Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

I’m staring. Quickly she pretended to swab a spot of wine at her waist. Her breath went shallow and her thoughts scattered, but a smile tipped the corners of her lips. She’d had the great good fortune to be trod upon by one of Devon’s most elusive bachelors, Hugh Davenport, Earl of Bruxburton — one of the few gentlemen who’d failed to call at Fairland. A pulse of pain reminded her of her foot. “I … I think I need to sit down,” she told him.

  “Ah yes … ” said Hugh, searching for an empty chair.

  Putting the tiniest bit of weight down, Ellie received a powerful jolt. “I’m afraid I’ll not be dancing again this evening.”

  Hugh’s back straightened and a hard look seeped into his eyes. Is he annoyed? she wondered.

  “Well, there must be a chair here somewhere.” He moved off on the hunt.

  Ellie took a few limping steps after him. “I’ll need your assistance.” He came back and eyed her suspiciously. “Your arm, in fact,” she told him.

  His lips hardened, but he looped her arm through his. As they passed a row of seated grande dams, every eye watched with envy.

  At an alcove, Hugh stopped to let her pass. “In here,” he said.

  “I can’t go in there alone with you.”

  “Did you see a free chair on the floor?” he said. “Because what I saw was a row of plump sugar plums, and none of them likely to abandon her seat.”

  “People will say I’ve been compromised.”

  “Nonsense. I couldn’t possibly compromise anyone in an alcove shielded by a simple palm tree. A young lady compromised in such a manner either wants to be or wants to pretend she was. Which one are you?”

  “Neither,” snapped Ellie.

  “Then sit.” He whacked back the palm revealing a gilded bench by the wall. “Besides,” he continued, following her into the alcove, “your reputation will swell in direct correlation to the amount of time spent in my company.”

  As she sat, she rolled her eyes. “La, what an extraordinary view of oneself,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear or ignore, as he saw fit.

  Hugh cocked an eyebrow. “I tell you nothing but the truth.”

  “But we haven’t even been properly introduced.”

  “Are you implying that you don’t know who I am?”

  A burning pricked her cheeks.

  He folded his arms. “I thought so.”

  Unable to think of a retort, Ellie straightened her skirts. “Well, as long as we’re here, would you be so kind as to bring over that footstool?”

  With stunning grace, he lifted the stool and placed it in front of her. She caught his eyes on her trim ankle as she rested her foot on the upholstery.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked.

  “Yes, just fine.” She tucked her skirt tight around the leg. He stepped back, assuming an air of indifference.

  She unlaced the ribbon affixing her slipper and massaged the damaged crown of her foot. A red bump had formed.

  “Not such a bad wound,” he said. “You’ll be dancing the next jig.”

  “It is swollen and throbbing,” she replied. “I may be confined to this alcove all evening.”

  He threw a haunted look over his shoulder at the ballroom.

  Ha, thinking of escape, are we? She smiled. “Are you back in Devon to stay?”

  “I am,” said Hugh. He peered through the palm fronds again. He wouldn’t look at her.

  Well, if he’s going to devastate my foot, I’ll jolly well make him suffer a bit, too, she decided. She twirled the magnificent strand of pearls about an index finger. “Lovely weather we’re having,” she said, reveling in his discomfort.

  A hand went through his hair, the picture of agitation. “Yes, rather.”

  “It already feels like summer.”

  “Exactly like summer — I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Were you, Lord Davenport? When?”

  “When … when?” He paced the alcove as if searching for the exact moment he realized it felt like summer. “When I was in the garden the other day.”

  “Ah, in the garden,” said Ellie. Was he sweating? Very possibly he was sweating. “Would you like your handkerchief back?”

  “Perhaps that would be best.” Snatching the crumpled cloth from her, he ignored his dewy brow and stuffed the linen in his pocket.

  Does he think I’d want to keep his silly handkerchief because of the insignia? The conceit of the man. “The spring foals will have a fine time of it with the warmer weather.”

