He immediately dropped his hands, his face wrenching in dismay. “I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s okay. I get it.”
“Oh—kay?” His brows wrinkled in confusion.
“Yeah, it’s all confusing for me, too. I was hoping you’d show up, but a part of me didn’t think you would, so I was making the most of it, figuring it’d be the only Regency-type ball I’d ever get to attend. And then, boom, there you were!” She raised her hand to her head. “Ugh. My head hurts. Guess I drank too much. Or maybe it’s from the time-traveling ...” She broke off, biting her lip.
His head spun as she spoke. Funny, that: unlike the woman, he hadn’t yet had a drink. His eyes fell to her lip, the one she was still chewing, so plump and full. A stunning American, but lacking in manners. Definitely not a lady of refinement. She resumed talking, so he tried to focus on her words.
“And I told Cat even though she had clearly created those guys for her it was okay if it didn’t work for me. I mean, what kind of broke grad student would ever really land a duke anyway, right? That’d be like winning the lottery.”
He couldn’t understand half the words she was saying. Oh-kay? Grad student? Wait—time travel? Was the woman a lunatic?
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if to warm herself. “Wow, it’s cold.”
“Since no one was expected in here tonight, the fire wasn’t drawn.” He couldn’t believe how calmly he’d spoken those words, given his bewilderment as to who this woman was, and how she’d got into his study. Or what had happened just before that, for that matter.
He eyed her gown, his gaze lingering on her impressive chest. His groin tightened and he clenched his fists, determined to ignore his extreme, and inappropriate, reaction to her. “You women, dressing in those absurdly thin gowns. You’ll catch your death.”
She muttered something about Regency styles imitating classical styles.
With her finely etched features and well-formed body, she did somewhat resemble a Greek goddess. Aphrodite, perhaps.
At that thought, his mind flew back to the last thing he could remember before all had gone black—of him calling her his personal goddess, of her kissing him with that sweet, succulent mouth.
What had come over him, kissing an unknown woman like that? He hadn’t allowed passion to rule him for years, even before Mirabelle died. The guilt was too strong. He’d tamped down that side of himself in atonement for his sins.
Yet this woman, this unknown, fired his blood as no one else had in a long time. If ever. He cleared his throat. He didn’t even know who she was. Some tart Arthington had arranged as a practical joke? He and Emerlin did often heckle Dev for “not taking advantage of the bounty before him.”
“And I agree.” Her words pulled him out of his head and back to her. “I always thought these dresses, although beautiful, did seem impractical for an English winter. Though I suppose they’d make sense in a warm climate like Greece or Italy. I’d much rather be in my sweats with a thick sweatshirt, and maybe even a coat.”
“In your what?”
“Oh yeah, sorry. Never mind. You wouldn’t know what sweats are. I’ve got to be more careful in what I say.”
She visibly steeled her shoulders, pasting that toothy smile on her face again as she dropped into a rather awkward curtsy. “Let’s start over. Hi. I’m Eliza James.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her exquisite mouth. “Who are you?”
“I just told you, I’m Eliza. And I know you’re Deveric.”
His eyes widened at her use of his first name. Only his sisters and his closest friends, James Bradley, Duke of Arthington and Morgan Collinswood, Marquess of Emerlin, called him thusly. Everyone else addressed him as Claremont.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot,” she offered, her cheeks pinking adorably. “I should not use your Christian name until you give me leave to do so. My pardons, Your Grace.”
His brows wrinkled, although he supposed it understandable an American wouldn’t know the ins and outs of the peerage. Surely even in America, however, new acquaintances did not stoop to such intimacy as Christian names on a first meeting.
Voices echoed from down the hallway, catching his attention. Someone was close by. Good God, if he were discovered here with this female, alone ...
“Quickly, hide behind my desk,” he commanded.
“What?”
“Go on, hurry. I don’t plan on being caught with an unmarried woman in my study.” He glanced at her gloved hands. “You are unmarried, I assume, given your advances earlier?”
“Advances?” she squeaked. “I merely kissed you. Cat said I had to, to make it work.” She arched an eyebrow. “And it’s not as if you were complaining.”
