Page 37 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

So he would wait until they had the engine working and presented it at the exhibition. Then he would ask for her hand.

He nodded to himself, pleased to have thought his way to that clear and unequivocal stance.

Of course, waiting didn’t mean he couldn’t use the time to learn more of her. Indeed, for any number of reasons, it would be wise to gain some understanding of her complicated and convoluted relationship with inventors and inventing.

They’d managed—entirely by chance—to get her into the workshop long enough for her to respond to their need and demonstrate her understanding.

They’d opened a door they hadn’t known existed, and today, they’d managed to wedge that door open.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t slam it shut.

Today’s advance was no guarantee that he or William John wouldn’t, in some way, unintentionally step on her toes and prompt her to step back.

She’d agreed to help them and clearly understood both why she needed to and what was at stake. But ladies could always change their minds.

When it came to her and inventing, he felt like he was blundering in the dark—a feeling he didn’t appreciate.

He’d started plotting a campaign to tease more insights from her when the soft swish of silk reached his ears.

Surprised, he looked up—and realized that his wandering feet had set him on course for the entrance to the rose garden.

Even as, blinking, he focused on the heavily shadowed arched entrance, now a mere yard away, Felicia, her eyes on the ground, walked purposefully out, under the arch.

She walked directly into him.

“Oh!”

He’d had a second to halt and brace himself.

She all but bounced off him.

Before she could stagger back, he grasped her upper arms and steadied her.

She sucked in a breath, and tension streaked through her.

Ignoring the rush of physical awareness that raced over him, he ducked his head and looked into her face. “It’s all right. It’s only me—Rand.”

She blinked at him, her eyes luminous in the semi-dark; the unexpected collision had affected her, too—in her wide eyes, he saw the same awareness that was prickling under his skin.

Then she let out the breath she’d held in a soft exhalation; the line of her shoulders eased, and she raised a slim hand to her throat. She looked into his eyes with transparent relief. “My apologies. I wasn’t looking.”

“No need to apologize. I didn’t see you coming, either.” Yet he’d realized in time that, had he wished to, he could have avoided the collision, but that was something he saw no reason to mention.

“Well, then. Thank you.” She sounded faintly breathless.

She stepped back, and, reluctantly, he released her and lowered his arms.

She stared at him for a second; he cursed the shadows that fell over her face and prevented him from reading her expression.

Then she tensed a touch and shifted as if intending to step past him.

Before she could bid him goodnight and leave, he reached out, looped her arm with his, and smoothly turned her around, effectively anchoring her beside him as he stepped toward the rose garden. “Please—walk with me.” Pausing under the arch, he gestured down the flagstone walk. “It’s a beautiful night, and your roses are in bloom.”

Short of wrestling free—something he felt fairly certain she wouldn’t do—she had little option but to fall in by his side. She humphed and dryly replied, “So I’ve noticed.”

But her feet obligingly followed his.

“Have you been strolling long?” he asked.