HER SKY COWBOY.

THE GLORIOUS VICTORIOUS DARCYS.

BETH CIOTTA.

To my husband, Steve, the inspiration for all my heroes, and the love of my life. Thank you for building this world with me and for inspiring a flying horse with heart!.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Creating an alternate steampunk world for The Glorious Victorious Darcys was a challenge and a thrill, and I'm delighted with the results! The Victorian Age meets the Age of Aquarius. What fun! There's nothing more exhilarating or satisfying than allowing my imagination to run wild and then, ultimately, sharing those flights of fancy with readers.

Although writing is often a solitary affair, it takes many people to coordinate the finished product. I'd like to express my heartfelt grat.i.tude to everyone at New American Library who had a hand in bringing Her Sky Cowboy to life! The art, marketing, and editorial departments. The sales team. I appreciate your creative efforts and support and delight in the amazing results!

A very special thank-you to my amazing editor, Jhanteigh Kupihea. Your vision, enthusiasm, and keen editorial eye energizes and inspires!

My sincere grat.i.tude to my copy editor, Tiffany Yates Martin, for her sharp and thoughtful touch.

My heartfelt thanks to my agent, Amy Moore-Benson, for her never-ending and always inspiring guidance and support. What a ride!

A special and fond shout-out to my critique partners on this project, my sister and fellow author Elle J. Rossi, and my cherished friend and fellow author Cynthia Valero. Rather than gush publicly, I'll just say...You know how I feel.

My supreme and sloppy appreciation to authors Heather Graham and Zoe Archer for reading HSC and then providing me with such wondrous quotes! I am blessed.

To my many wonderful and supportive friends and family, loyal readers, and enthusiastic Facebook friends-thank you for brightening my days and enriching my life. To the hardworking bloggers and reviewers who help to spread the word-thank you for your thoughtful time and energy. And to all of the wondrous librarians and booksellers who live and breathe and promote literature-thank you for being.

PROLOGUE.

GREAT BRITAIN, 1887.

THIRTY-ONE YEARS AFTER THE INVASION OF THE TWENTIETH-CENTURY PEACE REBELS.

"Could you have been any more rude?"

And here I was congratulating myself for being so astonishingly polite. "Apologies, Mother." Repressing her frustration, Miss Amelia Darcy endured her mother's disapproving glare-she was well used to it-and moved to the rear of Loco-Bug, the family's one-of-a-kind steam-powered automocoach. Stoking the coal in the firebox, she simultaneously praised her papa's ingenuity and cursed the extraordinary and unreasonable price of gasoline.

Since the Peace War, only the very rich could afford petrol for everyday use. Others, like Papa, h.o.a.rded such fuel for special occasions or, in his case, special projects. She supposed she shouldn't complain about their fickle and sluggish mode of transportation. If her mother, who resisted anything relying on cogs, pipes, and belts, had her way, they'd be traveling by horse and buggy. The woman feared progress as though it were the plague. The only thing that vexed her more was her daughter's emanc.i.p.ated mind-set.

Whilst Amelia replenished the boiler's water supply, her mother stood by, tugging on her fur-lined gloves, tightening the sash of her ridiculously frilly bonnet, and arranging her thick traveling cloak to accommodate her portly frame. "I spent two months cultivating a relationship with the dowager Viscountess Bingham," she grumbled under her breath, "and you managed to ruin my matchmaking efforts in less than two hours."

"Proof of my restraint. Otherwise we would have earned the boot much sooner." Not that Lady Bingham had physically shown them the door, but she'd certainly expedited their exit.

Speaking of which, Amelia glanced over her shoulder and saw the dour-faced woman in all her straitlaced glory standing on the front steps of the magnificent country estate alongside her son-the Viscount Bingham. Decorum dictated that they oversee their guests' departure, no matter how tedious the process. Whereas Lady Bingham was no doubt scandalized by Amelia's determination to fire up and drive a horseless carriage like an unrefined commoner, she could feel Lord Bingham studying her every move. She knew he was fascinated by her pa.s.sion for aviation and flair for mechanics and somewhat amused by her father's Frankenstein version of an automocoach. Influenced by sketches of Bollee's La Mancelle and a time-traveling Mod's psychedelic Beetle Bug, Papa's hybrid, built from available sc.r.a.ps, was a visual curiosity. However, to someone like Amelia, who had not experienced life before the invasion of the Peace Rebels, Loco-Bug just was.