“Who is this cat to which you constantly refer?” Was she a witch, with a feline as her familiar? She didn’t look like a witch. Not that he knew what one would look like, even if he believed in witchcraft. Which he didn’t. He was far too enlightened for that. Still, a niggle of fear rooted itself under his skin. If not a witch, who—and what—was she? A succubus? She certainly had his blood running, every inch of her calling to him.
Her other words suddenly registered. “Make what work?”
“Me. Coming here. To Regency England. In 18-whatever it is.” She cocked her head. “What year is it, anyway?” she added, as the voices in the hall drew closer.
“You don’t know the year? 1812? Are you mad?” He shook his head. “I can’t make sense of you. I can’t make sense of any of this. I must have struck my head. Or you, yours.” Yes, that was the only logical explanation.
As he reached up to check for a lump, the door to the library flew open, and a woman and a man fell in, enveloped in each other’s arms and laughing. The woman pressed her lips against his throat as the man fastened his hands on her derriere, pulling her closer into him.
Fury rose in Deveric, blocking out all thoughts of the delectable Eliza James.
“Amara!”
Chapter 4
The woman broke away from her companion with a start, whirling to face the occupants of the room. She was gorgeous, Eliza noted, with that honey brown hair and fiery hazel eyes. Drop-dead gorgeous.
“Dev?” the woman said with a gasp. “What are you doing here? And who is that?”
Jealousy tickled at Eliza’s insides. Which was ridiculous, considering she’d known Deveric, what, all of five minutes? Still, he was hers. Who was this woman, this dazzling creation, to address Deveric with such familiarity? Though she kind of liked that little nickname: Dev.
“I could ask the same of you!” Deveric barked.
“I’ll be going now.” The man hurriedly straightened his waistcoat before scurrying out the door.
The woman sighed.
“So much for chivalry,” Eliza murmured.
“That was Lord Hodgins, wasn’t it?” said Deveric. “I should demand satisfaction!” A muscle ticced in his jaw. “He’s courting Lady Mary Wemple, Amara. Why would—?”
“Please. You know you needn’t defend my honor.” The woman’s cheeks flushed crimson red, even as she spat the final word.
Anger? Or embarrassment? A surprising spark of sympathy flickered in Eliza.
“At least he wasn’t married this time,” Amara went on. She gestured toward Deveric. “You’re one to talk, cavorting about in your library with this ... this ... courtesan, whoever she is.”
The flicker went out. Before Deveric could respond, Eliza pushed forward until she was nearly nose-to-nose with this Amara person. “I am not a courtesan!” Settling her hands on her hips, she thrust her elbows out in indignation. “I’ve hardly even kissed anyone since my husband died. Just because a woman goes on dates—er, I mean, has gentleman callers—and maybe kisses a few guys—oops, I mean men— doesn’t mean she’s a sl—a harlot.”
Amara looked down her nose at her. “Real ladies don’t use such language. And they certainly don’t kiss a variety of men.”
“Truly, Amara?” Deveric aske
d, his voice taking on an unexpected hint of amusement. “That, from you? I think you could out-curse me some days.”
Amara glowered at him. “I’ve kissed far fewer men than everyone thinks,” she said with a huff. “As you well know. And if I know any less-than-proper language, it’s because I learned it from you, brother.”
Brother? This Amara was Deveric’s sister? Eliza exhaled in relief. Now that she thought about it, there was something similar in their eyes ... and their outthrust jaws.
“Wait. You’re a widow, Eliza?”
Eliza turned toward him at his words. Deveric was frowning.
Amara gave what Eliza could only describe as a snort. So much for delicate Regency feminine sensibilities. “Eliza? You address her so familiarly?”
Deveric settled his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowing on his sister.
Amara ignored him. “Who are you?” she said to Eliza. “I’ve not seen you before today.”
Eliza jumped as Amara reached out and caught up the edge of Eliza’s skirt near her hips, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. Surely this wasn’t normal, a woman touching another woman’s clothing? Eliza might have done it to Cat, but, hey, they were friends. This woman was quickly becoming an enemy.
