The carriage came to a halt. Unable to release her just yet, he held her at arm’s length.
Too many obstacles stood between them. He had his factory to complete. To fall prey to Elizabeth’s charms would put him at odds with her father and Dyer. Couldn’t afford anycomplications. Who knew how things would turn out? He’d dedicate himself to her and end up in a worse entrapment than with Martha Johnson. Elizabeth’s parents would choose nobility for her to marry, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop it. His muscles tightened beneath his shirt. He hated the thought.
He paused and drew a ragged breath. “It is not to be, Elizabeth.”
He withdrew. “My pardon, Miss Spencer. But I’m not the one destined for you. It must end here.”
He escorted her to her door. She held her head high despite her face etched with sorrow. He hated the despair in her eyes and to know he had caused her misery. She nodded and looked to the door that had opened. “Good evening, Mr. Rourke.”
Left in the dark on her doorstep, he watched her disappear into her home. His heart heavy, he turned, his gaze caught on the fleeing shadows of the night. Was that the same carriage that was at the riot?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Night clutched New York City with its friendless dark talons. Beyond the soot-drenched window of his factory headquarters, the muted clatter and grind of traffic masked the chaos and windblown smog. Lately, he lived in his cheerless office, which smelled of sweat and tobacco. The back room where he slept, he kept clean and free of odors. He had gone over new draft designs and walked the deserted aisles in the dark, where in the day, his engines were being built with a solid clank and hiss of steam.
Though his insides were gnawing, Zach’s hunger had nothing to do with the stomach. His brain burned with making his invention work through the production process. He’d let nothing defeat him and with tenacity, he’d keep his vision.
He poured himself a scotch and looked out at the gaslights lining the streets as he took several calming breaths. Twilight was descending. He took a sip, relishing the smoky sting of the liquor he consumed. As frequently occurred in his silent moments, thoughts of Elizabeth intruded. He could still feel the delicate press of her soft body against him, and the sense of peace that came over him when he had her in his arms.
He must stay on task. He must think ahead on how he’d streamline operations to get his product out more efficiently, saving time and costs. It wouldn’t have been so difficult, except for the distraction of Elizabeth and the hurt he saw on her face when he left her.
She was the finest woman he’d ever known. He remembered the tender look in her eyes while she held her newborn daughter. Nothing but the purest kind of love he could find on this earth. And how she bravely navigated around her parents in an impossible situation to keep her child close to her.
Her father and mother insisted on her betrothal to a duke, making it impossible to interfere with the way the cards were dealt. Zachary ground his molars. As it stood now, he was left seething in his irrational jealousy, completely conscious that it was an undesirable emotion, but powerless to stop it.
Women like Elizabeth were expensive ornaments to men such as the Duke of Westerly. They were there to brighten the space around them, to be interesting to look upon, to stroke their sense of pride, to give of themselves so that men like the duke could take and take, filling up all the holes and dark places within themselves with women’s light because they lacked their own. What would become of Elizabeth when the duke tired of her, and she could no longer fill that role for the cold aristocrat? Or when the duke had complete control of her dowry and other assets the marriage bought? In time, she’d be relegated to the country to wither away in an old house until she died of boredom.
Yet, he couldn’t free himself of his ties with her without regret. Even through the hardship and sadness he yearned for her warmth and familiarity, for in him there blossomed something much greater than affection of her. His hands curled into fists, the lingering memory of her face so ravaged byemotion when they had been caught in Mrs. Merriweather’s library by her parents.
Elizabeth was connected to him. In front of the obsidian night, he gazed out the window, although there was nothing to see. He listened, though there was nothing to hear. He lingered, expecting nothing—no encounter, no inspiration, no sensation, only the echo of the wind among the buildings sweeping against the windowpanes.
A tightness in his chest grew. He was a one-of-a-kind man and he’d be lonely wherever he was.
Yet, that disrupting fate had taken all his concentration and fused it on her. He turned calmly, facing the fire in the stove that had gone to embers, tiny cracks and crowns of orange against black, casting no light beyond the door, contemplating nothing…and out of nothing the essence of her materialized,
He wanted her. Wanted to touch her. He went to sleep with the sounds of carriages ambling along bricked streets and to lust, and dreamed of touching her—in dreams, where her white shift pulled up over her bare legs, drinking tea, and arching her feet in a delicate motion like a dancer. He dreamed of her shining head, bowed reading a book and all that shiny hair and the soft skin of her nape above a demure lace bodice.
He could not keep his center. No matter the discipline Chen had instilled. His vigilant unattached mind in disarray despite the years of exercising and discipline. The bells of the Episcopal Church chimed discordant with higher-pitched sounds.
To combat his longing, he spent long night hours standing silently or working on his designs and factory, trying not to want, attempting to shed all conscious desire, and still she crept into his mind like a slow heat.
He wanted her for himself. To yank her down on his bed—with her beneath him, her lush mouth on his, her laughter and her body smothering him in a blanket of warmth and silk.He wanted it, loathed himself for his weakness, not wanting to cause her pain, not desiring brutality, desiring her smile and her laughter and afraid of how it might affect her. She’d already experienced the violence. How could he do that to her?
Damn. He could not continue with his obsession of her. He had to think of his company, focus on realizing his dream and the success of his engine, and what a success it would be. He couldn’t muck it up with a romance with the richest man in New York’s daughter.
He punched the wall. Plaster shattered over the floor. He had contracts, deadlines, designs, and plan restructuring that emerged paramount. To talk to O’Reilly to expand possibilities and reflect outcomes and objectives—like a game of chess, an endless possibility of combinations in the white and black pieces on the board.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Zachary couldn’t have been more surprised if Mephisto and Satan had come to call. Their unannounced visit could not have come at a worse time. There were numerous breakdowns, late supply deliveries and one completed machine, stolen during the shipment to the customer, and another delivery wagon tipped over into the river with a brand-new engine.
Too many accidents and thefts to consider. He narrowed his eyes on the two devils. He had a good idea who was responsible. Physically and mentally, he was tested. If he didn’t make progress at the expected time, he’d fail.
“We’ve come for a tour of our investment, Mr. Rourke,” said Spencer, donning his top hat and stepping down from his carriage.
“This way, sir,” Zachary waved his hand not waiting for Dyer to disembark. He walked through blasts of vaporous humidity and steam with the banking titan at his side, showing and explaining his factory layout, and how it worked with efficiency.
Spencer granted Zachary a smile that was anything but friendly and then nodded for him to continue the tour examining everything in detail with almost covetous interest. Nothing was spoken other than several grunts from both men, noncommittaland impressed depending on the tenor of their grunt with Dyer observing him with a calculated lack of interest.
