Timeless (A Time Travel Romance)

by Jasmine Cresswell

  Their harmony survived the bath and the usual battle over her stays, but it broke down when Robyn saw the bodice she was supposed to wear. A splendid affair, decorated with rosettes of pink velvet ribbon, the neckline ended at the same height as her shift. In other words, it cut off smack in the middle of her breasts. A deep breath, or a too sharp turn, would leave the neckline—a misnomer if ever Robyn had heard one—below her nipples.

  “But, my lady, you cannot put a kerchief across your bosom!” Mary wailed. “‘Tis so... so provincial.”

  “I am provincial,” Robyn said, with grim humor. “Positively colonial in fact. Mary, I refuse to eat dinner wondering all the time if my bosom and my dress are going to part company! Get me a strip of lace if the idea of a kerchief offends you.”

  Mary shook her head. “I don’t understand you, my lady. You’re not the same person since your accident, and that’s a fact. You used to like wearing a low-cut bodice. You wanted all the gentlemen to admire your breasts, nipples an’ all. Why, you used to paint your nipples carmine red, same as your lips—”

  She broke off, hurrying toward the closet before Robyn could say anything. “Beggin’ your ladyship’s pardon for speaking out of turn, my lady.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” Robyn said, her heart thumping against her rib cage. She laughed, but the sound was brittle even to her own ears. “Maybe I am a different person since the accident, who knows?”

  “A kinder person,” Mary said, “even though your wits be gorn beggin’.” She stepped back, hand clapped over her mouth, eyes wide with fear.

  Robyn would have laughed if she hadn’t been ominously close to tears. She held out her hand. “Oh, come on, I’m not going to eat you, or even beat you, for that matter. Give me the piece of lace, Mary.”

  The maid obliged, and Robyn tucked it into the neckline of her gown. “There. How does that look?”

  “Very well, my lady. Most flattering. Here is your fan, my lady.” Mary dipped into a new curtsy with every sentence.

  “Thank you. And if you curtsy one more time, I really will throw a hairbrush at you.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” Mary stopped herself in the midst of a knee bend. She straightened and ducked her head in an awkward little bob. “Sorry, m’lady,” She sneaked a quick glance at Robyn. “‘Mayhap ‘tis lucky for me I have your hairbrush in the pocket of my apron.”

  Robyn laughed. “Good heavens, Mary, did you actually make a joke?”

  The maid flushed, but didn’t answer, and Robyn decided not to push the issue. She flared open the fan, gasping when she saw it fully extended. The ivory sticks were carved into an exquisite lacy pattern, but it was the painting on the pink silk fan that took her breath away. She was accustomed to seeing fans that were faded by a hundred or so years of use and storage. The brilliant colors and gleaming gold decoration on this fan were all vibrantly new, and she sighed with pleasure at the sheer, frivolous appeal of its painted butterflies, strutting peacocks, and dancing ladies.

  “I can get you another fan if you prefer, my lady, but that one matches the ribbons on your dress.”

  “This one is lovely,” Robyn said. The little clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour and she closed the fan. “Three o’clock already. I must hurry.”

  “Yes, my lady. Lord knows, you would never wish to keep the master waiting.”

  Robyn swung around. “What does that mean?” Wait, let me guess. Before the accident, Lady Arabella always kept her husband waiting, right?”

  Mary stared at the pile of petticoats on the bed. “You always kept everyone waiting,” she said after a long pause.

  “Did I?” Robyn touched the maid lightly on her arm. “That took courage,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  Mary was startled into looking up. “Whatever for, my lady?”

  Robyn smiled ruefully. “For telling me the truth, even though it was unpleasant.”

  Mary shuffled her feet. “You’re welcome, my lady.”

  * * *

  William was seated by the fire, reading a book, when Robyn entered the drawing room. He rose at once to his feet, setting the book on a small boulle table and sweeping into a bow. “My lady, what a pleasant surprise! You are not only on time, but looking ravishing as well. Indeed, I cannot recall when you appeared more splendid.”

