell away. The tip of her tongue darted between her lips. “You certainly aren’t,” she whispered, her gaze alighting on his mouth. She turned her head quickly to look out the window and into an empty garden. “What drug, may I ask, do you use to calm the nerve in your leg?”

  “Somnic,” he said, naming a powerful nerve agent that was as damaging as it was effective. A muscle in his foot twitched, a reminder of the reason he’d entered this room.

  “But the side effects are irreversible!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with concern. Lady Amanda knew her nerve agents.

  “They are,” he said. “But every other available drug no longer has any effect.” Thornton watched her mind run through the implications, watched as it pounced on the inevitable conclusion.

  “The neurachnid might still work,” she said. “If completed before the drug loses its efficacy.”

  He nodded, acknowledging her conclusion, and began to unscrew the silver cap of his cane. Let her know the worst, know the dosage upon which he now relied. He needed an injection now, or he would be incapable of leaving the room under his own power. The cap came free in his hand and he swore.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He held up an empty vial. Henri had assured him that he would refill the vial. Clearly, he’d forgotten. And he had failed to check‌—‌an inexcusable mistake that could well cost him his leg.

  Still, there should have been enough residual medication for at least a half dose. Was he really using such a large quantity of Somnic? Tipping his head back and glaring at the ceiling, Thornton swore again. At this rate, he calculated, the drug would become ineffective in less than two weeks.

  There was a rustle. A whiff of roses. A light pressure agains
t his knee.

  He looked down, and his jaw fell slack.

  “Let me help. I’ve been studying the Oriental practice of using pressure points to relieve pain.” In a rumple of brocade and silk, Lady Amanda knelt on the floor before him. Her fingers pressed through his woolen trousers around his brace, expertly seeking out the damage.

  “I don’t think…‌”

  Her finger found a pressure point. He gripped the arms of the chair, sucking in his breath at the sudden piercing pain, then exhaled. Slowly. And found the pain had lessened.

  “Where did you learn to…‌?” Her fingers deftly landed on another pressure point, and his jaw clenched. He hissed on an indrawn breath

  “Does it matter?” Her fingers moved behind, then beneath, his brace.

  Thornton was incapable of response. Not since the initial injury healed had anyone touched his leg. There’d been no need for a second opinion. Already the top physician in his field, Thornton knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what was to come.

  Her fingers still moving, she tipped her face upward. “Which nerve? Only the superficial fibular affecting the lateral component? Eversion and plantarflextion?” The superficial fibular nerve innervated the lateral muscles of the lower leg responsible for turning the foot outward as well as pressing the foot downward.

  The pain was less now. He unclenched his teeth and exhaled as slowly and as calmly as he could manage. “No, the deep fibular nerve as well,” he answered, closing his eyes, lulled by the decreasing pain. He’d not experienced this kind of relief since the very first dose of Somnic. How long would it last?

  Thirty minutes or three, he didn’t care.

  Her hands moved, lifting the hem of his trousers, sliding underneath. Upward. To his knee. She pulled his hose free, baring his skin to her cool fingers.

  “So dorsiflextion as well,” she stated.

  “Yes.” At times he also found it difficult to lift his foot. Soon, walking would become difficult. Running, impossible.

  “Better?”

  “Much.” The near-constant pain in his leg had faded to a distant ache. He relaxed his grip on the chair and slitted his eyes, finally able to enjoy the close-up view as she leaned ever closer, still on her knees before him. It was difficult to stop his mind from drifting down erotic pathways.