//CLARA//

Casimir’s pen scratched across the paper, each stroke a small act of reluctant compliance. I hovered over his shoulder, my chin nearly resting on it, reading as he wrote.

Dear Mr. Chamberlain,

Regarding the matter of the Linotype and the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Mr. Whitfield’s recent ordeal, I write to express my continued interest in the project. The machine has merit. The inventor has been exonerated. I believe a reconsideration of your position is warranted.

—Mr. Casimir Guggenheim

I snorted. "That is the most begrudging letter I have ever read."

He did not look up. "It is a business letter."

"It is a letter written by a man who would rather eat glass than admit I was right."

He set down the pen and turned his head. His gray eyes met mine.

"You were persistent."

I grinned. "Whatever helps you sleep."

He pressed his signet ring into the soft red wax. The Guggenheim crest—a lion rampant, because of course it was—stared back at me. Casimir wouldn’t have a gentle lamb on his seal. I would much prefer if it were a wolf.

"I will have Higgins post it before we depart," he said.

I plucked the letter from his fingers. "I will post it myself. That way I know it actually leaves the house."

He didn’t argue, but the corner of his mouth twitched as I tucked it into my pocket.

I walked to the post and dropped the letter into the mailbox. Deed done.

The mansion was a battlefield of trunks and servants.

Four carriages waited in the drive. Four.

I stood on the marble steps and watched as footmen loaded luggage into the carriages. Aunt Cornelia’s personal maid directed the traffic. Hattie clutched my valise and looked like she might cry.

"Is all of this really necessary?" I asked.

Aunt Cornelia swept past me. "We are not savages, Eleanor. We do not arrive at a Gould event looking as though we have been traveling in a cattle car."

I looked at Casimir. He shrugged.

We climbed into the first carriage. The horses stamped impatiently. The footman closed the door, and we were off.

The train station was a cathedral of iron and glass.

Nothing like the photographs I’d seen at the museum. It did not capture the sheer chaos of it all. Steam hissed from locomotives. Porters shouted. Passengers hurried past, their heels clicking rapidly on the polished floor.

Aunt Cornelia walked ahead, her maid trailing behind her like a duckling. Casimir stayed at my side, his hand hovering near my elbow.

"Stay close," he murmured.

"I am not going to wander off."

"You wandered off frequently."

Fair point.

Our train waited on the platform—a private cabin attached to the end of the express. A porter in a crisp uniform took our bags. Aunt Cornelia boarded first, already complaining about the upholstery. Casimir offered me his hand. I took it and stepped up inside.

The cabin was small but luxurious. Velvet seats the color of wine. Heavy curtains that could be drawn for privacy. A small table at the center with a decanter of brandy and two crystal glasses.

A single gas lamp cast warm light across the space.

Aunt Cornelia had already settled into her seat, arranging her skirts and pulling a novel from her reticule. She simply opened her book and disappeared behind its pages.

I sat across from Casimir. The space between us was wide enough for propriety. As the train lurched forward, the city gave way to open fields.

"What are the cottages like?" I asked.

Aunt Cornelia did not look up from her book.

"They are not cottages, Eleanor. They are mansions. The Goulds simply call them cottages to appear modest."

"Modest?"

"It is an affectation of the wealthy. They build palaces and name them cottages to pretend they are not competing with their neighbors."

"How big?"

"They are impressive, certainly," Casimir replied dryly, "but the Goulds are still learning that scale does not always equal stature. Our own estate is proof that true wealth doesn’t need to scream so loudly to be heard."

Aunt Cornelia sniffed. "The Goulds are not old money. They feel the need to compensate."

"The Goulds are not enemies either," he countered to his aunt. "They are competitors. Healthy ones."

Nodding, I looked out the window. Farmland stretched to the horizon, dotted with grazing cattle and the occasional farmhouse. The train cut through it all like some unstoppable beast on a steel path.

"When was the last time you were in Newport?" I asked, watching a cluster of dairy cows blur into a smudge of white and black.

"Fifteen years ago," Casimir answered. "I stayed for a weekend and left before the ball."

"Why?"

He went quiet, his focus drifting somewhere past our reflection in the glass.

"I found the company tedious."

Aunt Cornelia looked up from her book.

"He spent the entire weekend in the stables. Even then, he had no patience for society. I had to apologize to the Astors for three months because he preferred the company of a bay stallion to their daughter."

"The horses were better conversationalists," Casimir flatly remarked. "And significantly less judgmental."

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. This will be an interesting trip.

Aunt Cornelia fell asleep an hour into the journey.

Her novel slid from her fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thump. Her head tilted to the side, her mouth slightly open, with her breathing slow and even.

I looked at Casimir. His gray eyes had darkened, tracking the impatient tap of my finger against the table.

I rose from my seat slowly, careful not to let the floorboards creak. I reached the cabin door and slid the brass bolt into place. The lock clicked softly, barely audible over the background noise.

Aunt Cornelia did not stir.

I moved to the far corner, behind the heavy velvet curtains. There was a small bench there, tucked away from the view. The curtains pooled around me.

Casimir followed. I bit the inside of my cheek as the tension coiled in my stomach.

He parted the curtains and stepped into the hidden corner. The space was wide enough for two. His chest pressed against mine. His hands found my waist.

"You are going to get us caught," he whispered.

"I did not tell you to—"

He kissed me, effectively silencing whatever words were left on my lips. The curtains swayed with the motion, hiding us from the world.

Aunt Cornelia snored softly in her seat.

Casimir’s hand slid under my skirts and into my drawers. His fingers found my cunt immediately, already slick, already waiting for him. He pushed two fingers inside me without preamble.

I bit his lip to keep from moaning.

He smirked and murmured. "Quiet."

He turned me around before I could respond, pressing me against the glass window, bending me over until my chest nearly touched the cold pane. My palms flattened against the frame as the train’s clatter vibrated through my bones.

The world outside blurred past—fields, trees, a river glinting in the sun.

Then the train curved into a tunnel. Darkness swallowed us whole. The gas lamps dimmed against the walls.

He entered me from behind, one hand on my hip, the other pressed over my mouth. His cock pushed past my folds, spreading me open inch by inch until he was seated to the hilt. I felt every ridge, every thick inch of him buried inside my cunt.

Then he began to move. Not slowly. Relentlessly.

He hammered into me in deep strokes, his hips slamming against my ass with each thrust. The train rattled over the tracks, masking the sound of our bodies.

Just then, Aunt Cornelia began to stir in her seat.

We both froze. I tried to push Casimir off me, but he held me in place. His hand tightened over my mouth, his index finger pressing against my nose to muffle my breathing. I could not move. I could not breathe. I could only feel him buried inside me, still and hard.

Aunt Cornelia shifted. Her head turned toward us. Her eyelids fluttered but did not open. Her mouth fell slack.

Casimir began to move again.

Slow at first. Then faster. Harder. Each thrust drove me closer to the edge, the risk of discovery coiling in my belly alongside the pleasure. I bit down on his palm. He did not even flinch.

I came with my teeth sunk into his skin. My scream swallowed by his hand and my vision blanked. He followed moments later, his forehead pressed to the crown of my head, his breath hot and ragged against my hair.

We stayed like that, watching our terrifying aunt blissfully sleeping. The train rumbled through the dark tunnel. When light finally flooded back into the cabin, I straightened my dress and tucked my hair into place.

Casimir, already composed, poured himself a glass of brandy like he had not just been inside me thirty seconds ago.

I settled back into my seat across from him, arranging my skirts, my face calm, my heart still racing.

He raised his glass to me and I smiled.

The train carried us toward Newport.