What really irritated Amelia was Lord Bingham's keen fascination with her bountiful bosom. Even the modest and hideously constricting visiting gown she'd donned to appease her mother had not detracted from her bothersome "fine figure." Most women would have been flattered by his attention, she supposed, especially since Lord Bingham was a man of great wealth and influence. But he was also an arrogant and crafty sod, and it was for that reason that Amelia had striven to alienate Lady Bingham and her son with her fervent utopian ideals. Influenced by the cautionary tales of the Mods, she took her role in policing the fate of the world most seriously.

The steam engine finally puffed to life and Amelia burst with joy. The sooner she distanced herself from Wickford Manor and the pompous Binghams, the better. She'd been duped into believing Lord Bingham was a fellow utopian, a New Worlder. After an hour in his company Amelia suspected he was, in fact, a Flatliner, someone who cared only for his future-and not the future of mankind.

Learning that he'd employed an entire staff of domestic automatons had singed Amelia's bustle. How insensitive to purchase robotic domestics at a set cost when so many living, breathing Vics were desperate for employment! It was just one of the things that had soured Amelia on the man her mother had envisioned as her husband. Not that Amelia had any intention of marrying. Ever. Why tie herself down when there was so much of the world to see? Why bend to a man's will and agenda when she possessed her own dreams and goals? As she lived and breathed, someday she would pilot her own airship and experience grand adventures! She imagined her exploits being reported alongside the colorful escapades of the Sky Cowboy, an American outlaw who flew the fastest airship in all of Europe. If only her mother would match her with that fearless aviator. Horrid husband material to be sure, but since she had no designs on being a wife-ever-she cared not about his notorious and scandalous reputation and only for his superior knowledge in aeronautical engineering.

Sighing, Amelia shoved aside that whimsical scenario and helped her mother up into the rear seat of the six-person cab. As the prim woman fussed and fidgeted, Amelia gathered her own bothersome skirts, compounded by the added layer of her leather duster, and climbed aboard the open-air driver's throne. She pulled on her leather gauntlets and tinted fur-rimmed goggles, then tugged her worn top hat, a gift from Papa, over her blond coiled braids. Unfashionable perhaps, but comfortable. Sensible as well-which was more than she could say for bustles and bonnets. Grasping the steering wheel, she rolled back her shoulders, feeling deliciously in control. Why anyone would prefer the role of pa.s.senger to pilot was beyond her imagination. Loco-Bug vibrated and puffed, primed for action-same as Amelia. She would have smiled were she not conscious of Lady Bingham's scorn and her own mother's disappointment; were she not repelled by Lord Bingham's lecherous attention, d.a.m.n his eyes. "Are you going to glare at me for the entire journey home, Mother?"

"Quite possibly."

At least she knew what to expect. Unlike with Lord Bingham. She'd expected-or, perhaps more accurately, hoped for-a tour of his collection of aerostats and aeronefs-flying machines of all manner, each a technological marvel-but she'd never gotten farther than the drawing room, and tea and watercress sandwiches. Her own fault, true. Still...Blast.

"You are a beautiful young woman, Amelia, in spite of your peculiar taste in fashion. Well educated. Charming, when you strive to be. Yet you are twenty summers old and without a husband."

Smiling now, Amelia breathed in the crisp winter air and engaged the clutch, setting them on a course for home. "Life is good."

"Why in heaven's name did you even agree to this meeting, only to sabotage it? You could have saved me the humiliation by simply refusing."

"If I had refused you would have pressured me until I relented," she said reasonably as they rolled through the ornate iron gates. "I know this, since you have tried to match me six-"

"Seven."

"-times before. This time I bypa.s.sed prolonged misery by giving in at the outset."

