The Inventors Wife Page 2

  What a fascinating story! Elena wanted to know all about this “tremendous battle,” unladylike though her interest probably was. She understood why Mr. Miller’s talents appealed to her father. He was wealthy enough to invest in risky experiments like Archimedes, and the payoff could be potentially astronomical.

  A chill ran down her spine. Did the inventor realize that by agreeing to her father’s offer, he’d signed away his soul?

  To distract herself from the disturbing thought, she brushed her index finger across a line of rivets. Her glove came away with a streak of grease, but that only added to the thrill. It made the encounter more real—and more dramatic.

  The machine emitted a fair amount of heat. Perspiration coated her skin, especially in the confining areas under her arms and beneath her breasts. She probably should have stepped away, but when would she next have an opportunity to be this close to Archimedes? This time might be her one and only chance.

  Elena grasped a nearby lever in her hand. What would happen if she moved it? Did it control one of the tools?

  “What are you doing?”

  The man’s voice rang with disapproval. This time, however, it didn’t belong to her father.

  She snatched back her hand. Spinning around, she came face to face with an incredibly broad chest and had to sweep her gaze upwards.

  The inventor.

  His expression radiated reproach, but Elena swore she saw the elaborate mechanism of his thoughts turning like a well-oiled clock in the far reaches of his deep brown eyes. He seemed like a man always engaged in private calculations of one sort or another. She had a feeling Archimedes only scratched the surface of his abilities. The thought spurred a fluttering deep within her belly.

  She smiled demurely. “I was studying your fascinating device.”

  Mr. Miller cleared his throat. “Miss Harrington, I presume?”

  “Yes.” She curtsied, her heart thudding without mercy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Miller.”

  The inventor’s lips compressed into a thin line. “This is a dangerous machine, Miss Harrington. I advise you to refrain from touching it.”

  She frowned. It wasn’t as though she’d grabbed hold of one of the shears. “I could hardly fear such an intriguing invention.”

  Mr. Miller narrowed his eyes. “Only an arrogant fool would admit to such a thing.”

  He spoke quietly, as aware as she of the other men milling about only a few feet away.

  Her jaw clenched painfully with the effort of reining in her anger. How dare he call her an arrogant fool! She, who had nothing but reverence for all things mechanical. Of course, he couldn’t have known that about her. To him, she was simply a naïve woman, unworthy of his attention or respect. Perhaps he wasn’t so unlike her father after all.

  Frustration spurred her rebellious streak to greater heights. Instead of arguing the point, she reached out an arm and clutched the lever again. She held the thick iron rod tightly, relishing its solid feel against her palm. Undoubtedly, the combination of grease and soot was making her glove very, very dirty.

  Mr. Miller leaned forward and then seemed to remember himself. He eased back. Then he glared. “Let go of that. Now.”

  Why was he acting so possessively? She met his glare with her own. “You work for my father, and the device now belongs to him. Hence, it is mine to touch as I wish.”

  To underscore her point, she stroked the tip of the lever with her thumb.

  The inventor’s gaze snapped to the sight and then back to her face. “So you want to play with fire, is that it?” he rumbled.

  He sounded not so much angry as…intrigued.

  Elena glanced away in an effort to stem a surge of intense, unfamiliar feelings. The metal against her hand felt suddenly hot. She risked a sidelong glance in his direction. Why did he keep staring at her with such a keen expression?

  “Elena, you mustn’t bother Mr. Miller.” Her father appeared beside her. “Or Archimedes.”

  Not now! Why did he have to interfere with her life at every single turn? She released the lever and clasped her hands at her waist. Had he heard any of her exchange with the inventor? Difficult to say. Her father’s expression seemed polite, but the tone of his voice carried its usual threat of consequence if she didn’t mind her place.

  “I was admiring his device, Father.”

  Mr. Miller nodded. “I’ve no complaints about that,” he said good-naturedly.