  “I say, you’re an Albright, aren’t you?” he said, as if struck by a revelation. “Your family owns Manifesto.”

  Misery swept through her at the reminder of her father’s decision. “We do,” she said, swallowing.

  “He’s a speedy animal.”

  “Very fast, and he jumps like a winged angel.”

  “My guess is his offspring will be toppers.”

  “You predict correctly.”

  “Amazing luck, your father putting him up for auction — I’m planning to bid on him tomorrow.”

  Ellie’s throat went tight. “I beg your pardon?” she choked.

  “Yes, at the horse fair. You must have known. When else was he going to sell?”

  “I … I suppose I wasn’t thinking properly.”

  “You seem upset.”

  Ellie scarcely heard him. “Yes,” she said.

  Hugh flipped the tails of his coat and sat on the edge of the bench next to her. “You didn’t know Manifesto was on the block tomorrow, did you?”

  “Funny, no. I thought we’d have him a bit longer.”

  “Sorry for springing it on you.”

  Ellie couldn’t respond. Her thoughts were like the noise of a coach and six tearing through her brain.

  “Are you disheartened? Maybe I should get you something to drink. It could help.”

  She looked at him, and the sympathy in his eyes sliced at her last vestige of control. She turned away and blinked back tears. “I’m afraid I don’t want anything,” was all she could say. Silence filled the alcove like thick fog.

  Hugh blew out a long breath. “How’s your foot?”

  “It’s better,” she said, struggling to squeeze out the words.

  “That’s good. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can bring you?”

  Shoving agony to the farthest reaches of her heart, she said, “That’s all right. Would you mind leaving me alone?”

  “No, of course not,” he replied. “I suppose I’d feel the same way if Manifesto were my horse. But we’ve got some prime mares that will make him happ — ”

  “Could you fetch my chaperone?” she interrupted.

  “Are you quite sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine, my lord. Thank you for asking, but a moment alone is all I require.”

  Hugh hovered, backed toward the alcove’s opening. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and slipped through the palm.

  Seconds later he reappeared. “How will I know which chaperone is yours?”

  Ellie closed her eyes. She hated this man, this man who dared to try to take her horse. “According to your own self-assessment,” she hissed, “my chaperone will be the one paying closest attention to this alcove.”

  • • •

  Feisty thing, Hugh thought, scanning the room for anxious chaperones. Ach, God help him, his mother had an approving look in her eye. She must like the Albright girl.

  Another set of eyes fed on him. By the near wall sat a woman so large she seemed to have taken the chair into her flesh and consumed it whole. The chaperone. On the verge of approaching, he realized his mother would think he was inquiring about the Albright wench. Though the girl had looks, with her blue eyes and white hair, she was … well, entirely too appropria
te. Gad, every biddy with an eligible chit had her net out for him. Aristocratic pimping — the whole thing disgusted him.

  “Jake, take care of the young lady in the alcove for me, would you,” he told a bewigged footman in velvet livery. “She needs her chaperone. Do you see the woman sending that chair to its death? She’s the one.” He slipped the man a shilling, and caught the attention of a second liveried servant. “Give me a glass of that stuff you’re carrying.” Hugh tossed back the champagne in a single gulp. “Wait, Willy, another.”

  The footman grinned. “Lord Davenport, you’re a bit out of breath.”

  “A close call with a damsel in distress.”

  “Would you want a third, my lord, or will that glass hold you?”

  Hugh clapped the footman on the shoulder. “I’m good for now. I’ll hunt you down if I have any further frights.”

  It was a point of pride with Hugh that he knew most of the servants by name in the grand estates around Exeter. People of the lower classes were kind and generous. Whenever he’d had difficulties it was the serving class that came to his aid, not his mother, and certainly not the neighboring gentry.

  When his mother had scandalized the family name, the eyes of the upper classes went to slits as if studying him for signs of infectious disease. That is, until his father died, leaving him sole heir.