Amara released the skirt before Eliza could yank it away. “You’re well-dressed, and yet your gown looks ... strange,” she said, almost to herself. “I’ve never seen cloth of this type.” She leaned over to investigate the embroidered edge of Eliza’s bodice. “The stitching is amazingly even, close. And yet the gown doesn’t fit you all that well.”
It was Eliza’s turn to snort. The woman was downright rude. Yet Eliza needed to tread carefully. This was Deveric’s sister, after all. Alienating her would not help Eliza’s cause.
She fought down a sudden wave of nausea. Could she pull this off? Could she get not only Deveric to accept her but also all the people around him?
Oh, my God. What was I thinking? I can’t do this! She clutched her middle, willing herself not to vomit. Cast up your accounts, said a small voice in her head. No puking or vomiting in these days. An idiotic voice, that was, to be worried about exact period phrases at that moment.
“I think it fits her very well,” Deveric countered, a catch in his voice.
Eliza let out a nervous giggle. Amara’s eyes looked as if they were about to burst out of their sockets as she stared at her brother. The blush creeping up Deveric’s neck gave Eliza a much-needed boost of confidence. If nothing else, Deveric Mattersley was definitely attracted to her. It was a start.
“Who are you?” Amara demanded again.
Eliza opened her mouth, but Deveric interjected. “Amara, this is Mrs. Eliza James. Our ... cousin. From America.”
Both Eliza and Amara gaped at him.
“Cousin?” Amara repeated.
“I am?” Eliza said. “Yes, yes, I am.” She plastered a grin on her face, determined to make peace with this Amara. “Nice to meet you, Lady Amara.”
Amara ignored her, her stare fixed on her brother. Eliza perused the bookshelves, unsure what to do next. The tension in the room nearly choked her.
“Yes,” Deveric affirmed. “Our cousin from ...”
“Virginia,” Eliza said.
Dev exhaled. Was that relief on his face? “Of course. That’s where our distant relatives lived, if you remember, Amara.”
“You told us not two months ago they had all perished in a fire.”
Deveric adjusted his cravat. “That is what I had thought, as indicated in the letter I’d received. Only this week, a notice from Eli—uh, Mrs. James’ family solicitor arrived, informing me of her fortuitous survival—”
“—I was staying with a family friend,” Eliza interjected, warming to his tale.
Deveric was lying for her. That had to mean something, right? Some level of interest, some desire to protect her? Unless, of course, Cat wrote this part, too. Eliza’s smile faltered. That hadn’t been in the story; was it possible Cat had written details Eliza never saw? No. My friend wouldn’t do that to me. Deveric was covering for her of his own accord.
“Since Mrs. James is without a husband and now without family, the solicitor hoped we could find a place for her here.”
Eliza managed to nod in agreement. “Yes, yes, I’m afraid I have no one back home.” Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of Cat, the friend she’d left behind. One teardrop spilled down her cheek. Good. Maybe that would convince Deveric’s sister.
Amara’s eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms as she studied the two. “And she is completely without funds, unable to survive on her own? How convenient.” She paused. “You shall have to do better than that if you’re going to convince anyone else of this mad tale. For one thing, she’s not wearing mourning dress. Odd for someone who’s just lost her entire family, don’t you think? Are you sure she is who she claims to be, Dev?”
Deveric shifted from one leg to the other, pulling at his cravat. His face, however, was a thundercloud. “You dare question—”
Eliza cut him off. “All of my things were lost at sea.”
“Except a ball gown?” Incredulity was written across Amara’s face.
“Well, um, what little I had—jewelry—is sewn into a pocket and the hem of this dress, so, um, when the Captain warned the seas were getting rough and we might need to toss cargo overboard to stay afloat, I changed into this dress, to keep the jewelry safe.” Sweat trickled down Eliza’s neck, in spite of the cold. Good Lord, I need a donut. What was she going to do if Amara refused to believe her?
Amara burst out laughing. “Most certainly, you need a better story.”
Voices drifted in from down the hallway again. Amara’s face sobered instantly. Deveric swallowed and ran his fingers through his hair, distinctly ill at ease.
“Why, I do believe that’s Mother I hear coming,” Amara said. “Good luck with your story.”