"I would have preferred an outright refusal. At least it would have saved me the embarra.s.sment of being tossed from the grounds." Her mother sniffed, and Amelia knew without looking that she was using a dainty handkerchief to dab away tears. "Honestly!" she said, choking back a dramatic sob.

Since her back was to the woman, Amelia indulged in a disrespectful eye roll. She'd never outwardly insult her mother, but blooming h.e.l.l, it was difficult to hide her frustration. Anne Darcy possessed the extraordinary skill of crying at the drop of a hat. It was a weapon she used quite often against Amelia's father, Reginald Darcy, a baron by happenstance, an inventor by choice, and it drove Amelia to distraction, because her papa always relented. Always. Whatever Anne wanted, which was faithfully more than was reasonable, given the family's status and moderate wealth, her dear, sweet, brilliant, yet ofttimes scatterbrained husband strove to deliver.

Amelia, who could scarcely remember the last time she'd cried, rarely put stock in her mother's tears. This time, however, she acknowledged a morsel of guilt. True, she'd hoped to circ.u.mvent her mother's nagging by giving in and agreeing to at least meet with the viscount. But she'd also been driven by her desire to see and to perhaps climb aboard his magnificent zeppelin.

Oh, to pilot an airship of superior design, one that stayed afloat for longer than thirty minutes. Amelia had been obsessed with flying since she was a little girl. Thanks to her papa, who shared her obsession, she'd had the opportunity to sample the skies in his a.s.sorted flying machines. Unfortunately, like most of his inventions, his aerostats malfunctioned with extraordinary regularity, and her flights were thus often quite short.

"He was perfect for you, Amelia."

Meaning Lord Bingham. Although she wished her mother would dismiss the thought, she could not wholly disagree. His worldviews, or lack thereof, aside, she supposed he was perfect in that she could discuss aviation with him for aeons and he wouldn't grow bored. He could expose her to advanced technology and she would be mesmerized, but other than that, she saw no sense in the union. She did not love, nor was she even physically attracted to the man-in spite of his handsome features. Not to mention their extreme social and political differences. She didn't bother to explain those differences to her mother. She wouldn't understand. As an Old Worlder, Anne expected Amelia to conform to convention. She had no interest in technology or saving the future from chaos and destruction. She wanted everything to move forward with the natural march of time, the way things used to be, before the Peace Rebels.

As they chugged along, the vibrations from the engine invigorating Amelia's good senses, she cursed herself for giving in to her mother. For giving over to her curiosity regarding Lord Bingham's personal air fleet. Instead, she could've spent the morning a.s.sisting Papa, who, day by day, had become almost psychotic in his mission to fly to the moon. Although he'd promised not to tinker with Apollo 02 (his second attempt at a futuristic rocket ship) until she returned, she didn't wholly trust his word or judgment of late.

"Can't you make this thing go any faster?" Anne asked, sounding suddenly anxious to return home.

"Regrettably, no," Amelia said as Loco-Bug's iron wheels rolled over the pitted, snow-dusted road. As with most of the shires, Kent had fallen upon hard times, and the much-traveled roads had fallen into ill repair. Not to mention that Loco-Bug was simply not made for great speed. "For what it's worth, the journey would have been half the duration if we had taken Bess." Her papa's one-of-a-kind kitecycle. Unfortunately, among other things, Anne Darcy was aerophobic.

"If people were meant to fly," she said with a sniff, "we'd have been born with wings."

If only, Amelia thought with a wistful sigh.

They fell into a sullen silence. Really, what was there to say? Old Worlder and New Worlder, fatalist and utopian, repressed and emanc.i.p.ated. They would never see eye to eye. For the next hour they rode in tense silence-Amelia contemplating her papa's moonship obsession whilst her mother no doubt plotted her next marriage match.

A short mile from their home, Loco-Bug stalled for the second time in thirty minutes.

Anne ridiculed her husband's automocoach as Amelia hopped out to inspect the engine. Unlike her mother, she had faith in Papa's inventions. Sometimes it just took a lot of positive thinking and a bit of elbow grease. And in this case, a hair ornament. Pulling a decorative comb from her braided hair, Amelia probed and unclogged a valve. Though pleased when Loco-Bug coughed back to life, she glanced at the sky, thinking how much more enjoyable it would have been to soar the seamless air as opposed to driving along rutted roads.