  As he strode through the ballroom, he could see the question on the lips of every doe-eyed girl and rapacious mother. Had he chosen the Albright girl? Do something before the gossips hit their stride! he told himself. Hortense, Lady Mortimer’s comely kitchen maid, popped into mind. With her fizzy hair and fleshy breasts, Hortense was always ready, willing, and able to rescue a gentleman in need.

  “My fellow revelers,” he said, joining the well-tailored Eton ne’re-do-wells he called his friends, “did you happen to see Hortense slopping sauce down someone’s cravat tonight?”

  “Why, are you in the market for a stain?” asked Poultney Bigalow.

  “A blot on the family crest?” added Algernon Swift.

  “A saucy piece to wrap around your neck?” Poultney added, raising his eyebrows.

  “Bawdy bunch,” Hugh said. “Our Hortense may have a giddy hand with a platter, but she’s unmatched at extracting a fellow from a parson’s mousetrap.”

  Algie saluted. “Godspeed, man. I believe I spied your protector feeding trays to the footmen.”

  • • •

  Hortense’s pert behind led the way directly into Hugh’s groin as she backed through the kitchen door balancing a tray of oysters in one hand and a magnum of champagne in the other.

  “Can you help me out of a tight spot?” Hugh said, pushing her back through the door.

  “Blimey, let me hand over me oysters, at least.” Hortense giggled. “Now here’s a first — Lord Davenport finally takin’ advantage of me charms.”

  “You’re a generous doxie,” said Hugh, his eyes twinkling. “Always there for a man when he needs her.”

  “Oooo, you’re a wicked one, my lord. Remember, I don’t have a lot of time. I got me oysters.”

  “Follow me closely,” he told her.

  Hugh sauntered through the ballroom with Hortense trailing behind. As he passed his mother, he swung behind the maid, giving her a little pinch on the bottom. Hortense skipped and giggled as his mother’s lips tightened.

  “You were perfection,” Hugh said, outside the doors to the ballroom, beyond his mother’s view. “That pit of cunning baggage would have me shackled and married by morning.”

  “Poor lad,” said Hortense. “You’re a fine treasure for the ladies.”

  “And they are an unseemly lot of tricksters,” he replied.

  “We can duck into the closet near the lady’s retiring room,” Hortense said, pulling Hugh down the hall.

  “Nay Hortense, you’ve already served your purpose.”

  The maid’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. “But I’ve always had a longing for ye. You talk to us nice in the kitchen — as if we was friends.”

  “Well, you are my friends,” said Hugh. “Which is why I can’t stuff you in the closet outside the lady’s retiring room. You’ve done me a favor, so let me give you a token of gratitude.” He fished around in his pocket, producing a shiny gold guinea.

  “Lawkes, my lord, a guinea! All’s I did was walk you from the ballroom.”

  “And saved me from the Devon marriage market — truly a worthy service.”

  Overcome with excitement, Hortense threw her beefy arms about his neck. “Any favor for you, my lord, is a favor to me.”

  A strangled “Oh!” interrupted the embrace. Hugh disengaged from Hortense and looked full into the horrified eyes of the damsel he’d led limping from the dance floor.

  • • •

  Shock rocketed through Ellie. She couldn’t move. Mouth open, she stared at Hugh, deep in the arms of the Mortimers’ kitchen maid — face buried in her breasts — a golden guinea glinting like a beacon in the wench’s wash-reddened hand.

  “Like to join us?” Hortense said. “Three’s welcome company.” She threw her frizzed head back and gave a full-throated laugh.

  Ellie backed away from the pair. Forgetting her hurt foot, she turned and ran into the ballroom — straight into her sister Peggity.

  “Ellie, you look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  “No,” she replied. “I have seen the devil.”

  Chapter Two

  Well after the last snuffed candle had cooled, Ellie lay awake, tossing, turning, and jostling the cats that boxed her legs onto a sliver of mattress. She couldn’t rid her encounter with Hugh Davenport at the Mortimers’ ball from her mind. What would a cad like that do to her horse? A womanizer, a rogue, possibly a gambler, and drunkard? She shivered under the blankets, though the night was warm.