  His compliments pleased Robyn more than she wanted to admit. Having spent the past half hour berating the maid for her endless curtsies, Robyn wasn’t quite sure why she decided to sink into a deep, formal curtsy herself. She was surprised at how smoothly she dipped into the correct position, even more surprised to find that she instinctively waited in her kneeling position, head bowed, skirts cascading around her in a billow of rose-trimmed burgundy satin.

  William crossed the room and extended his hand to raise her up. As if the muscles of her body were working to a preordained pattern, Robyn flicked open her fan, fluttered it in front of her face, and peeped flirtatiously over the silken edge. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured.

  William’s eyes gleamed with mocking appreciation. “Magnificent, my dear. I never fail to marvel at the perfection with which you convey that impression of blushing shyness,

  Robyn snapped the fan shut. “For centuries women have been taught to simper,” she said, strung by his cynicism—and the fact that it was justified. “Do you wonder if it becomes second nature to us? Look at your own children and you can see them learning the rules to perfection. George and Freddie are encouraged to romp around outside and get up to all kinds of mischief, whereas Clementine is confined to the house and taken care of by nursemaids who worry only about her clothes and how neatly her sash is tied. When she’s trying to make friends with me, all she can think of to say is that I am pretty.”

  “She is an intelligent child,” William said coolly. “She has learned well how to please you.”

  Robyn flushed with frustration. “Tell me something, my lord. Do you dislike me as much as it appears, or am I imagining the venomous undertones in everything you say to me?”

  She was glad to see that she had startled him, even if not enough to strip away his habitual mask of ironic courtesy. He recovered quickly, and bowed low over her hand, not quite kissing the tips of her fingers. “My lady, how can you accuse me of such an ungallant emotion? You know I am a slave to your extraordinary beauty.”

  “Right. I can tell I’m a real favorite with you.”

  William looked at her, and for a moment his mask slipped and she saw puzzlement in his gaze. “Let us not destroy the pleasure of our first dinner together since your accident,” he said at last. “Why do we not put the past behind us and simply agree that we are going to enjoy each other’s company over the next hour or so?”

  “A charming reply, my lord, except that you didn’t answer my question. No matter. You may take me into dinner and entertain me with witty epigrams about the current political situation, or maybe the latest London plays, and I will flutter my fan and pretend to be lost in admiration of your superior masculine wisdom.”

  “Let us not strain your powers of acting,” William said dryly. “You do not share my views on either plays or politics.”

  Robyn spoke without stopping to think. “Frankly, I’d be surprised if Arabella had any political views, other than the inalienable right of the aristocracy to behave exactly as it pleases and be damned to the consequences.”

  “It is the duty of all ranks, however noble, to obey the King and honor their obligations to society,” William said. He looked so self-righteous that Robyn wondered if she had really heard a faint note of mockery in his voice. She watched as he cast a swift glance toward the lackeys stationed in pairs at either end of the room, then turned back to offer her his arm, face wiped clean of all expression.

  “Are you ready to go into dinner now, my dear? I believe that the chef has prepared several of your special favorites.” He nodded toward one of the lackeys, who immediately flung open the double doors leading into the dining room. A table was r
evealed, laden with covered silver chafing dishes and platters of roasted meats.

  No, she hadn’t been imagining the subtle thread of mockery in his voice, Robyn decided, but she wondered why William felt the need to conceal his political views. Was it the servants he worried about, or Lady Arabella? If it was the servants, his reticence was surprising. He seemed perfectly willing to discuss anything else, including the most intimate details of their personal relationship.

  Robyn mentally raked over her scanty knowledge of eighteenth-century history as two white-wigged footmen assisted her into a chair, and the majordomo himself began serving the meal. If she remembered correctly, various combinations of European countries had been at war with each other for most of the century. Other than the fact that England and France were always on opposite sides, and the King of Prussia wanted to grab bits of the Austro-Hungarian empire, Robyn couldn’t remember who had fought whom, or why. Even if she had been able to remember, foreign wars hardly seemed a subject to set William’s steel nerves jangling. England in the eighteenth century enjoyed the most liberal government of any country in Europe, and William would have no reason to conceal his views on foreign policy from his own servants.