A deafening boom blasted her eardrums, tripping her pulse and stealing her breath.

Pushing her goggles to her forehead, Amelia gaped at a large plume of smoke and fireworks marring the near horizon-a mushrooming cloud littered with fragments of bra.s.s, iron, and clockwork.

It came from Ashford. The Darcy estate.

Her mother gasped. "What in heaven's name?"

Apollo 02, Amelia thought, stifling a scream as she imagined Papa tinkering, then...

Please, G.o.d, no.

Refusing to think the worst, Amelia scrambled back into Loco-Bug, intending to push the machine to its limits. Upon reaching Ashford, she would find Papa singed and dis...o...b..bulated but very much alive. She willed it with all her heart.

Amelia refitted her goggles, then engaged the clutch. "Hang on to your bonnet, Mama."

CHAPTER 1.

The London Informer.

January 5, 1887.

MAD INVENTOR DIES IN QUEST.

FOR GLORY.

The Right Honorable Lord Ashford, lifelong resident of Kent, blew himself up yesterday whilst building a rocket ship destined for the moon. Ashford, a distant cousin of the infamous Time Voyager, Briscoe Darcy, was rumored to be obsessed with making his own mark on the world. Fortunately for the realm and unfortunately for his family, Ashford's inventions paled to that of Darcy, earning him ridicule instead of respect, wealth, or fame.

Amelia's heart pounded with fury as she read the irreverent newspaper article for the zillionth time in four days. She should have shredded the infernal report upon first reading. Her brothers had suggested setting the rag aflame, but morbid obsession had seized her good senses. Quite simply, she was astonished by the audacity of their lead reporter, known as the Clockwork Canary. The London Informer, and indeed the Canary, frequently leaned toward sensationalism rather than dignified journalism, but this was downright cruel. It ridiculed not only her father but also mocked her twin brothers, Jules and Simon, who, like Papa, were visionaries. Each time she read the printed poppyc.o.c.k, her soul cried out against the unfairness, the injustice, the outright lies!

"Papa was not mad," she ranted whilst pacing his beloved though cluttered workshop. "He was inspired, driven. Creative!"

She paused in front of her enhanced pet falcon, Leo, who'd perched upon a stargazing telescope. So beautiful, even though he'd been hideously disfigured. "Who else would have thought to replace your annihilated legs and beak with iron prosthetics?"

Whilst immense energy and thought went into reconstructing-or, as in the case of automatons, constructing-people, few techno-surgeons cared about the plight of deformed animals. Shot from the sky, the young falcon had suffered ghastly injuries. Amelia, who'd found and carried the wounded bird home, had begged Papa to save his life. The softhearted man had toiled for days devising artificial parts that moved via releases and springs. He'd applied said parts with the help of their local physician. That had been three years ago. After an adjustment period, Leo had learned to operate his new talons and beak with remarkable skill. Leo was, in fact, Papa's greatest success, although no one, aside from Amelia, acknowledged the significance. "Crikey," she said to her feathered friend, "you're better than new!"

Leo, who always seemed to understand her moods and commands, puffed out his feathery chest as though very proud of his enhanced status indeed.

"And look at all these other inventions," she said, turning to the messy worktables. "The toaster contraption and stun gun. The instant photo camera and telecommunicator." Everything influenced by the rants and renderings of the Mods-the twentieth-century faction of the Peace Rebels who never would have invaded this time were it not for Briscoe Darcy. How could her father-or any inventor, for that matter-outshine the man who'd discovered a way to breach dimensions?

Amelia pocketed the d.a.m.nable article, then lovingly fingered each object. "I confess, many of these prototypes did not work, but some did, even if only for a while. Perhaps Papa never accomplished great things, but he certainly aspired to greatness." The enormity of his loss boggled and vexed. If only he had concentrated on one effort, but Papa's mind had constantly burst with ideas. She'd always been in awe of his vast knowledge and interests. She had but one interest. One pa.s.sion.

Flying.

