The Knickerbocker Bride: A Gilded Age Romance

Part Seven

Harry surveyed the chaos of tiny metal pieces in front of him. This winding mechanism would take hours to put back together—thank God. The work was good for him. He needed it. He needed a distraction from the pain in his chest, the ache of knowing what he'd lost.

Six days since he'd seen her. In that time, he'd filed two patents, started and finished three experiments, written countless letters to scientific scholars and inventors around the world, and cleaned every clock in the mansion. He'd slept little, only a few hours each night. Instead, he worked. The laboratory held too many memories, so he'd moved his things indoors to the ballroom, where tables and equipment had been stationed—much to his mother's dismay.

His parents were quite concerned about him. A "rest" at a nearby facility had even been suggested. Harry quickly rejected the idea. He had no intention of leaving behind his projects and experiments to stay at a hospital where all he'd do would be brood and think. No, thank you. They'd have to drag him out of here in a snug white jacket with straps first.

He would get better. He had to. No way would this pain last forever. He rubbed his chest, where a fist-sized ball of regret had lodged. So many lost opportunities, so much time wasted. There had been chances to woo her over the years. He could have tried to make a case for how perfect they were for each other despite her rejection on her sixteenth birthday. Before she'd fallen for John Drexel. He'd waited instead, hoping she'd come around and see it for herself.

She hadn't.

And Harry had lost her.

He'd give her one final gift tomorrow and that would be that. She would start her new life with Drexel and Harry would . . . exist. There would be air, sunlight. The earth would still circle the sun. However, it would not be the same.

Nothing would ever be the same.

There were a thousand kisses they'd never share. A million smiles he'd never witness. Her laugh, her sharp wit . . . saved for someone else. He wanted to wail with the unfairness of it. Christ, what he'd give to go back and live the past four years differently.

The clock at the far end of the room chimed once, startling him. One o'clock. He generally fell into bed around four or five, so he had hours to fill between now and then. Focus on the parts and keep occupied. He sighed and started in.

It could have been hours or mere minutes later when soft footsteps approached and stopped outside the door. His parents knew better than to bother him when he was working. Had one of the staff awoken?

No one entered and he frowned. Was someone standing on the other side of the wood? Pushing back, he stood and started for the door. Perhaps no one was there and he had finally truly lost his mind. Bracing himself, he turned the latch and drew open the door.

Cora.

He rocked on his heels, blinking. She appeared equally surprised, her brows pinching as she bit her lip. "What are you doing here?" he said, then winced at the sharpness of his voice. The house was big, but one never knew who was listening. He waved her in then shut the door.

"Hello, Harry." She lowered the hood of her cloak. The overhead gasoliers illuminated her creamy skin and turned her hair into a warm caramel color. His heart tumbled in his chest. He longed to run his fingers through it, press his nose to the silken strands.

You are an idiot. Stop wanting someone who clearly is not interested.

He needed to find out why she was here and get rid of her. "Why are you here?"

"I was worried about you." She searched his face, her gaze probing and serious. "You have been holed up inside and turning away callers."

Not all callers. Just her. "I have been busy."