The Magic of Love Series

by Margaret Locke

  “She only has two friends?” Not that Matt was one to talk. “Doesn’t your sister live somewhere nearby?”

  Ben arched a brow. “Yes, actually. I didn’t know you knew that. But Martha’s way up north, past the airport. I think Amara would feel better not being quite so far from her ... cousin. Plus, you she’s met, at least. She hasn’t met Martha, and I didn’t feel comfortable pawning her off on a complete stranger.” He held up his hands. “Look, I don’t want to inconvenience you. We can figure something out.”

  Guilt pecked at Matt. Ugh. He really didn’t want the woman with him. She was too damn tempting, and tempting wasn’t what he wanted right now. Then again, with how much Ben had taken him under his wing, Matt owed him. And it was temporary. Very temporary.

  “Yeah, okay. If it’s just for a couple days.”

  Ben exhaled. “Thank you. It’s a lot to ask, but Cat’s got all she can handle right now with the bookstore and a sick kid. Speaking of which, I’m going home to help.”

  “No problem. I can swing by and get Amara after my class if you’d like.” Why had he volunteered to do that? But it was the appropriate action, right? Taylor would say so. The Coopers needed help. He needed to offer it. “Four-ish?”

  “Sounds great. Thanks a million.” As Ben stepped away, Matt blew air out of his cheeks.

  What the hell had he just gotten himself into?

  The door flung open and a harried-looking Cat rushed in. “Oh, my gosh, I’m sorry to have left you so long. The doctor’s office was backed up, and then the wait at the pharmacy was interminable.”

  Amara leapt up off the sofa, where she’d been watching the television again, this time immersing herself in a story about a homeless man who was secretly a brain surgeon. This television was amazing. Not quite the same experience as seeing a play in Drury Lane, but then again, here she could watch and react in private, without eyes on her.

  “Sorry, I, er ... ”

  Cat chuckled as she saw the television. “Oh, goodness. American soap operas on your first day. That’s probably not the best introduction to modern culture.”

  “Yes, but this gentleman, the dark-haired one with the brown eyes, he is living a double life. I can relate to that.”

  “You do realize it’s fiction, right?”

  Amara lifted her nose. “I’m from 1813; I’m not an imbecile. I can see this is a play.”

  “Sorry.” Cat walked farther into the room and dropped her reticule on the sofa, Wash asleep in her arms.

  “How does he fare?”

  “Well, he has strep throat, as I thought. Luckily, antibiotics will have him feeling much better tomorrow.”

  “Anti-biotics? Tomorrow?” Wash’s symptoms mirrored exactly those with which Frederick often suffered. What if Freddy had had access to these antibiotics of which Cat spoke? Would he have avoided those weeks and months of ill health?

  “Yes, but he’ll likely be cranky the next few days, so ...”

  “You want me to stay with Mr. Goodson.”

  Cat’s eyes widened. “How did you ...?”

  “I saw the words on the computer.”

  “I’m so sorry, Amara. I want to help you with this transition, and I will as much as I’m able, but we don’t want you getting sick. And you might actually feel more comfortable elsewhere, where you’re not stuck putting up with a sick, fussy kid. Just for a few days. Please understand.”

  “I do. But must it be with Mr. Goodson? Do you not have female relations or friends with whom I might stay?”

  “My family’s in Ohio. And I’ve checked with Shannon and Jill. It’s a no-go.”

  “But to reside with a gentleman of no relation, alone, under the same roof ...”

  Cat’s face lit in understanding. “Oh, I see. Well, that’s not untoward, or whatever you might say, in this day and age. People do it all the time. And, well, it would give you a chance to spend time with Matt.” She tossed Amara a wink.

  Was that why Cat had proposed this arrangement? Under the guise of furthering an attachment? Amara narrowed her eyes. At that moment, Wash stirred, a sad whimper shaking his little body. No, the child was truly ill. And even if Cat had matchmaking plans as a secondary intent, that didn’t mean she must accede to them. Though the idea of being alone with Mr. Goodson, with no one the wiser to her potential actions, sent devilish thoughts tumbling through her mind. Eliza said such liaisons raised no eyebrows here. She was free to indulge if she wished. With her body, at least. Her heart would remain her own.