She wondered, not for the first time, whether that was why he'd been so obsessed with building his moonship: because he wanted to afford her the ultimate flight. A flight through s.p.a.ce. To the moon. According to the Book of Mods, it had been done before. In their time, a man had walked on the moon. She couldn't imagine...but she did. Whether Papa had been more influenced by the Mods or by his brilliant, innovative cousin, she did not know. Nor did it matter. All that mattered was that he'd had a vision. How dared the Informer sully his efforts!

"You look as content in this environment as he did."

Amelia glanced up and saw her brother Jules, older than she by a decade and a year, standing on the threshold of their father's workshop. So deeply and darkly intense, the exact opposite of his twin, Simon, a gregarious, carefree sort. Jules, the elder of the twins by three and a half minutes, had lived in London for the last several years making his living as a science fiction writer, and before that he'd been abroad with the military. He was worldly and mysterious, a source of fascination for Amelia. And a source of irritation for their mother, who fixated overly much on his rumored decadent pastimes.

Now Jules was the head of the family, the master of Ashford, although she couldn't imagine her complex brother relocating to this simple, remote country setting. Nor would Simon, a civil engineer and skilled artisan, abandon his lofty pursuits. Which meant Amelia would be living here alone with their mother-a notion that chafed for numerous reasons.

"Did you know," she said to Jules, "that Mother asked me to clear this carriage house of Papa's contraptions? Said it's a painful reminder of his wasted life." Her heart hammered with defiance. "Whereas I see every grease-smeared gear, spring, gizmo, and gadget as a testimony."

"Do not mistake Mother's cold words for a lack of caring, Amelia. She mourns the loss of Papa as greatly as you do, albeit in her own way."

Amelia sighed. "As someone who witnessed her harping and ridicule on a daily basis, I find that difficult to believe. You have not lived here for more than a decade. You do not know-"

"I know far more than you think, little sister, and I am far less biased."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he said reasonably, "that although I loved Papa, I did not worship the ground he tinkered upon." Utilizing his walking cane, Jules moved slowly and deliberately (as was his way since the operations) into the workshop, filling the already crowded s.p.a.ce with his bigger-than-life aura. Amelia scarcely noticed his limp anymore, although she knew his war injury was a great source of curiosity to many. Details revolving around the skirmish that had earned him a medal and early retirement from the military were cla.s.sified. Jules never spoke of his service to the Crown, nor the incident, nor his extensive rehabilitation. He was a man of few words and many secrets. Women were mad for him, stilted gait and all.

As he moved closer, Amelia noted his impeccable attire. Unlike her, he was dressed in conventional Victorian garb-tailored black trousers and frock coat, a burgundy waistcoat, stark white shirt, and an impeccably tied cravat. Of course, he'd been attending to formal matters whilst she'd taken refuge in her room, and now here. If he disapproved of her boyish trousers, grease-smudged shirt, and leather tail vest (an ingenious combination of corset and cutaway skirt), he didn't show it. He simply regarded her with a tender, big-brotherly gaze.

"I understand why you kept your distance at the funeral, Amelia. I respect your reluctance to sit through the reading of Papa's will, but you need to know the outcome."

Given his ominous tone, she antic.i.p.ated dire news, although she couldn't imagine how things could get worse. Almost a week later and the air still reeked with the smells of the ma.s.sive explosion. She wondered whether the noxious, nightmare-inducing fumes would forever taint her nostrils and dreams-a horrific reminder that Papa was gone. As a way of calming her nerves, she gathered miscellaneous gears and springs, sorting the parts into labeled cans. She'd left the house specifically to avoid that meeting with the solicitor. She didn't want to face reality. That involved acknowledging Papa was gone forever. She couldn't do that. Aside from his mangled pocket watch, no trace of his person had been found. Officials blamed the intensity of the explosion. Logical. Yet fanciful scenarios played in Amelia's head. Wishful thinking that, so far, had kept her from falling apart.

"Hear me out, Little Bit."

The nickname, used only by her brothers and Papa, nearly brought her to her knees. Stiffening her spine, she stood strong, her throat clogged with grief. "How's Mother?"

"Distressed."

"All will be well," she said in general.