Asher's Dilemma Page 2

  Minerva was the daughter of Silas Lambkin, the inventor-entrepreneur, who’d charmed Asher into being his apprentice and then later stolen his invention of a perpetual motion machine, his millennium machine, so called because once set in motion it would run for a thousand years. While working for Silas, he’d fallen in love with Minerva and wanted to marry her, but when Silas had defrauded him of his millennium machine, he’d believed her to be in cahoots with her father and broken off their brief engagement. Five years had passed. Then, just four weeks ago, he’d rescued her and her ne’er-do-well father, and fallen in love with her all over again. Once more he’d proposed to her, confident she would accept him, but he’d been flabbergasted when she declined, at which point he’d stormed out of her house in high dudgeon, vowing never to speak to the vexing woman again.

  And so he had rushed back to London to work on the properties he’d suddenly uncovered of his millennium machine, determined to forget everything about Minerva Lambkin forever. And in the intervening eight months his wish had been granted. Something had happened, something terrible and catastrophic. Something that had wiped Minerva Lambkin out entirely. She no longer existed, which was why Asher had not been able to recall her.

  Except, remnants of Minerva had clung to him, plaguing him like a recurring fever, and the echoes of this memory lingered in the aching of his bones and the grinding of his teeth. But what event would cause not merely Minerva’s death but her complete extinction? Whatever it was, he sensed it was linked to his chronometrical conveyance. Someone had found out about it and used it to devastating effect. God, to think his pride and joy could wreak such havoc so quickly. A thousand pities it could not manufacture more hours and days. But now, he had an opportunity to relive the past and set right his mistakes. Would he be able to save her?

  He had no idea how much time he had but knew he had none to waste.

  * * *

  From Manchester Victoria Station, Asher took a hackney carriage and urged the driver to hurry. He ought to have remained in London, unraveling the mystery of Minerva’s imminent extinction, but he could sooner fly to the moon than stop himself from laying eyes on his beloved Minerva once more. Especially today of all days, when he knew how cruelly the present Asher would treat her.

  Half a mile from the Lambkins’ house the horse went lame. Asher got out, tossed the fare to the driver and walked the rest of the way. The January afternoon was already growing dark, the wintry bleakness seeping through his coat as he hurried towards his destination. At the gate to Minerva’s house, he paused. He heard a door slamming shut, then through the gloaming he made out a tall familiar figure charging down the gravel path towards him.

  He almost gasped aloud. A biting prickle rolled down his spine. That furious stride, that thunderous face, that burning pique—all so horribly recognizable.

  It was himself, the present Asher. Stalking out of Minerva’s life just because she’d had the temerity to want her own independence. After being held hostage to her father’s scheming for so many years, she had a yen to establish her own income and not be wholly dependent on anyone, least of all a husband. He, future Asher, perfectly understood her reasons.

  But not the present Asher. Oh no, just look at the way he marched out all stiff-shouldered and square-jawed, nursing his injured pride. The fool deserved to have his ears boxed.

  The future Asher fell back among some bushes as his doppelganger approached. He daren’t allow a face-to-face meeting. He wasn’t sure what would happen. Would the laws of physics be violated? Would he tear a hole in the very fabric of the universe? He had no idea and thus couldn’t risk it. He melted into the shadows and waited until the present Asher disappeared into the gathering murkiness.

  His thoughts turned to Minerva. She would be upset now, dismayed at his wrathful departure, perhaps even weeping. At the thought of her tears his heart constricted. He raced up the path and hammered on the door until the maid answered. Pushing past the startled girl, he flung open the door to the front parlor and dashed in.

  There she was at last, the peach of his dreams, dressed in a simple, worn frock, but more alluring than Aphrodite. Her head was bowed, revealing the graceful curve of her neck adorned by curls. As he barged in, she lifted her head, and the sight of her tear-splashed eyes speared him to his core.

  In his coat pocket, the stalking compass vibrated shrilly. He shivered, the constriction in his chest unlocking.

  “Minerva…”

  Time stood still.

  * * *

  “Asher? Is it really you?”

  “Of course. Who else?” On first entering he hadn’t been able to resist sweeping her into his arms. Now, he set her down carefully. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already?”

  This now was the acid test. Would she detect any difference in him? “But what’s come over you?” she asked. “Just a few minutes ago you stalked out of this house vowing never to see me again.”

  He stumbled over a fabricated explanation of coming to his senses. “Minerva, I was the damndest fool to let you go even for five minutes, and I detest fools. Will you give me a chance to put things right?”

  A cautious expression came over her face. “Do you mean you accept my need to forge my own independence?”

  The relief of being with her made him extravagant. “Pursue your independence, my sweet, but remember I’ll always be here for you, waiting.”

  “Always?” Her eyebrow lifted.

  He folded his arms around her, and the familiar sensation of her body set his heart hammering. There were some things time could never change. “Minerva, if need be, I would wait for you forever.”

  The smile she gave him was enough to melt a glacier. “Forever is a long time.” Circling her arms around his neck, she pressed herself against him. “I promise I won’t make you wait that long.”