  “Hold on a moment,” Cat said before Amara could respond. She took the sleeping child into his bedchamber and laid him in the railed bed. Coming back out, she headed into the kitchen. “Wow, what a day. Did you find anything to eat?”

  Amara trailed after her. “Yes, some apple and a yogurt, which was quite sweet.”

  “That’s it? We’ll have to take you grocery shopping to find foods you might like.”

  Grocery shopping? Oh, go to the market. Something with which Amara, as a member of a ducal family, had never had to contend. How exhausting it must be, to have to do everything for oneself.

  Cat took a container out of the cold white box and dumped its contents into a bowl. After placing the bowl into a rectangular apparatus above the stove and pressing several buttons, she asked, “What do you want to do now that you’re here? Besides get to know Matt, of course.”

  “I do not wish to get to know Mr. Goodson.” The words slipped out before Amara could stop them.

  Cat’s brow creased. “Really? But you came here for—”

  Amara shook her head, interrupting the American. “Eliza wrote you my story, of what I wished to escape. My experiences with men, with love, have not been good ones. I came here to escape my past. To build a new, independent future.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “It is why I asked what might happen should I not pursue Mr. Goodson; I have no desire for an attachment.” A tryst, on the other hand ...

  Cat frowned, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I won’t push it. But just as Eliza told me your story, I hope she told you mine. I didn’t want a thing to do with love, either, after Ryan ditched me at the altar. But then came Ben, and ...” She paused as Amara cast her eyes up to the ceiling. “Sorry. I’ll stop. Truly. But, Amara? I hope you don’t rule it out.”

  The machine beeped—did every machine make noise here?—and Cat retrieved the bowl. “Ouch! Dang, that’s hot.” She grabbed a spoon. “Do you want some? It’s leftover mac and cheese, but it’s pretty good.”

  Amara’s stomach gurgled in response. The fruit and yogurt, while pleasant, had not been enough to sate her.

  Giggling, Cat grabbed a second bowl and spooned a portion into it. “I take it from your stomach that’s a yes.”

  Embarrassed, Amara took the bowl and spoon Cat offered. Such frank acknowledgment of one’s bodily functions mortified her, though Cat seemed at ease.

  “I can’t imagine what it was like to live in a society like yours,” Cat said as she settled at the table. “I never understood its appeal to Eliza.”

  “Nor I, given everything she told me of this era,” Amara said as she joined her. “But she is happy with my brother. And I’m delighted she’s brought him to life again.”

  “So glad to hear that—though I read it in her letters. She wrote tons, thank God.”

  Amara halted the spoon halfway to her mouth. “I forgot that you know how my family’s story turned out.”

  “Not all of it. I only know what happened in Eliza’s time. I’ve been meaning to research to see if her—if your—family is still in England.”

  That brought Amara up short. Did she have living descendants, in England or elsewhere? Not that they’d accept her as family, even if she did—she was as much a stranger to them as anyone else. Her heart sank.

  “We’ll definitely have to look into that.”

  Amara merely nodded before taking another mouthful. If nothing else, this pasta with cheese was tasty.

  At length, C
at said, “I suppose it’s silly, me asking you what you want to do. You just got here. You need time to get used to everything. I hope you’ll tell me what’s familiar and what’s totally new. And how I can help, of course.”

  Amara stood up, gesturing to her dress. “One thing that is vastly different is the clothing, as you can see.”

  Cat set her spoon down. “Hold on. I’ll get those things of Eliza’s I told you about, so you can at least try them on.”

  Jumping up, she ran out the door and down the stairs before returning a minute later, a large box in her arms.

  “Heavens, I should have helped you!” Amara crossed to her.

  “Nah. I lug books around all day. This is nothing.” Cat set the box on the sofa and opened its flaps. She pulled out a pair of blue trousers similar to the ones she had on. “Here’s some jeans and a sweatshirt.” A gray, rather mannish, button-less shirt of a heavier material followed. “Yeah. We definitely need to go shopping.”

