Clockwork Countess by Delphine

 
    CHAPTER ONE
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Soft billows of steam swirled around Rowan as she stepped off the train onto the lonely platform.  The train let out an earsplitting screech into the dark country air as its engines churned back to life and the great iron machine chugged out of the station.  Rowan clutched her threadbare satchel to her, holding the few possessions she refused to be parted with.  The Countess’s letter had indicated all was to be provided for her upon Rowan’s arrival at Heartwycke Park.  It had not taken much penetration to understand that anything she deemed to bring with her would be considered far too shabby for what they intended.
    Rowan p eered through the wisps of gray as the steam began to clear . Her eyes were drawn to t he silhouette of a man who stood staring at her from the entrance to the deserted platform.  Goose bumps prickled her skin under the intensity of his gaze.  She glanced nervously at the departing train and then back at the tall figure as h e stepped forward into the glow of the gas lamps.
    He was a striking figure , dressed in the dark cloak and well- tailored clothes of a gentleman.  Grasped in one hand he carried a silver- headed walking stick baring the strange features of a wide-eyed owl.  His tousled hair fell across his brow and the black smoldering eyes of a gypsy prince sent a shiv er of anticipation through her.
    Rowan struggled to take a deep breath and compose herself as he approached but her stays were laced too tightly.  All she could do was gulp and tuck a lock of flaming red curls more firmly beneath her somber mourning bonnet.
    “You are Miss Brompton?” he enquired politely.
    She nodded.  “Yes, you must be from Heartwycke Park?”
    He gave her an elegant bow.  “I am your second cousin, Roderick Heartwycke.  We are very pleased you have agreed to come to us now in your…” he paused for a moment and his formality eased.  “I’m truly sorry to hear of your father’s passing.  I lost my own father not so long ago and I know how difficult it is.” 
    Moved by the sincerity of his expression and the kindness of his voice, Rowan blinked back tears.  “Thank you, Mr. Heartwycke.”
    “You must call me Roderick,” he insisted, “as we are distantly related.”
    “Yes , of course.  I’m so used to being addressed as Rowan anyway.  At the theater people are not so formal as in Society.”
    “I can imagine.”
    She looked up sharply, ready to do battle at any perceived insult, but she saw only the same kind eyes looking down at her.  For a moment she just stood there, held by his gaze.  It had been such a long time since anyone but her father had looked at her w ith anything like compassion or s poken a sympathetic word.  So long since anyone had seemed even remotely like a friend.  To her horror, his considerate manner made her tear up even more and she swallowed hard to keep down a sob.  Grateful for th e veil tha t shielded her features , she quickly glanced away and fiddled with her satchel.
    “I’ll see to your trunks and we’ll be on our way then.”  Roderick offered his arm to guide her from the station.
    She bit her lip. “This is all I have.”
    For the first time he smiled and his f ace transformed from a brooding mask to the dazzling brightness of an angel.  “Well, that will make lighter work for my coachman.  Between you and me, Meriwether is getting older now.  I’ve begged the man to retire but he won’t hear of it.  Cons equently, I end up hauling everything about myself to spare his back!” 
    Rowan smiled too.  “That’s very kind of you to consider your servants.  Far too few people do, you know.  But don’t you have footmen to assist you?”
    His face darkened again as they reached the coach, the family crest of that strange silver owl emblazoned upon the glossy black exterior.  “Our staff have much to endure at Heartwycke, and as we crave privacy, we keep household