  Unable to live with her thoughts another second, she hurled back the covers, pushed her feet into slippers, and threw on a dressing gown. Manifesto shouldn’t be alone tonight, and she couldn’t bear to be without him.

  Though she approached the barn on tiptoe, the stallion heard her. He nickered in a low, soft rumble, throwing his head over the Dutch door of his stall. In the pale moonlight his dapple gray coat glowed like pearls. The beauty of him stabbed deep. His soft nostrils fanned with the smell of apple in her pocket. He munched his treat into foam, then used her dressing gown as a napkin — his head rubbing up and down her side. She had to brace herself to keep her feet. “Oh you animal,” she said, murmuring into the horse’s muzzle. “How desperately I’m going to miss you.”

  She threw her arms around Manifesto’s neck and kissed his soft muzzle. The stallion breathed sweet apple and hay scent on her cheek. She smiled in spite of her grief. “Do you know you’re the best friend I ever had?” Tears spilled from her eyes and guttered into Manifesto’s white mane. Her unhappiness upset him. He pawed his straw and tossed his head.

  “You’re right, darling,” she told him, gently rubbing his eyes. “You need to get some sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow.”

  Ellie patted the horse’s neck, ran her hand down his back, and tried to walk away. Her feet would not go. She smoothed knots in his mane, and again, tried to leave, but the pain doubled.

  What will I do with my days? I can’t sit with my sisters in the parlor sewing, reading, embroidering. I’ll go mad. Chest cramped with sorrow, she rested her head against the horse’s withers and closed her eyes.

  A jolt snapped Ellie to attention, catching herself as her knees buckled. Sleep had almost dumped her on the floor. She swept a hand over Manifesto’s pearly coat, down the neck, across the barrel to the haunches, until her fingers dropped from his rump. In the empty stall next to his, she lay down in the straw and closed her eyes. She would stay with her stallion until … until he was gone.

  • • •
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br />   Dawn pinked the window when Ellie woke to the sound of loud voices. “What in bloody hell’s the matter with you? Get him out and get him going!” she heard Lank shout.

  Manifesto snorted and smacked the side of his stall with a vicious kick. “He don’t like to handle for nobody but Lady Ellie,” she heard head groom Jimmy James explain.

  “To hell with that,” Lank said. “Throw a rope around him and cut his wind.”

  Ellie blazed out of the adjacent stall. “Cease and desist, sir!”

  Lank whirled on her. “What in bloody hell are you doing here?”

  “You forget, sir, that my father is lord of this estate. I insist you leave my horse alone.”

  “He’s not your horse anymore, and you, showing up in the barn in naught but your night shift. That ought to cause quite a stir in the scandal sheets.”

  Ellie grabbed a horse blanket and drew it around her shoulders. “I won’t be intimidated by you, Mr. Lank.”

  “You’d be better off if you were. Are you going to lead the horse, or shall I?”

  “Help you? No, by God.”

  “Then the bloody beast needs to learn his new boss.” Lank hauled Jimmy James from the stall. With a vicious smack, he banged a rolled up bullwhip against the enclosure wall.

  Manifesto shied, snorting in fury. Crack! went the whip. The stallion aimed his rump at Lank, and the bullwhip landed hard on the horse’s haunches. Manifesto crashed into the walls.

  “Are you mad?” Ellie screamed. “Let him alone!” The whip cracked again and again.

  She tore at Lank’s arm, grabbed his coat collar, pulled his hair — trying desperately to yank him away.

  “Look out!” Jimmy James shouted.

  The stallion, ears back, headed straight at Lank. Ellie leaped aside, and Lank dodged behind the half door as the horse charged from the stall.

  Manifesto galloped to one end of the barn just as a stable boy slammed the door shut. In a frenzy, the animal tore back down the aisle.

  “Calm, sweeting,” Ellie cooed, but her words were choked and frightened. Jimmy James took Ellie’s arm and pressed a bucket of oats into her hand. “Spare the horse another beating,” he said. “Help me tie him to the wagon.”