  “I shall try these for now,” Amara said, picking up the items and walking with them into her room. Closing the door, she eased out of her dress and undergarments, grateful they were still loosened and she needn’t request help. She lifted up the trousers—jeans, Cat called them, and examined the material, her fingers tracing the rough texture.

  “I have wondered what it was like to wear breeches. Now I shall know,” she murmured. Sitting on the bed, she carefully put one leg through the trousers, then the other. Pulling them over her hips, she struggled to determine how they fastened. She secured the button at the top, but the material still gaped. A small metal tab stuck out, and she pulled on it. As it raised, it locked the metal seams on either side of it together. Capital! This tab would make dressing and undressing much faster.

  The jeans were loose at the waist, but not so much that they fell down. Thank goodness for her curvy hips. It felt awkward and uncomfortable to have fabric bunched between her legs, to have the jeans caressing her skin with each move she made. But it was also freeing not to be swathed in layers, to be able to move or sit or kick up her feet without worrying about skirts.

  She picked up the sweatshirt. Should she leave on her stays? How did modern women support their bosoms? If she wanted stays, she’d need help to lace them, and she didn’t wish to bother Cat again, so she left them off, sticking her arms through the armholes and pulling the sweatshirt on over her head. The insides were soft as it enveloped her skin, tickling and yet soothing at the same time. No wonder Eliza had wanted these clothes back!

  She ran her fingers through her hair, which she’d left loose to dry after the shower. How was she to secure it up?

  Cat didn’t wear hers up. In fact, the American’s hair was shoulder-length at most. The idea of shorter hair appealed, to lessen the weight on her head and the fuss of caring for it.

  She returned to the living room. “Could you cut my hair?”

  Cat looked up from the computer on her lap. “Hey, those fit a little better than I thought they would. But I’m, uh, not a hair stylist.”

  Amara’s shoulders drooped. “Oh.” Disappointment permeated her voice.

  Cat studied her for a moment. “I suppose I could and then take you to a real stylist later to shape it up. You really want to cut such gloriously long hair?”

  “Yes!” The words came out more forcefully than intended. “I’ve never been allowed, even though some women in my time have recently adopted shorter styles.”

  “Well, why not? Come into the kitchen.”

  Amara followed Cat and sat down on the chair to which Cat pointed.

  “How short?”

  Amara hesitated. “How long do most women in this time wear their hair?”

  “As long or short as they want it. I’m sure you saw a variety of styles on TV.” At Amara’s blank look, she added, “Television. We call it TV for short.”

  Most of the women in the soap opera, as Cat had called it (though Amara didn’t know why, as no one had bathed or burst into song), had longer hair, but she’d admired one woman’s chin-length style.

  “To here?” she said to Cat, indicating an inch or so down from her jawline.

  Cat took in a deep breath as she fetched a pair of scissors. “Here goes nothing.”

  Amara closed her eyes as hair fell around her. This was it, her transformation. No longer was she Amara Mattersley, scandalized daughter of a duke. She was now Amara Mattersley, twenty-first-century woman. With mannish trousers and short hair. Euphoria shot through her.

  The scissors stopped. Cat moved around to her front, scrutinizing her. With a few more snips, she smiled and stepped back. “Not bad, if I do say so myself. Why don’t you check it out in the bathroom mirror?”

  Amara walked into the bathroom. She froze at the sight of herself. She looked like a different person. A modern person. The clothes were ill-fitting, to be sure, but comfortable. And the hair—she liked the way it swung around her face. It enhanced her cheekbones. She addressed the stranger in the mirror. “You can do this, Amara Mattersley.”

  Ben’s deep voice rang out in the other room. “I’m home.”

  “Oh, good. But lower your voice, please; Wash is sleeping.”

  “Oops. Sorry, sweetie. How’s Amara?” His voice softened, but Amara could still hear their conversation.

  “Fine. In the bathroom, checking out her new hairdo.”

  “New hair?”

  “You’ll see. Hey, did you talk to—”

  “Yeah. He’s coming by after his class to pick her up. Is she okay with it?”