  The inventor detached an odd-looking wrench from his tool belt and began making minor adjustments to Archimedes. Hmmm. She hadn’t noticed any loose bolts—or anything else out of place, for that matter. Despite his earlier annoyance, he hadn’t expressed any of his displeasure to her father. Why? What secrets did this inventor harbor?

  Despite her father’s admonishment, Elena stayed rooted to her spot. As Mr. Miller worked, she had a clear view of his broad shoulders and the way they filled and stretched the top of his dark brown coat. He must be very strong in order to work with such large machinery.

  Strange. Such a minor detail, but one that suddenly mattered to her very much.

  “May I see the engine, Mr. Miller?”

  The inventor paused, his hand hovering above a large brass knob. His head gave a quarter turn. “I suppose—”

  “Good God, no,” her father interjected. “Elena, ask Mr. Washburn if he requires anything.”

  “But the servants can—”

  Her father grabbed her arm, hard enough to hurt, and spun her around. “Do as I say at once,” he hissed into her ear.

  Skin burning from embarrassment, she strode back to the canopy without a backward glance. Next to the refreshment table, Washburn stood deep in conversation with two other guests. Joining them would only invite unwanted advances. Why couldn’t her father see he had sent her into a lion’s den? Drat his infernal order!

  She considered refusing and then quickly discarded the idea. Her father’s colleagues often joked he had grown eyes in the back of his head for the sole purpose of spooking the competition. If she were to glance back, he’d most assuredly be staring in her direction and tracking her progress.

  She approached Mr. Washburn slowly, bracing herself for the imminent assault on her olfactory organ. The mustached gentleman in conversation with Mr. Washburn noticed her first. He smiled politely, at which point her nemesis turned around. He dismissed his companion with a wave of his hand. “We shall finish up later.”

  Drat. She had hoped to use the other man as a shield. Now she and Mr. Barbed Personality were alone. Best get it over with.

  She curtsied. “My father and I are…delighted you could join us for the demonstration of his new mechanical wonder.”

  Mr. Washburn grasped her hand—the one hanging limply at her side and that had made no indication of a desire to be grasped—and planted an interminable kiss upon the back of it. She fought the urge to wipe her hand against her skirt. “Miss Harrington, I would not have missed it—or the chance to be in your company—for the world.”

  Desperate to look upon anything except this man’s leering face, she glanced toward the garden. “What do you think of Archimedes?”

  Mr. Washburn followed her gaze. “Very impressive, but then again, I would not expect anything less of your esteemed father.”

  She resented the inventor’s success being attributed to Lawrence Harrington.

  “It’s the most innovative creation I’ve ever seen.” She sighed dreamily. “Mr. Miller is a genius.”

  Mr. Washburn cleared his throat. “Now, now, I wouldn’t necessarily make that assumption, my dear. Your father informed me he closely oversaw the design. I’m sure Mr. Miller was simply carrying out his orders.”

  What a pompous allegation! Inwardly, she rolled her eyes. And I am not your dear.

  Mr. Washburn offered her his arm. “Let’s take a stroll. Have I told you about my new contract?”

  She suppressed a shudder as she lay her hand in the crook of his elbow and then shook her head dull
y. “I take it business has been booming?”

  His expression brightened. “Indeed. Come September, my company will supply all the major Texas ranchers with barbed wire.”

  She forced a smile onto her lips. How could she stand much more of this inane conversation? Washburn clearly thought he could impress her with tales of his wealth and power, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. “That is…wonderful news.”

  He placed a possessive hand over hers. “I’m thrilled you think so. The new contracts will call for a massive expansion. In fact, I’ve already begun hiring new workers.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Of course, I wouldn’t have missed your father’s important unveiling, especially if it meant a chance to visit with my favorite Harrington.”

  Then he winked.

  Ugh. The contents of Elena’s stomach curdled. Washburn’s hand lay hot and heavy on hers, and not in the sense of a comforting winter blanket. She smiled wanly. “You are too kind. I doubt I am as exciting as all that.”

  “So modest. Such an angel!”

