Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(17)
He gestured behind her to where Percy, Primrose, and several decklings stood watching the show, rather as if they were Wimbledon spectators.
Rue was getting flustered. She wasn’t certain what they were talking about any more: Quesnel’s position under her as chief engineer… or some other amorphous position the details of which – who was under whom – had yet to be determined.
He took her hand. Just like Quesnel to play to an audience. He knew she now couldn’t do anything dramatic, like slap him. “I’m sorry I had to leave unexpectedly. I’m sorry about the tank in the hold but I assure you it’s necessary and explainable. Just not right now. Later? Tonight even, in private? Please, Rue, trust me.”
His hand was warm and strong – and shaking a little bit. His eyes were big compelling pansies of promise and Rue found it all exceedingly annoying. How dare he actually be upset about this, and how dare she worry about his feelings when her own were at risk. And she was in the right!
“I’m sure you can, but right now I’ll settle for what you and Percy were arguing about.”
Quesnel’s winning smile faded.
Rue pursed her lips. “I will get the whole story from the decklings, you realise? You were arguing in public, loudly.”
Quesnel sighed. “I might, just possibly, have published a paper with the Royal Society about the discovery of the weremonkeys.”
“First?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Without including Percy as co-author?”
“I shared with Mrs Featherstonehaugh. But, no, not with Professor Tunstell.”
“No wonder he’s angry with you. That’s incalculably rude.”
“I did think he had already published with the Board of Associated Supernatural Studies or I would have included him. Without a doubt I would.”
“Whose name was first?” Rue raised a hand. “No, don’t answer that. I do not want to get involved. Academics!”
Percy was livid because Quesnel had scooped his discovery. And it wasn’t even Quesnel’s field. He was an inventor. He was supposed to report on new things he had created not found. Frankly, the entirety of the Rights of Discovery and Reportage should have gone to Mrs Featherstonehaugh. Although it was difficult for a lady to be taken seriously in these matters. Nevertheless, if Quesnel was going to co-author any paper on weremonkeys, he ought to have included Percy.
“For a smart man, Mr Lefoux, you can be an insensitive blighter.” Rue was not one for crass language unless the occasion warranted it.
Quesnel was taken aback.
Rue prodded him in the chest with two fingers. “You know what your character flaw is, Mr Lefoux?” The way she said his name made it sound like an insult. “You are not meant to be taken seriously, and yet you will go about seriously mucking about in everyone else’s lives.”
Quesnel’s eyes narrowed. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Rue sucked in a breath. Her scalp prickled and her eyes stung. “You’re absolutely right. Neither of us should be taken seriously. And how can we build any kind of relationship on that?”
“Are we still talking about my being your chief engineer?” A smile teased about his lips.
Rue decided that her only means of keeping herself from getting hurt by this man was not to take him at all seriously. She took a deep breath, leaned forward, and kissed him softly, right on those still-smiling lips. In front of half of London.
Quesnel blinked at her.
Ha, thought Rue, mull that one over, you little traitor. “You think you’re so good with people, Quesnel, but you’re better off with the machines. You owe Percy an apology.”
Quesnel looked surprised and then petulant.
“We will figure out what you owe me later.” Rue said that to see if she could get his expression to change.
It did, to one of wariness mixed with anticipation. Good. He didn’t deserve to be in control.
Quesnel wasn’t one to stay confused. Before she could turn and walk back up the gangplank, knowing that her dress looked even better from behind, he snaked out an arm and pulled her in.
This time he kissed her and it was not so sweet, instead quite scalding. Rue gasped a protest into his mouth. She supposed one ought to close one’s eyes, but she kept hers open, yellow staring into violet. A violet Cyclops, this close up. It was a good kiss. She liked everything about it – the warm taste of him, the steady arm, the smell of machine oil and fresh lime. She would have melted against him except for that stupid corset. She could feel the heat of his hand on her waist all the way through the layers.
There was a roaring in her ears, which did confuse her a little. After all, Quesnel had kissed her before. And while it was quite wonderful, for he was a superb kisser, it hadn’t caused auditory hallucinations in the past. Aha, thought Rue. That must be actual roaring. Who’s roaring at us?
Something large and hairy yanked Quesnel away and pushed him back. Quesnel looked dazed by their kiss. Although it could have been the fact that standing between them was Rue’s very angry father. Her birth father, mind you, the werewolf, Lord Maccon.
Rue adored her Paw but he did operate mainly on emotion. Today, he was looking rough. He was an Alpha and old, thus one of the few werewolves who could withstand full sunlight. But under the soft afternoon glow, he did not look healthy. There were lines carved into his face and his salted dark hair was limp. He was scruffy, not uncommon since he slept the day through touching Mother, which meant he was mortal enough to grow a beard. But Lady Maccon usually stayed around so he could shave it off after. Rue’s mother was not fond of beards.