always had the look of a man planning an outrage, and right now it was directed at her.
“What may I do for you, Mr. Penner?” she asked a bit tartly. He was Tobias’s longtime friend, and familiarity—not to mention his ceaseless pranks on his best friend’s sisters, like the time he had glued the edges of Poppy’s shoes together when she had fallen asleep under the pear tree—had rubbed away the top layer of good manners between them.
“Your furbelows are blocking access to the tea.” He stared pointedly at her bustle.
“Indeed, sir.” Only he could make a factual statement sound so improper. “Are you even certain of the definition of a furbelow?”
“I know they are an ornament prized by ladies in all conditions of life, and that they have come between me, a humble supplicant of the teapot, and the object of my desire.”
The only thing to do with Bucky was to hand his impudence right back. “Like a goddess of old, perhaps I demand obeisance before letting supplicants pass.”
“Is this man being a bother?” The Stare demanded, proving he could actually speak.
Ignoring him, Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Are you truly going to deprive me of my refreshment, Miss Roth?”
“You cast yourself in the role of supplicant, Mr. Penner. I would like to witness some groveling, if you please.”
“You are a cruel deity, madam, to sport the fair and innocent visage of Venus and yet possess the unforgiving temper of a Juno.”
Imogen folded her arms, starting to enjoy herself at long last. “How badly do you want your tea, Mr. Penner? Homage must be rendered when and where it is due.” And she prepared to stare him down.
Which was a mistake. He shamelessly stared right back.
Imogen’s stomach fluttered and heat rose up her neck and cheeks. How mortifying. She knew her pale skin showed every blush like a bright red flag. Still, she refused to budge.
“I say,” began Percy uncertainly, but no one paid him the least attention. As far as Imogen was concerned, Percy and Whitlock might as well have been struck by a thunderbolt and dissolved to dust.
Imogen had never noticed how delicious a shade of brown Bucky’s eyes were, like the very best dark Belgian chocolate. Or how his hair curled at the tips, begging her fingers to smooth it down. Or how the corners of his mouth quirked with ready laughter. Bucky Penner had always struck her as Tobias’s foil—not as handsome, not as adventurous, but the one with his feet planted firmly on the ground. Now she saw that was only half the truth. Everything about him was full of life.
She was elated by the discovery, as if one part of her soul had figured out what the other half already knew. And she was dismayed, because she wasn’t quite prepared for this. The Season hadn’t even begun. Her heart was supposed to remain in its white tissue wrapping a little longer.
Almost as bad as the moment when Bucky swept off his hat and fell to one knee, for all the world like a suitor begging for her hand. “My glorious goddess, you have carried the field. I declare myself undone by your majesty. Is there something you would like me to kiss as part of my supplication? Your hand, or perhaps your feet? I believe I saw that once in a badly rhymed poem—though perhaps we could manage something more befitting your furbelowed glory. An offering of lemon ices and love letters to be spread upon your altar?”
“Mr. Penner! Get up at once!” Imogen gasped, looking about in abject mortification. Bad enough that a young man was pretending to propose, but it was
He was up in an instant, diving for the cups so fast their bodies collided. She felt the solidity of his like a warm, hard wall as she let out a faint “oof!” He caught her arm, steadying her before she fell into the cream.
“Are you all right?” he said, laughing.
“I’ll survive.” Her skin tingled as if he’d doused her in a magnetic field. The heat of her embarrassment gathered in her belly and grew … well, as odd as it sounded, the feeling was rather nice.
She gathered as much dignity as she could muster and looked around. Percy and The Stare were gone. She tried to regret the fact, but couldn’t quite manage it.
When Bucky looked down at her this time, the grin had turned to something far more speculative and intriguing. “Be sure when you begin a conquest, Miss Roth, that you actually mean to win.”
Imogen swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry and it felt like she had a croquet ball stuck halfway down her throat. “It’s a question of standards, Mr. Penner. I may not be a real goddess, but even so I expect flowers before a kiss, even if it is only my feet involved.”
He narrowed his eyes, one corner of his mouth curling up. “I’ll remember that, Miss Roth.”
“Mr. Keating brought toys,” Imogen said to Evelina a few minutes later.
Evelina noticed she was flushed, but in a way that spoke of excitement rather than fever. She somehow didn’t think it had anything to do with the Gold King, and she wondered what had gone on while she was talking to Alice.
One of Keating’s spaniels was setting up some sort of scientific equipment. “Let’s go over there to get a better view,” Evelina suggested.
Imogen made a face. “I’m sure it’s going to be dull. No one ever brings anything fun if Papa is around. It’s probably something to do with that new gallery of Keating’s. A lot of Greek pots, from what I hear.”
“Let’s go anyway.”
They wandered across the lawn, Evelina a pace or two behind her friend. Imogen stopped next to Tobias.
The sight of him made Evelina’s stomach twist with an unpleasant mix of regret and anger. She instinctively veered to the left, keeping Imogen between them. After their scene by the clock, she had no desire to be anywhere in his vicinity.
He stiffened as she approached, his shoulders as rigid as the knot in her gut. That just annoyed her more. She wished she could take back that kiss. No, that wasn’t right. She wished she could make it mean something to Tobias beyond a bump to his pride.
She’d been watching him all afternoon. She’d seen him arguing with Lord B earlier, then talking earnestly with Dr. Magnus. Whatever Magnus had said had acted like a tonic. Tobias stood with his shoulders squared, an air of barely contained energy wrapping him like a cloak. Something was afoot.
But now the doctor was nowhere to be seen. In fact, Lord B and Magnus hadn’t come within a dozen yards of each other, but that was no surprise.
The mouse had come to her room a good half hour after she’d left Tobias last night and reported that Magnus wanted leverage with Jasper Keating. There was something he thought Keating possessed, or was about to possess, and Magnus wanted Bancroft’s help in getting it. Bancroft had refused, but Magnus had been insistent. According to the mouse, the doctor had eventually backed down with the air of someone playing the opening hand in a long game. The mouse had heard no open references to the automatons.
Her thoughts were broken by the fact that the man setting up the curious contraption appeared to be finished. He dusted off his hands and trotted back to Keating’s side with an eager expression.
“What’s going on?” Imogen asked her brother.
“The Gold King’s man, Jackson, is about to give a demonstration of some kind. They have an enormous dry cell battery.”
Evelina’s gaze traveled from Jasper Keating to Lord and Lady Bancroft. They all stood only a few sociable feet apart from each other, and yet the air between them seemed to crackle with enough tension to combust. Although it was politically expedient to invite the Gold King, the pall it cast on the company hardly seemed worthwhile.
“Ladies, gentlemen.” Jackson opened his arms in a gesture reminiscent of Old Ploughman about to announce the high-wire act. “Gracious hostess.” He turned and made a bow to Lady Bancroft, who gave a graceful
