discern whether she was trying to be sarcastic; then, dismissing her remark, he smoothed the wrinkled paper with the palm of his hand.
"This is my double-compartmented stagecoach," he said, frowning as one of the wrinkles refused to flatten. "I've often worried about the poor people forced to travel atop the roofs of coaches because there's not enough room for everyone inside, haven't you?"
"Yes. Exposed to the elements, bounced around, clinging for dear life to avoid being thrown off, and God help them if they are . . ."
"Precisely." He stood close to her, unnervingly so, his finger tracing the drawing, his bare shoulder just inches from her nose. "This coach, as you see, will have a short set of pull-down stairs leading up to the roof and a second story, if you will, built onto where the rooftop passengers currently sit. Instead of one inside compartment, as there is now, my stagecoach will have two, one atop the other. Not only will it enable more people to travel on a single vehicle, but I predict it will cut down on the number of accidents, injuries, and deaths that are currently seen on the roads now."
Celsie stared at the drawings.
Then she looked up at their creator, this talented, surly genius, unable to prevent an awed, incredulous little smile from pulling up the corners of her mouth. "You really are very clever."
"No, just determined," he countered, though she saw a faint tinge of color along his cheekbones and a decided warmth coming into his eyes that hadn't been there a few moments ago.
Best not to embarrass him , Celsie thought. She spied the corner of another drawing poking out beneath the ones of the double-compartmented stagecoach and pointed.
"And what is this?"
He pulled the drawings out, sending the ones for the stagecoach fluttering to the floor. "My idea for a plumbing system that will revolutionize fire prevention in large houses such as this one." He bent his head, his hair flopping over his eyes, and traced some lines with his finger. "This here is a pump, as you can see, which will draw the water from an outside source; the water will be stored in this cask, and fed by gravity into these pipes affixed to the ceiling. At first sign of fire, all one has to do is pull this lever and gravity will release a flood of water, thus dousing the fire and saving the house, and its occupants, from destruction." He shoved the drawings aside. "And this —"
"Lord Andrew."
He came up short, looking down at her with distracted impatience. Celsie had carefully retrieved the stagecoach drawing from the floor and was staring at it in awe.
"Do you have actual models of your inventions? I'd love to see them . . ."
"Just the stagecoach, out in the stable. I'm afraid that building the confounded things is not as much fun as designing them."
"But you designed a flying machine. I remember the sensation it caused when you launched it from the roof of this very castle last year. All of London was talking about it. The king himself said he had never seen anything so spectacular."
The minute the words left her mouth, Celsie knew she'd made a mistake. His expression altered. Irritation and dismay darkened his face, and he began hunting through more drawings, his movements abrupt. "My flying machine was a failure."
"But according to all accounts, it was responsible for saving your life, and that of your brother Charles."
"It did not perform as it was designed to do."
"So are you going to make another one?"
"No. I have other ideas that are far more useful to society, I think."
"Lord Andrew . . ."
He paused then, reached up to push the unruly lock of hair from his brow, and gave her a look of annoyed impatience. "Yes?"
"Why did the duke say you'd been experimenting on animals?"
"I told you, to irritate me."
"But I just don't understand." She looked at Esmerelda, who had lay down at Andrew's feet, her silky shoulders and ribs propped against his bare ankle.
"This is my double-compartmented stagecoach," he said, frowning as one of the wrinkles refused to flatten. "I've often worried about the poor people forced to travel atop the roofs of coaches because there's not enough room for everyone inside, haven't you?"
"Yes. Exposed to the elements, bounced around, clinging for dear life to avoid being thrown off, and God help them if they are . . ."
"Precisely." He stood close to her, unnervingly so, his finger tracing the drawing, his bare shoulder just inches from her nose. "This coach, as you see, will have a short set of pull-down stairs leading up to the roof and a second story, if you will, built onto where the rooftop passengers currently sit. Instead of one inside compartment, as there is now, my stagecoach will have two, one atop the other. Not only will it enable more people to travel on a single vehicle, but I predict it will cut down on the number of accidents, injuries, and deaths that are currently seen on the roads now."
Celsie stared at the drawings.
Then she looked up at their creator, this talented, surly genius, unable to prevent an awed, incredulous little smile from pulling up the corners of her mouth. "You really are very clever."
"No, just determined," he countered, though she saw a faint tinge of color along his cheekbones and a decided warmth coming into his eyes that hadn't been there a few moments ago.
Best not to embarrass him , Celsie thought. She spied the corner of another drawing poking out beneath the ones of the double-compartmented stagecoach and pointed.
"And what is this?"
He pulled the drawings out, sending the ones for the stagecoach fluttering to the floor. "My idea for a plumbing system that will revolutionize fire prevention in large houses such as this one." He bent his head, his hair flopping over his eyes, and traced some lines with his finger. "This here is a pump, as you can see, which will draw the water from an outside source; the water will be stored in this cask, and fed by gravity into these pipes affixed to the ceiling. At first sign of fire, all one has to do is pull this lever and gravity will release a flood of water, thus dousing the fire and saving the house, and its occupants, from destruction." He shoved the drawings aside. "And this —"
"Lord Andrew."
He came up short, looking down at her with distracted impatience. Celsie had carefully retrieved the stagecoach drawing from the floor and was staring at it in awe.
"Do you have actual models of your inventions? I'd love to see them . . ."
"Just the stagecoach, out in the stable. I'm afraid that building the confounded things is not as much fun as designing them."
"But you designed a flying machine. I remember the sensation it caused when you launched it from the roof of this very castle last year. All of London was talking about it. The king himself said he had never seen anything so spectacular."
The minute the words left her mouth, Celsie knew she'd made a mistake. His expression altered. Irritation and dismay darkened his face, and he began hunting through more drawings, his movements abrupt. "My flying machine was a failure."
"But according to all accounts, it was responsible for saving your life, and that of your brother Charles."
"It did not perform as it was designed to do."
"So are you going to make another one?"
"No. I have other ideas that are far more useful to society, I think."
"Lord Andrew . . ."
He paused then, reached up to push the unruly lock of hair from his brow, and gave her a look of annoyed impatience. "Yes?"
"Why did the duke say you'd been experimenting on animals?"
"I told you, to irritate me."
"But I just don't understand." She looked at Esmerelda, who had lay down at Andrew's feet, her silky shoulders and ribs propped against his bare ankle.
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