Tales of risque romance, indeed.
CHAPTER 5
WICKFORD MANOR KENT, ENGLAND
The name echoed in his ears along with the tinny grunts emitting from Renee, his voluptuous robotic domestic who doubled as his housekeeper and sex servant. Taking the lifelike automaton from behind, he envisioned two very human women—both vexing in nature, both whetting his sordid appetite. Miss Amelia Darcy and Miss Wilhelmina Goodenough. The latter more easily manipulated and most fresh in his devious mind.
Ridding Miss Goodenough of those mannish clothes would have pleased him. Feasting his eyes upon her naked flesh. Forcing her onto her knees. Bingham had never fornicated with a Freak. Surely it would be more stimulating than pumping the greased and geared Renee. The automaton, though fetching in face and figure, was far too submissive. Surely a Freak, especially one as feisty as Miss Goodenough, would put up a fight.
The mere thought of a struggle in which he would dominate triggered an explosive release. With a guttural growl, he smacked the synthetic flesh of Renee’s lush arse and shoved her face forward upon his massive bed.
Without a word, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Still and naked. Quiet and waiting for her next order. In many ways, Renee was the perfect woman. Especially for a man with sadistic fetishes. Most especially for a man who despised opinionated women with utopian ideals. New Worlders like Amelia Darcy.
“To think I’d contemplated marrying that outspoken liberal,” he said aloud, then sneered. “Although I would not mind taming her.” Not wanting to obsess over the female Darcy and her role in the Triple R Tourney, he fondled Renee’s pleasing assets whilst contemplating the latest developments in London.
“Maintaining anonymity and multiple aliases is essential to my well-being and master plan,” he said to the cold-skinned robot. “But I confess I sometimes wish that I had a confidant. Someone with whom to share my assessments and brilliance. My impatience and frustration.”
“Confidant,” she repeated in a monotone. “The Dowager Viscountess Bingham.”
“Ah, yes. Mother. Indeed I trust her with my secrets, but her intrusive manner and incessant nagging grows tiresome.” He rolled to his side and propped on one elbow, looking down at Renee’s attractive albeit engineered face. “I, Lord Bingham, viscount and visionary and, it might be said, nefarious entrepreneur, appoint you, a programmed minion and acceptable lover, as my number two confidant.” He quirked an arrogant grin. “I do not know why this did not occur to me before, as
“Sounding board,” she said. “Experiment to test new idea.”
“Indeed. Let us see how you do. I shall now sound off, as I have much on my mind, much to assess. I would ask that you at least nod occasionally to indulge my venting.”
She nodded.
“Well done.” Bingham smoothed a hand over his impeccable hair and considered the last two days filled with surreptitious deeds. He was most pleased and impressed with his efforts. “Given the nature of my ambition, I am not often at liberty to conduct business as myself. I’ve been
His number two confidant nodded.
“Let us start with Aquarius.”
“Eleventh astrological sign in the zodiac, originating from the constellation Aquarius,” Renee recited from her data resource implants. “Age of Aquarius. Mod terminology pertaining to period of transition—inventions, machines, worldwide organizations, international collaboration, and the fellowship of humankind.”
“Or in this case,” Bingham said, “a secret society, comprised of nine titled men of science and industry, united in an effort to embrace and cultivate Mod technology. Men of peace, all but me, yet they plot to assassinate the queen. A nasty but necessary endeavor.”
“Queen. Queen Victoria—”
“A simple nod would suffice.” When she complied, Bingham pushed on, his annoyance rising. “Queen Victoria remains rigid and polices progress with an iron fist. She continues to blame the Peace Rebels for the death of her beloved Prince Albert, banning time-traveling devices and other Mod products. As if by slowing time, she could go back in time,” he snapped in disgust. “Romantic rubbish.
“The divide between Old Worlders and New Worlders widens by the day,” he went on. “Meanwhile, a Freak rebellion brews in the background. Astonishing that an altered race believes themselves worthy of equal rights,” he said with a derisive snort.
Renee jerked her head right, narrowed her eyes.
By Christ, had he hit a nerve? Automatons had no nerves. No feelings. Surely he was mistaken.
“Old Worlders,” she said. “Conservatives who shun futuristic knowledge and the technology that, according to the Book of Mods, steered mankind toward the brink of destruction. New Worlders. Liberals. Utopians. Knowledge is power.”
“Indeed. And knowing what ‘could be,’ they choose an alternate path, using technology only for good. Or so they profess.” A staunch Flatliner, Bingham cared only about what futuristic knowledge could do for him. As far as he was concerned, this assassination was long overdue. The sooner Her Majesty Queen Victoria bit the dust, the sooner his rise to global industry kingpin. Stacking the odds in his favor, Bingham had set his sights on personally traveling into the future in order to garner progressive ideas beyond the scope of the Book of Mods or the elusive and legendary Aquarian Cosmology Compendium. If
Bingham fell back on the bed, bored with Renee, who struck him this moment as little more than a voluptuous encyclopedia. Of course she couldn’t understand the magnitude of his handiwork. Exhausting civil measures, he’d employed drastic tactics, establishing himself as the anonymous benefactor of the Race for Royal Rejuvenation. Unbeknownst to the Jubilee Science Committee, they’d aided Bingham in pushing Lord Ashford’s offspring, as well as multitudes of other adventurous and greedy souls, into action. True, any number of people could possess vital knowledge pertaining to the outlawed time machine, particularly an original Peace Rebel. Although most of the PRs were dead or in hiding, he’d employed Mod Trackers to sniff out the whereabouts of Professor Maximus Merriweather—a twentieth-century physicist and cosmologist and the most qualified contender. As for the Darcys, Bingham had eyes and ears everywhere. Including Wilhelmina Goodenough.
He smiled as confidence and arrogance pumped through his blood, fueling a fantasy and the swelling of his shaft.
Rolling on top of Renee, he pinned the automaton’s hands above her head. “You serve me well, number two.” He entered her swiftly, and looking into her vacant eyes wondered what it would be like peering into the kaleidoscope eyes of Miss Goodenough. He imagined and indulged most vigorously.
CHAPTER 6
THE FLYING SCOTSMAN EN ROUTE TO EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
It was the longest journey of his life.
Simon had left the compartment several times. To shake off his anger. To shake off his lust. Although he would bet his prized drafting tools that his traveling companion was a woman, and though he suspected she was someone with whom he had already been intimate . . . he could not force his attentions. She had to make the first move, or at least a slip. Even an unintentional invitation would be better than no invitation at all.
All this angst over a kiss. And yes, this moment, a kiss was what he craved above all else. A craving more
