Chapter One
Summer 1819
"Did you miss me?"
The lilting tone with its subtle accent drifted into the
stables he'd rented for a workshop on the outskirts of
London, and for the span of a pulse beat, Lord Matthew
Weston froze.
He'd never thought to hear that voice again save perhaps
in his dreams, late at night when his mind was free to
remember what he refused to consider in the light of day.
It took every ounce of strength he possessed not to look
up from the work before him on the rough-hewn table. After
all, hadn't he rehearsed this scene in his head a hundred
times? A thousand? He'd practiced the right words, the
proper manner. He'd be cold, aloof, indifferent. And why
not? Her reappearance in his life was of no consequence.
He hadn't counted on the blood rushing in his ears or the
thud of his heart in his chest.
"I scarce noticed you were gone." His voice sounded light,
disinterested. Perfect. As if she'd been gone no more than
an hour or so. As if he were far too busy to notice her
absence.
For a long moment she was silent. His muscles ached with
the effort of not acknowledging the significance of her
presence and the strain of waiting for her response.
At last her laugh echoed through the stable and rippled
through his blood. "I see you are still tinkering. It's
most comforting to know some things in this world do not
change."
"The world is constantly changing." Matt picked up the
mechanism he'd been working on and studied it, as if it
were much more important to him than she was. As if he
didn't care enough to so much as glance at her. But he did
care. More than he'd expected. He drew a breath to steady
his nerves. "Constantly evolving. Nothing stays the same."
He straightened and glanced toward the wideopen doors. She
was little more than a silhouette against the bright
afternoon sun. Not that he needed to see her. He knew her
face as well as he knew her laugh or her touch. In spite
of his best efforts, everything about her was engraved in
his memory as it had once been on his heart. "Nothing at
all."
She laughed again and his jaw clenched. "Come now, that is
far too philosophical and entirely too serious for a
summer's day. Philosophy should be reserved for long, cold
winter nights when there is little more to do than comment
on the state of the world around us."
"Should it?"
"Indeed it should," she said firmly and stepped farther
into the stables. "Odd ... I don't remember you as being
at all serious."
A teasing note rang in her voice and he was at once
grateful she was not at all serious. Regardless of the
countless times he'd gone over this very conversation in
his head, right now he wasn't prepared to discuss serious
matters. In truth, he wasn't prepared for her.
He placed the apparatus back on the table, picked up a rag
and wiped the grease and grime from his hands. "I am
surprised you remember me at all."
"Oh, I remember you quite well. How could I not?" She
moved closer, away from the glare of the sun, and he could
see her clearly now: the delicate shape of her face, the
tilt of her nose and, even in the shadowed stables, the
vivid green of her eyes. "Why, it has scarce been a year
since we -- "
"Fifteen months, three weeks and four days," he said
without thinking, surprised to realize he knew exactly how
long it had been since he'd last seen her. Last kissed her.
"Yes, well, time passes far too swiftly." She trailed her
fingers along the edge of his worktable and glanced at the
assorted bolts and screws, odds and ends strewn across the
surface. All part of his attempt to refine a device of his
own design to effectively heat the air required to lift a
balloon without blowing himself up in the process. "Are
you still sailing the heavens?"
The phrase caught at him. Sailing the heavens was the
whimsical term she'd first called his efforts at
ballooning and then what they'd shared between them. It
had seemed so fitting once. Not just for his work but for
the way she, and she alone, had made him feel. Sailing the
heavens. He pushed aside the sentiment.
"I am indeed. Even now, I am preparing for a competition
of sorts. A design contest, really. I have some
innovations that may prove quite profitable."
"It's dangerous, you know." She glanced up at him. "This
business of flying."
"That's what makes it exciting. The risk. The gamble. It's
the best part of living, knowing your very existence is at
stake." Or your heart. He ignored the unbidden thought and
shrugged. "The most interesting things in life have an
element of danger to them."
She shook her head; her voice was somber. "A woman in
Paris died just last month. Her balloon caught fire and
she plunged to her death."
"Madame Blanchard. Yes, I had heard of it." He had met the
lady while in Paris last year. She was the widow of a
balloonist and had taken up where her husband had left
off. "A pity but not surprising. She was given to aerial
fireworks and furthermore employed hydrogen for her
balloon. Given the flammable nature of the gas, her demise
was inevitable."
"Inevitable?" Her gaze met his and concern showed in her
eyes. "As is yours?"
"Are you worried about me?" He raised a skeptical
brow. "It's a bit late, don't you think?"
"I would hate to see you meet the same fate."
"Why?"
"It would be a shame. A waste." She looked away. "I do
dislike waste."
He leaned toward her, the intensity in his voice belying
his slow smile. "And would you grieve for me?"
Her gaze snapped back to his and her brows pulled together
indignantly. "Of course."
He laughed and straightened. "How gracious of you,
considering how little regard you had for me a year ago."
"Fifteen months, three weeks and four days," she said
under her breath.
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