“Back me up,” Deveric offered through tight lips, “and I will never breathe a word about Hodgins to anyone.”
Amara flinched in surprise. “You would lie, not once, but twice, in the same evening?” From her tone, Eliza could tell Deveric was not one to normally fudge the truth. Score One for my Prince Charming. Honesty was a valued trait, and one Eliza had seen far too little of in the twenty-first century, at least among the jackasses who’d tried to get her into bed.
Deveric’s eyes darkened and a not-completely-unattractive scowl twisted his face, but he said nothing. Score Two for not lying about lying.
“Fine. This ought to be good.” Amara waved dismissively as the door opened behind her.
A tall, regal woman swept into the room, bedecked in an ornate gown, back ramrod straight, two younger women at her side. “Aha—I knew I’d find you here, Claremont. Too busy with your papers to properly host your own ball.” She stalked toward him with a ferocious swish of her skirts. “Goodness gracious, you are not even dressed!”
The confidence Eliza had channeled for her interactions with Amara dissipated completely in the face of the formidable figure in front of her. A sudden image of Maleficent from Walt Disney’s Sleeping Beauty popped into her head. All that was missing was a staff and a raven. Even the woman’s bonnet was pointy. And maybe ... were those raven feathers peeping out from the swathes of fabric?
“Mother,” Deveric said, tipping his head to her. “My apologies; I have not had time to change.”
The woman stopped in front of Eliza, drawing her chin up high as she stared down her long, aristocratic nose. “Who, may I ask, are you?”
Eliza wilted under the withering glance from the ferocious woman standing less than two feet in front of her. Mother. This dragon is Deveric’s mother? Oh, heaven help me. She took an involuntary step backward. If Deveric’s mother were living in 2012, Eliza was sure she’d be commanding an army. Or two.
Eliza opened her mouth to speak, but Deveric beat her to it. “Mother, this is Mrs. Eliza James, of our Virginia cousins. Mrs. James, my mother, the Dowager Duch
ess of Claremont.”
The dowager’s lips narrowed at his announcement. “Cousin? You informed us all had perished.”
Eliza watched Deveric as covertly as she could. If this woman intimidated him, he certainly didn’t show it. He gave off an air of ease as if used to being challenged by her.
“She survived the fire that took the rest of her family, our Virginia cousins,” he said. “The solicitor ... erred in saying all had died.”
Did the dowager hear the slight pause in his sentence? Eliza wanted to move closer to him, to seek out his protection— and frankly, his warmth, as she was shivering again. But she stood her ground.
“Mrs. James.” The woman’s eagle eyes burned into her. “Did your husband survive, as well?”
“No, ma-Your Grace. He died more than ten years ago.”
“More than ten years?” gasped one of the young women standing to the dowager’s side, the one with ebony hair and striking blue eyes. “How old are you?”
As the other girl, a blonde beauty, elbowed her in the side, Deveric’s mother turned to the dark-haired woman and snapped, “Lady Rebecca Adelaide Mattersley, one never questions another lady as to her age.”
Rebecca blushed. “My apologies, Lady James. I meant no offense.”
Eliza’s cheeks bent up in a smile. “It’s quite all right. I’m actually Mrs. James, not Lady James. No titles in my family.”
Deveric’s eyebrow went up in warning.
“N-not in my immediate family, that is,” she stammered. She clasped her fingers together, pinching her thumbs tightly.
“Regardless, my apologies, ma’am,” Rebecca said, casting a nervous glance at her mother.
“I’m twenty-nine. Still a little young for the ma’am’s, aren’t I?”
The other young lady, the blonde not yet introduced, wrinkled up her forehead. “You were married, were you not? Therefore, you are a ma’am.”
Dang. Another faux pas.
The dowager actually rolled her eyes, which made her slightly less dragon-like.
Deveric cleared his throat. “Mrs. James,” he said. “These are my sisters. You have met Lady Amara. As you heard, this is Lady Rebecca.” He gestured toward the young woman with the black hair. “And this is Lady Emmeline.” He nodded toward the blonde.
The Magic of Love Series Page 30