  “I see that you have acquired a taste for stewed calf’s brains,” William remarked, interrupting her reverie. “The chef will be pleased to learn that you have eaten so heartily.”

  “Stewed what?” Robyn—the woman who considered rare steak an adventure in exotic dining—looked down at her plate and realized that she had consumed several forkfuls of a gray pulpy mound piled in the center of her plate. She reached for her gilt wine goblet, swigged a hearty gulp of sweet red wine, and managed to refrain from gagging.

  “Could someone please take this plate away,” she said faintly, relieved when the footman hovering behind her chair instantly whisked the horrible mush away. For once, she appreciated the advantage of having swarms of servants waiting to indulge her every whim.

  “Would you care for some buttered carrots?” William asked politely as the footman provided her with a clean silver plate. “I can recommend them.”

  Carrots seemed innocuous enough, and Robyn served herself generously. She was hungry, but she didn’t want to risk more surprises of the calf-brain type. “Are there any potatoes?” she asked, deciding that the chef couldn’t have done anything too dreadful to potatoes.

  The well-trained servants made no sound, but she felt the electric current of shock that rippled through them, as if she had mentioned something unspeakably vulgar. William cleared his throat. “We... er... don’t serve potatoes at the table, my dear.”

  “Why ever not?” she asked. “I distinctly remember that Sir Walter Raleigh brought them back to England from his first voyage to America. He presented a sack of them to Queen Elizabeth the First, and she died ages ago. So you know all about potatoes even if you are determined to pretend this is the year 1746.”

  A footman dropped a spoon, and the majordomo glared at him. Robyn saw the footman stare at her surreptitiously as he bent to pick up the spoon.

  “We do, indeed, know all about potatoes,” William said. He spoke soothingly, as if addressing an idiot, or the lunatic they all seemed to consider her. “I am most impressed by your knowledge of our nation’s history, my dear. However, you must have forgotten that potatoes are not served at the table here in Starke Manor.”

  “I still don’t understand why.”

  “Even the poorest laborers refuse to eat potatoes until their supplies of bread and cheese are completely exhausted. At Starke, we grow them only to feed the pigs during winter.”

  “What a waste!” Robyn took another swallow of wine that, so far, seemed far and away the best thing about dinner. “Well, at least I’ve found something useful to do tomorrow.”

  “And what is that, my dear?”

  She smiled, mellow enough from the wine not to resent his patronizing tone. “I’ll show the chef how to cook potatoes. He’s going to be thrilled with all the wonderful new dishes he’ll be able to prepare once I’ve given him a few lessons. Wait until you taste a baked potato topped with sour cream and chives and you’ll regret all those crops that you’ve been wasting on the pigs.”

  William’s eyes gleamed, whether with laughter or with alarm she wasn’t quite sure. “My dear, I am thrilled by this burst of domestic enthusiasm on your part, but I must beg you to stay away from the chef. He has a very high opinion of his own dignity and would not, I fear, respond well to cooking lessons. Indeed, if you insist on entering his kitchen, he will undoubtedly return to France on the next available schooner.”

  Robyn shook her head. “No, he won’t. Jean-Luc’s threats are all Gallic hot air and no substance. Besides, he’s in love with Sukie, and he has no interest whatsoever in leaving Starke.”

  William’s blue eyes turned almost black with astonishment. “Jean-Luc is in love with Sukie?” he said. “And how, pray, did you acquire this astonishing piece of information?”

  “Jean-Luc told me himself. He would like to be married at Christmas time, but there are still some problems to be worked out. Sukie wants the wedding to be in the local parish church and Jean-Luc, of course, is a Catholic.”

  “A definite dilemma. I am most curious to know how you advised him.”

  “I suggested that since there are no Catholic churches in England, and virtually no Catholic priests, there’s not much point in agonizing over an abstract issue. He either marries Sukie in the local parish church, or he doesn’t marry her at all. Theology doesn’t really enter into the discussion.”