  Dear Mother of God, how much longer would she have to endure this cretin? Escape wouldn’t be easy, not if she wanted to avoid being considered rude.

  She reluctantly let Washburn walk her around the perimeter of the lawn. The sun pelted her with blistering rays—or perhaps her seething resentment was as hot as a boiling cauldron.

  Washburn acted overly familiar at times, either straying too close to her personal space or “accidentally” nudging her torso with his arm.

  His intrusive behavior wasn’t what bothered her the most, however. The problem? He never asked her about her interests or pastimes. He prattled on at length about his business deals, telling her stories that sounded ridiculously embellished. He only spoke about his opinions on the subject at hand and never invited her to do likewise. Surely, all men weren’t so self-centered? She had no friends of her own and therefore nothing to measure Washburn’s behavior against.

  Her thoughts strayed to the inventor. If only she could have a chance to speak with him a bit more. Something to try, at any rate, before she had to give up entirely.

  After about ten more minutes of Washburn’s narcissistic, one-sided conversation, she decided she’d had enough.

  “My apologies, Mr. Washburn, but I have consumed a considerably amount of lemonade.” She gestured toward the house.

  His eyebrows rose. “It is quite warm, is it not? Would you like another glass?”

  She bit back a retort. How could the man be so dense? “I need to…dispense with the lemonade I have already had before imbibing any more, if you understand my meaning.”

  The man’s cheeks turned red as insight dawned. He released her arm. “Yes, yes, of course.” He bowed. “We shall converse more later. I’ll be with the others at the garden entrance.”

  I’m sure you will—but I won’t! Picking up her skirts, she rushed quickly past him and ducked into the house. The cool interior helped clear her head. What a relief to be out of that man’s company!

  Inside the mansion, servants flitted about. Some carried trays of soiled plates back to the kitchen while others delivered fresh food and drink. They nodded politely as they passed her. Elena veered away from the bustle and headed up the grand staircase to her chambers on the second floor. She needed time to process her encounter with the inventor.

  After scooping up her current stitching project, she escaped to one of the storage rooms on the third floor. If luck decided to pay her a visit, she’d be able to sit out the remainder of the party. Her father would probably be busy with his colleagues until late in the evening. She had eaten many a dinner alone for exactly that reason.

  If her father later asked why she had disappeared, she would claim female troubles. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  She opened the heavy curtains to allow in some light. Sitting in an old, dusty chair beside the window, she gazed out over the grounds. Her stitching lay on her lap, at the ready in case someone opened the door. She watched as the party guests mingled with the inventor and admired his creation.

  She speculated about the inventor. Where had he grown up? Did he travel often, and if so, where had he journeyed? She couldn’t wait to visit his workshop. His presence made her realize how unfulfilling her life had been so far. Her father had insisted on an education, which suited her fine, but surely, she would have a purpose in life as well? Otherwise, what was the point of filling her head with so much wondrous knowledge? She would speak with the inventor about his long-term plans. Perhaps he could give her lessons about science, math and engineering. With proper supervision, her father could hardly object to expanding her education.

  Elena kept her vigil for a long time. The stuffy air formed a sort of cocoon, and she grew sleepy. Her speculation about the inventor turned fantastical. If she spent time in his workshop, she’d be close to his inventions. She pictured herself atop a huge pile of gears, springs and other assorted clockwork parts. The vision soothed her. That was the type of place where she truly belonged.

  The next thing she knew, she was straddling Archimedes, face-to-face with its crudely designed torso. They were in the garden. The perfume of sweet-smelling flowers drowned her senses. Beneath her, the automaton hummed with power. Clicks and clanks filled the air. She glanced downward. All manner of tools extended toward the surrounding plants. It seemed Archimedes was performing its gardening duties.

  Its vibrating metal skin warmed her nude body. She ran her fingers across the eye slits. They lacked eyeballs, of course—only darkness lay within.

