general location where your skills might be welcome. There’s a new military station, Mr. Hardison. A covert, submerged station with a tunnel leading from the shore, in the English Channel off the coast near Le Havre. The British government can use it as a base of operations for intelligence, and for practical matters like docking submersibles for repair, so they never have to be seen above water, even on the English side.”
His eyes widened as he turned to her. Charlotte could almost see the thoughts churning frantically behind his forehead, trying to organize themselves amid the frenzy of excitement at the prospect she presented.
“It can’t be done.”
It was the sort of thing a man like him said for form, because it needed to be said to put it out of the way. She took a perverse enjoyment in contradicting him, even if she knew that he didn’t really believe it. Even if he anticipated her words.
“Oh, but it already has, sir.”
His decision was made then, if it hadn’t been before.
“If it’s dirigibles, submersibles and an undersea station, then I think it’s obviously time we were married.”
“Oh, Mr. Hardison, you’ll make me blush. Will you pile the harness on the hammock section, please? It folds together more easily that way.”
The
Gossamer Wing
was portable when stowed, but only to a degree. It always seemed much larger going back into its cases than it had coming out. Charlotte tackled the blimp carapace, folding carefully to keep from putting undue pressure on the boning, and managed to keep the cursing under her breath as she wrestled it back into storage.
“The trunks weigh more than the rigging itself,” Hardison scolded her. “You need lighter cases, perhaps something with flexible sides.”
She looked at him over the soft mound of silk that puffed stubbornly out of the trunk she was attempting to close. The mini-dirigible’s top half was as unstructured as any balloon, and as inconvenient to tame when deflated.
“Can I expect a prototype of this new luggage from your workshop within the week? I might decide it’s quite convenient to be engaged to the Makesmith Baron.”
“I assume it’s a state secret, otherwise that would make a splendid wedding present.”
So cheerful. So
easy
. His smile was dangerously contagious, and she found herself all too likely to make uncharacteristic quips in hopes of prompting more smiles from the man.
“A tasteful necklace or a new carriage would no doubt be more appropriate.”
“Oh, I see. Do you need a new carriage? Perhaps a new steam car?”
“No,” she admitted. “I hardly use the one you custom-made for me three years ago. Motion sickness, you know. Besides, my driver is rather tall for it and my mother berates me when I drive myself.”
“Pity. I could have made you a bang-up steam car. Even better than the last one. But I’m sure we’ll come up with something.”
* * *
DEXTER WAS SO preoccupied driving back to his estate that he nearly ran himself off the road twice. Finally he pulled over at a roadhouse, ordering a lager to soothe his nerves and ease his thoughts into some semblance of sense.
The good lady spy was no merry widow, but she had definitely piqued his interest. More than that, he admitted to himself. Of course he wanted her, but it was much more than just lust, which would have been simpler and easier to dismiss. Her letters had never conveyed her personality, only her keen intelligence and an occasional glimpse of wit. In person Dexter found her beautiful but fragile, a compelling blend of strength and delicacy. She was brittle, but he found her brittleness fascinating. He wanted to soothe her like a skittish horse, tame her to accept the things she had learned to fear, and he was more than old enough to know the source of that want was not located solely in his compassionate heart.
His thoughts on the woman were too complex, too instantly evolved, to signal anything other than a full-scale
His eyes widened as he turned to her. Charlotte could almost see the thoughts churning frantically behind his forehead, trying to organize themselves amid the frenzy of excitement at the prospect she presented.
“It can’t be done.”
It was the sort of thing a man like him said for form, because it needed to be said to put it out of the way. She took a perverse enjoyment in contradicting him, even if she knew that he didn’t really believe it. Even if he anticipated her words.
“Oh, but it already has, sir.”
His decision was made then, if it hadn’t been before.
“If it’s dirigibles, submersibles and an undersea station, then I think it’s obviously time we were married.”
“Oh, Mr. Hardison, you’ll make me blush. Will you pile the harness on the hammock section, please? It folds together more easily that way.”
The
Gossamer Wing
was portable when stowed, but only to a degree. It always seemed much larger going back into its cases than it had coming out. Charlotte tackled the blimp carapace, folding carefully to keep from putting undue pressure on the boning, and managed to keep the cursing under her breath as she wrestled it back into storage.
“The trunks weigh more than the rigging itself,” Hardison scolded her. “You need lighter cases, perhaps something with flexible sides.”
She looked at him over the soft mound of silk that puffed stubbornly out of the trunk she was attempting to close. The mini-dirigible’s top half was as unstructured as any balloon, and as inconvenient to tame when deflated.
“Can I expect a prototype of this new luggage from your workshop within the week? I might decide it’s quite convenient to be engaged to the Makesmith Baron.”
“I assume it’s a state secret, otherwise that would make a splendid wedding present.”
So cheerful. So
easy
. His smile was dangerously contagious, and she found herself all too likely to make uncharacteristic quips in hopes of prompting more smiles from the man.
“A tasteful necklace or a new carriage would no doubt be more appropriate.”
“Oh, I see. Do you need a new carriage? Perhaps a new steam car?”
“No,” she admitted. “I hardly use the one you custom-made for me three years ago. Motion sickness, you know. Besides, my driver is rather tall for it and my mother berates me when I drive myself.”
“Pity. I could have made you a bang-up steam car. Even better than the last one. But I’m sure we’ll come up with something.”
* * *
DEXTER WAS SO preoccupied driving back to his estate that he nearly ran himself off the road twice. Finally he pulled over at a roadhouse, ordering a lager to soothe his nerves and ease his thoughts into some semblance of sense.
The good lady spy was no merry widow, but she had definitely piqued his interest. More than that, he admitted to himself. Of course he wanted her, but it was much more than just lust, which would have been simpler and easier to dismiss. Her letters had never conveyed her personality, only her keen intelligence and an occasional glimpse of wit. In person Dexter found her beautiful but fragile, a compelling blend of strength and delicacy. She was brittle, but he found her brittleness fascinating. He wanted to soothe her like a skittish horse, tame her to accept the things she had learned to fear, and he was more than old enough to know the source of that want was not located solely in his compassionate heart.
His thoughts on the woman were too complex, too instantly evolved, to signal anything other than a full-scale
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