The Lamplighter's Love (10 page)

She had already snapped the balloon’s frame
into place on the rigging, and pulled a trigger to ignite the
little flame that would heat and expand it. It took only moments
before the whole bullet-shaped structure, scarcely larger than a
weather balloon, was filled with air and bobbing gently over their
heads. Dexter felt lighter than air himself, struck with the
unlikely prospect of seeing her fly the thing—like one of his
daydreams come to life.

The mounting must be the most dangerous
part. Lady Moncrieffe swung one leg into the harness, then kicked
off hard and pulled at a handle simultaneously so that for a moment
she seemed to be clinging sideways to the airship’s underbelly as
it rose swiftly. A single practiced hitch of her body lifted her
fully into the cradle until only her head was visible.

Even though the sky was gray today, and even
though he knew where the airship was, Hardison had trouble spotting
it at times once she’d risen high enough. On a cloudless day, at
full altitude, the illusion would be complete.

“How high does it go?” he shouted, not sure
whether she could still hear him.

No immediate answer came, but the little
blimp dropped to within a few dozen feet over him. He could see
Lady Moncrieffe’s face peeking down at him. A few stray blond curls
whipped around her uncovered head, and her eyes appeared to be
watering.

“Coming down.”

Her words were nearly lost in the wind, but
he stepped away from the tarp to give her plenty of landing room.
That operation wasn’t quite as smooth as her takeoff, as it
appeared to involve some hovering, then a wriggle and leap from the
airship with a tethering line firmly in hand. Precarious, but she
did it capably, despite being quite obviously green around the
gills.

“Fish for luncheon,” she said tersely, not
giving any other explanation as she hauled the ship down and shut
off the gas and engine, letting it settle slowly down to the tarp
and quickly pulling the canopy away from the hot engine mechanism
and gas nozzle. “I’m not a very good traveler.”

“Ironic.” And she intended to take a
transatlantic ocean honeymoon? He suddenly wondered whether the
price of sharing a cabin with her might not be entirely too high,
if a five-minute airship ride made her this ill based only on the
unfortunately timed consumption of a fish-based meal.

“Yes, isn’t it? I have the Alvarez implants.
They do help. Supposed to, anyway.”

“Do you really? I’ve read about those. May I
see?”

She shrugged. “I suppose. I don’t typically
let strange gentlemen peruse my inner ears, but as you’re
considering becoming my husband . . . and you’re a makesmith.”

He was already at her side, placing his
fingers quite shamelessly on her head and tipping it to one side
like a piece of delicate machinery. Alvarez implants weren’t
something a man got to see every day. Or any day, in his case.
Fascinating.

“With these you shouldn’t experience any
nausea at all based on motion, you know.”

“I know,” she said wryly.

She held very, very still under his touch.
He realized he had committed a huge breach of etiquette, but that
pulling his hands away now would only draw more attention to it.
Her skin felt like what it looked like. White peach. Every bit as
soft as it appeared. Dexter willed himself not to sniff, to see if
the smell matched the texture.

Business
, he reminded himself.
It’s business
.

He bent closer to peer into her ear; he
could just spot the tiny gold mechanism glinting where it breached
her eardrum.

“Do you have the retrieval hook with
you?”

“Always,” she assured him. Her voice sounded
a bit breathy, a bit distant. “But Mr. Hardison, I’m not going to
let you disassemble my inner ears in a stable yard. Potential
engagement and prior correspondence notwithstanding, we hardly know
each other.”

That was her pulse, racing there under his
thumb where it rested along the elegant curve of her jaw. She
looked tiny, birdlike, compared to the scale of his hands. Dexter
released her as gently as he had touched her, slowly, with a
reluctance he couldn’t quite define except that she felt lovely and
soft and much more alive than he had expected. Not like an
alabaster angel at all.

“Another time perhaps, my lady.”

His bow was ironic, but his tone was as
gentle as he could make it.

She didn’t smell like peaches. She smelled
like lemon verbena, and ever so slightly of tea.

Text from
Gossamer Wing
: Copyright
2013 Delphine Dryden; all rights reserved, Berkley Publishing. Used
with permission.

____________________________

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