  As she studied the impassive face, her breasts pressed against the automaton’s stark metal chest. It felt good, so she began rubbing her chest back and forth against the hard, smooth metal. Archimedes didn’t seem to mind that the friction made her nipples tight and pointed. She slipped her arms around its neck. It didn’t seem to mind that, either.

  The torso sat firmly between her thighs. Her pubic hair brushed against the spot where Archimedes’ groin might have been. She experimented with pushing her vulva against the device. Blood rushed to the point of contact, a lovely, pulsing warmth.

  She squeezed her thighs tighter against the automaton’s torso and kept rubbing her breasts against its mechanical chest. An unusual sensation arose inside her. Her breath grew ragged as she squirmed in earnest against the gigantic machine. Every time she pressed against the rigid surface, her body trilled its delight.

  The area between her legs grew moist. Archimedes stared ahead impassively, as though oblivious to the fact that she was slickening its nether region with her own. A heavenly pleasure bloomed in her core. Tight with need, she rocked against the automaton. Then she rocked harder still.

  The inventor’s face suddenly replaced that of Archimedes.

  Elena blanched. She became acutely aware of her nakedness. Could the inventor see her? Feel her?

  What are you doing? he mouthed. Strange that she could understand his words, but not hear them.

  The inventor was Archimedes, and Archimedes was the inventor.

  She pushed and strained against the automaton’s torso. No matter the impropriety, she wanted to maintain the delicious contact for as long as she could.

  Fire lit the inventor’s eyes. Or was it the automaton’s? The machine seemed more alive beneath her. Its eyes glowed red. Was it undergoing a transformation?

  Something began filling her vagina, a rod-shaped object that was simultaneously hard and soft. When next she moved her hips forward, it speared her fully.

  Elena hugged the automaton between her thighs as tightly as she could. Her body became a mass of hot, liquid joy. A higher level of rapture awaited her if she could only figure out how to coax it forth. She bobbed up and down upon the throbbing, invading force, but couldn’t quite find the best angle.

  A roiling bank of dark, gray clouds scudded across the sky, casting the land in shadow. In the background, a dark figure turned. She knew the face…and gasped. Her father!

  He extended an arm, and then
it grew, and grew, and grew like a devilishly long snake winding through the air. Then his arm was at her neck, coiling about it with terrifying precision…

  Elena woke with a start. Had someone entered the room? Her gaze shot to the door, but it still lay closed. She breathed a deep sigh of relief and wiped a hand across her damp forehead. What a strange, unsettling dream! Then she bit her lip upon realizing the wetness between her legs was all too real.

  In the fading tendrils of sunlight, she stretched. Her noisy stomach pestered her for supper, but the idea of food offered little excitement. More than ever, thoughts of the inventor filled her head. She had to find a way to see him again. His workshop alone promised a world of intriguing discoveries. Perhaps he would even let her borrow some parts so she could, at long last, build a device of her own.

  Two weeks later, when Elena spied one of the servants bearing a food-laden tray and heading for the inventor’s workshop, she knew exactly what to do.

  Chapter Two

  Elena approached the inventor’s workshop flushed with anticipation. She clutched a tray of savory food, stepping carefully to avoid wayward roots. The silver dinnerware clinked as she navigated the dirt path. Scents of roasted chicken and fresh baked bread rose from the plates.

  Ahead lay the workshop. The enormous building—grey-blue and built to complement the Georgian design of the main house—was flanked by dense forest on either side. Her father had ordered part of the grounds cleared especially for the inventor’s needs. Lawrence Harrington, as usual, had grand plans. Plans, of course, that did not take his daughter’s needs into consideration.

  She brushed aside the distressing thought. Before her, the immense double doors of the inventor’s workshop yawned wide open. Her heart raced. What kind of devices resided within?

  Miss Beaumont hadn’t questioned Elena at all when asked to surrender the tray. She gave silent thanks it had been the new, young servant who had been ordered to deliver the food instead of Mrs. Farley, the head housekeeper. With her father away on business, now proved the perfect time to investigate the inventor’s mysterious machines.