  “Dare one inquire how Jean-Luc responded to your most practical advice?”

  Robyn chuckled. “He sputtered a great deal of outraged French and waved his hands a lot. But Sukie told me this morning that they’re planning to meet with the vicar on Sunday to arrange for the calling of the banns.”

  William’s gaze lingered on her smile, then his mouth tightened and he inclined his head in ironic acknowledgment. “Congratulations, my lady. It seems that your talent for persuading reluctant males to the altar has soared to new heights.”

  His words sliced into her, inflicting totally irrational pain. “You have no reason to sound bitter, my lord. From everything I’ve heard, you couldn’t wait to walk down the aisle and claim me as your bride.”

  “You are right, my lady.” William raised his glass in an ironic toast, but his eyes flashed ice-blue fire. “I claimed my hotly contested prize and have enjoyed eight years of marital bliss as my reward.”

  “Stop sounding so sorry for yourself,” Robyn snapped. “It takes two to screw up a marriage, you know.” She pushed back her chair, impatient with herself for feeling wounded by his snide comments. She wished his arrogant features didn’t bear a haunting similarity to Zach’s. That slight resemblance must be why she felt this crazy need to make peace with a man whose sensitivity level hovered somewhere between Neanderthal and Napoleonic.

  She stormed across the room, the satisfying swish of her skirts helping to soothe her lacerated nerves. Two lackeys sprang forward to open the doors for her, but she declined their help with a quick shake of her head. “Thank you, but I really can twist a doorknob for myself.” She left the dining room with a flourish.

  William had been driving her to distraction, but as soon as she arrived in her bedroom she felt oddly restless. Baby Zach and Annie were both sleeping in front of the fire, and she had no desire to waken either of them. Dusk was closing in, but she wasn’t tired, and the prospect of the long, empty evening yawned ahead of her. She was pacing the room when she heard the sound of footsteps marching down the hallway, and her stomach gave an odd little lurch of excitement. She swung around just as William flung open the door and strode into her bedroom.

  The baby snuffled into his shawls but remained sleeping. Annie choked on a snore and woke up. “Leave us,” William said to Annie, not even bothering to glance in her direction.

  “Stay,” Robyn said, her gaze locking defiantly with William’s. />
  The maid, of course, obeyed her master, scuttling from the room with her head bowed, but leaving Zach in his cradle. Robyn raised her chin defiantly, furious that she had laid herself open to Annie’s snub, but she said nothing. She wouldn’t demean herself by repeating her command to the nursemaid, and hell could freeze over before she would speak to William. She walked over to the window, deliberately turning tier back on him.

  She heard the door close, then his voice came from behind her, quiet and steady. “I owe you an apology,” he said.

  It was the last thing, expected to hear, and she turned around, staring at him in surprise. He shrugged. “Sometimes it seems that we cannot help but hurt each other, even when we do not wish to wound.”

  The lamps had not been lit and his face was in shadow. She wished, suddenly, that she could see his features more clearly, but the flames of the fire provided at best a fickle, flickering glow and his expression wasn’t easy to decipher. He stood beside Zach’s cradle, his gaze fixed on his son. She thought he looked unbearably sad, but that might have been no more than a fireside illusion.

  “Did you ever love me, William?” she asked, not sure where the question sprang from but caring very much about his reply. “Truly love me, I mean, and not just lust after the beautiful, desirable body of Lady Arabella Bowleigh?”

  He looked up, his eyes darkening with sudden understanding. “So that is your game,” he murmured. “‘Zounds, my lady, I had not thought you would strive for so impossible a victory.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “But I, my lady, understand you all too well.”

  “Great. I’m delighted to hear it. Because I’ve not the faintest idea what you’re talking abou—”

  He laughed softly. “Have you not? Then I will make my meaning absolutely clear. Do not aim so high, my lady, and your chances of success will be greater. It is just possible that you could one day inspire me with renewed lust for that delectable body of yours. But there is no chance in hell that I would ever again allow myself to crave possession of your heart.”