  “Shoot! She never answered. I hope so. I can’t imagine how overwhelmed she must feel, but I still think putting the two together is a smart idea.”

  “Only if they want it that way. You can write it, but you can’t force it, you know.”

  Cat snorted. “Oh, I know. And you should be grateful I know.”

  “Honey, I am.”

  Amara smiled at their playful banter, which reminded her of Dev and Eliza. What would it be like to have someone with whom she could so easily interact—who was her whole world, and for whom she was his?

  It’s what she’d imagined she’d had with Drake. Until his perfidious ways made themselves apparent. What kind of blackguard seduced a naïve, lovelorn debutante without telling her he’d married someone else?

  Drake Evers, Viscount Monteith, that was who.

  She grimaced. Six years. Six years she’d had to forgive herself for that mistake. She’d tried; but how could she forgive herself when no one else would? She’d gone from one of the ton’s most sought-after daughters to a near pariah. Thank goodness her family had rallied around her. It hadn’t saved her reputation, though. Nothing could. Not in her society.

  At least relations between men and women in this century were much more relaxed. Intimacies between courting couples were not only accepted but also rather expected. According to Eliza, many people didn’t bother with courtship of any sort anymore, choosing partners as often as desired, for a few months, weeks, or even just one night. Her sister-in-law’s face had wrinkled in distaste at that admission. “That’s never been who I am,” she’d stated.

  The thought came unbidden as Amara fussed with her new hair: But it might be who I am.

  In truth, such an about-face of morals was a near impossibility to comprehend, though she had long rebelled against her era’s restrictions. Not so much that she’d actually taken a lover, however, no matter how often she’d considered it.

  Mr. Goodson’s lean form and icy blue eyes flashed through her mind.

  Why not? Here, she could interact with men more freely, could indulge in the desires that plagued her more than she cared to admit.

  She might not wish an emotional attachment, but with his fine countenance and admirable physique, he’d be an ideal experiment, a first taste of what freedom in this era felt like. Guilt wrapped around her like a quilt. Only if he were in agreement as to the nature of their connection, of course—an affair of physical passion, no more. She never
wanted to inflict the kind of pain she’d had inflicted on her.

  A derisive snicker escaped. How arrogant, to think a man like Mr. Goodson would fall in love with her. The ease with which he’d accepted her kiss suggested a man comfortable with physical relations. The kind to dally but not to stay. Or she assumed it did. What did she truly know of him, or of twenty-first century relationships? Nothing.

  She left the bathroom with a purposeful stride. “I will stay with Mr. Goodson.”

  “Oh, good.” Cat cast a quick glance at Ben, who nodded. “I hate to do that to you, but I don’t want to risk you catching strep. Ben said Matt can get you around four. In the meantime, would you like to come down into the bookstore with me? Emily usually works Mondays—it’s normally my day off—but she needs to go to an appointment, so I said I’d cover for her. It’d give us a chance to talk. Ben will stay here with Wash.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Amara forced a smile. She’d prefer to retreat to her tiny bedroom to rest; adjusting to a new century was fatiguing. Knowledge was more important, however. She had so much to learn, and she wanted to start right now, this very minute.

  There was no time to waste in getting on with her new life.

  The afternoon passed quickly. Cat was easy to talk to, and as comfortable with silence as she was with speaking, a trait Amara admired. No wonder Eliza loved her so much.

  Amara spent some of the time perusing the Treasure Trove’s bookshelves, marveling over the sheer number of titles in the shop, as well as the variety of topics. When customers came, she watched as unobtrusively as she could, listening to their speech patterns, studying their clothing styles, the way they moved. She’d become good at that in her years under scandal’s shadow, observing others when there’d been nothing else to do. She’d come to know the little movements people made, to see when people were interested or disinterested, to judge the truth in a person’s face.

  She appreciated the skill now. People’s behaviors weren’t much different here. She could easily tell the children who were tired, the younger adults who were bored. A young couple flirting with each other proved entertaining—though the numerous public kisses they exchanged had her avert her eyes more than once.