  Eyes glistening with expectation, she raised her mouth to him, and his blood began to thrum. Oh, dear heaven. He’d not thought this out thoroughly. How the blue blazes was he to avoid such knee-buckling temptation?

  Through the thin stuff of her dress he could feel her warm curves sliding against him, igniting a firestorm of lust in him. The lure of her lips was too much. He lowered his head and kissed her fiercely. Heat shattered through him. Lust, unfettered, roared in his veins. In an instant she’d brought him fully back to life. Aroused, he pulled her closer, and she moaned in response.

  “My love.” She caressed his chest and shoulders, her hands moving over him compulsively. “Will you be staying the night?”

  His mouth moistened. The bulge in his groin swelled at the thought of peeling her dress from her fine shoulders and running his hands over her velvet skin. If it were just the two of them he would have carried her upstairs and had his way with her right then and now, even with her invalid father and the maid in the house. He ached to make her his. But…she was not really his, and they were not alone. There was a third party involved. Personally he didn’t think the present Asher deserved any consideration, but that was the man Minerva thought he was, and he couldn’t bring himself to take advantage of her ignorance.

  Reluctantly he disentangled himself from her embrace. “I think it would be best if I did not.”

  Disappointment clouded her expression, and he silently cursed himself. He smoothed back her shining bits of hair which had come adrift. In his arms she felt so warm and animated. How could she disappear from existence? The idea was monstrous.

  “I must return to London as soon as possible,” he said.

  She sighed and moved away from him. Immediately he felt the loss.

  “Ah yes.” Briskly she tucked away her loosened hair. “Your secretive inventions beckon you. Far be it from me to keep you away from your discoveries.”

  He’d forgotten how different she was from other women. Not for her sulking or pouting or tantrums. Just a crisp retort to let him know she was no one’s puppet. He couldn’t help smiling, which brought a frown to her smooth brow.

 
; “I’m glad you find it so amusing,” she said.

  “I’m not amused.” Swiftly he caught her hand, eager to wipe the frown from her forehead. “I’m desolate to be parting from you, but I will write to you, every day. I swear.”

  “You? Write?” She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “I’ve only ever seen you write letters to other scientists or possibly to your tailor. Never any love letters. You shouldn’t make promises you cannot keep.”

  Lifting her hand, he pressed it to his heart. “This is one promise I will honor.”

  She stared at him, her gaze becoming troubled as she took in his appearance. “I don’t know what it is about you, but you seem somehow…altered.”

  The muscles in his neck tensed. “Altered? Whatever do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure.” She surveyed him from top to toe. “Where are your gloves? And I could have sworn you were wearing a different coat earlier today!”

  She was too demmed observant. “A different coat? Of course not,” he bluffed heartily. “And as for my gloves, why I must have dropped them outside.”

  “You don’t look like the man who stormed out of here earlier.”

  He stretched wide his arms and affected a waggish tone. “Now really, Minerva. Are you saying I’m an imposter?”

  “Well, I suppose not.” She chewed her lip, still pensive. “There’s something different about your eyes, though. It’s as if…as if you’ve witnessed something terrible. An accident or tragedy.”

  His nape tingled. She knew him too well.

  Asher shook his head. “No, ’tis merely the cold making my eyes water.”

  No, he hadn’t witnessed a tragedy, but he had felt it. Could still feel it—the bone-chilling breath from the maw of torment—every time he looked at Minerva.

  Chapter Two

  “Minerva Lambkin, you are nothing but a brazen hussy, and this is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Minerva muttered to herself while she sat in her hackney carriage outside Asher’s London home, linking and unlinking her fingers as she debated the folly of what she was about to do. If she had any sense she would ask the driver to return her to her lodgings, but where Asher was concerned she seemed to take all leave of her senses.

  His letters were to blame. For the past fortnight since she’d parted from him in Manchester, he had sent her a letter every day without fail. And they were the most moving and tender love letters she could ever hope to receive, even more astonishing considering what a prosaic, analytical man of science he was. She had read and re-read every one of them, pausing to blush at his more risqué passages which had her tossing restlessly at night beneath her sheets. Quite simply, she burned for him, and each ardent missive from him only made her craving more unbearable.

  When the opportunity to travel to London had arisen, she’d jumped at it with all alacrity, and here she was at one o’clock in the afternoon, dithering outside Asher’s house. If only she had a mother to advise her, but her mother had died unexpectedly when she was eight, leaving her in the uncertain care of her father who was now too mentally feeble even to know the time of day. No, she had only her own judgment to rely on. She gathered up her courage and exited the carriage.

  Just a few short months ago she’d arrived at this same doorstep, also without warning. That time she’d been forced to walk several miles in the rain. This time, at least she had the funds to take a carriage. The stiff winds which had been howling all day tugged at her skirt and hat, forcing her to hold on to the brim as she knocked on the door. Cheeves, the butler, was his usual inscrutable self, although she could have sworn a hint of warmth lurked in his dry greeting. Just like before he led her into the elegantly furnished parlor before retreating to find his master.

  She moistened her lips and checked her appearance in the gilded Venetian mirror. Anxiety and excitement had made her cheeks too pale. She pinched them nervously. Surely Asher would be gladdened by her unexpected visit? After all those letters, he had to be.

  The parlor door whipped open, and Asher strode in. Her breathing halted at the sight of him. A dozen greetings, all of them unsuitable, tumbled through Minerva’s brain. Involuntarily she took a couple of steps towards him.

  “Asher, I…” The rest of the sentence died in her throat at the sight of his expression—cold, flinty, decidedly unwelcoming.

  “Good day, Minerva.” He paused, and his jaw clenched. It could have been pain he was fighting back, or it could just have been annoyance. “I had no idea you were here in London.”

  His brusque tone made her heart shrivel. Men do not like surprises. “Perhaps I should have sent a note.”

  What had she expected? That Asher would be filled with gratitude at her sudden appearance? She should have given him warning, not foisted herself upon him when he was so obviously busy. His cravat was askew, his hair untidy, and there were smudges on his long, tapered fingers. Her spirits plummeted further. She’d interrupted him during a pressing passage of work. From her own personal experience she knew how aggravating that could be.

  He sighed, and with an obvious effort at politeness asked, “What brings you to London so unexpectedly?”

  Minerva gathered the strings of her reticule together and answered as steadily as possible, “I’m here on business. I have a client here, a lady who lives in seclusion and doesn’t wish to travel. She has paid for me to spend a week here in London so that I may measure her and discuss her requirements.”

  The wealthy lady was the most important client of Minerva’s fledgling business. Minerva was a designer and builder of artificial limbs. Her intricately detailed parts, each one unique and custom-built, gave new life and utility to her clients. At first she’d only helped those too poor to compensate her with anything more than gratitude, but at Asher’s own urging she’d begun to seek out paying customers. She needed the money to support herself and her infirm father, and when Mrs. Pettigrew had written to her of her proposal, she’d instantly accepted the chance to both earn a tidy sum and travel to London. To Minerva it seemed that Fate was determined she should see Asher again. Only, Fate, she was now learning, could also be a mischievous mistress.

  “A week? You’re here for an entire week?” Asher wiped his sleeve across his brow, muttering something beneath his breath.

  “I cannot help but notice your lack of enthusiasm.” Her throat stung, her chin started to wobble, and she cursed herself for her weakness. But she couldn’t help it. She’d come here with such high hopes, bursting with love for Asher, and then to be greeted thus! It was intolerable. “I must confess your behavior has me mystified, Asher,” she burst out, unable to contain her feelings. “After the way we parted a fortnight ago, I thought…”

  He stared at her, his brow furrowed. He looked almost dumbfounded. “Precisely. After the way we parted a fortnight ago, the last thing I expected was to find you here in my parlor.”

  “But…” She shook her head in bewilderment. What was the matter with him? “But we kissed, and—and all those letters you wrote me…”

  He blinked. “What letters?”

  “Your letters, a letter every day. Calling me ‘darling heart’ and ‘precious one’ and—and comparing me to a Botticelli angel.”

  His countenance hardened to frost. “That hardly sounds like something I would do. Are you sure you’ve not confused me with another beau?”

  She gasped. “Another beau? How could you possibly think that?”

  He shrugged, all icy disdain. “That’s the only possibility I can think of, because I am quite sure I have not written you any letters.”

  Her knees weakened. She had to sit before she keeled over. Seeking the refuge of the nearest settee, she forced herself to look up at Asher. “I do not have another beau, and the letters could only have come from you.”

  “Are you convinced of that?”

  “Yes! You must believe me.” Her fingers dug into the settee, crushing the brocade upholstery. “I don’t understand you at all. You seem completely changed from the last time we pa
rted. Are you sickening for something?”

  “Only for a little respite,” he retorted. “Minerva, if you knew what I’ve been through these past two weeks you would realize I scarcely have enough time to eat let alone pen sentimental letters every day!” He exhaled a deep breath laden with pent-up frustration.

  It was then that she noticed the shadows beneath his intense green eyes, the lines of tension bracketing his mouth, the myriad cuts and bumps on his hands. He’d been working feverishly on his beloved millennium machine—that much she knew. The last time they’d met, he had even hinted to her that he had finally managed to get it to work—the perpetual motion machine was no longer a myth. He’d never taken her fully into his confidence because he’d realized how dangerous his invention was. The promise of endless free energy would lure out the rapacious and the unscrupulous, so it was better his invention remain a secret for the time being. But the pressure of keeping it secret was obviously taking its toll on him.

  “You’ve encountered some trouble with your work?” she asked.

  “Hmpf,” he grunted. “Recently I’ve had nothing but trouble. My workshop was set alight one night. Deliberately.”

  “Oh no!” Her breath caught. “Were you…?”

  “At the time I was asleep in my bedroom. Luckily I woke up before the fire took hold, and Cheeves and I managed to put out the blaze. Some of the millennium machine’s circuits were damaged. I’m able to repair those, but all my mathematical workings went up in smoke.” He rubbed his jaw, disgust shadowing his face. “Those calculations have consumed weeks of my time, and they’re still nowhere finished.”