Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  Del saw recognition dawn in Camden’s eyes, saw a blush creep up his neck, and she found herself wanting to laugh, to go to him, and to scurry into her townhouse all at the same time. She saw his eyes flick to where Blakely’s hand rested on her gown, and then up to Blakely’s face, and when Camden’s blush intensified she knew he had just realized that it was not Lord Ashe who was embracing her. A strange sensation rippled through her, and it took her a moment to realize it was the unfamiliar feeling of embarrassment. But why should she care if Camden had seen her with both Ashe and Blakely? He was nothing to her, this tall stranger with the last traces of childhood still clinging to his lean frame and soft eyes. She would simply turn away from him and break the piercing gaze that seemed to root her to the ground, as soon as —

  “Del? What’s wrong?” Blakely’s voice finally caught her attention.

  “What? Oh, nothing — just searching for my key — ” Del looked down at her reticule, saw the glint of fading sunlight off brass, and triumphantly held up her key as she turned around to face Blakely. She tried to focus only on him, but the hair at the nape of her neck rose, and she knew Camden still stared at her. “Let’s go inside.”

  Blakely searched her face for a moment and then looked beyond her to where Camden was surely still standing across the street. Del took Blakely’s arm, drawing his gaze back to her, and she led him up the stone stairs to her townhouse. “You may wish to stand on the sidewalk all evening, but I am going inside,” she said.

  Del fumbled as she hurriedly tried to fit her key in the lock. She felt strangely exposed there on the steps, like her deepest secrets had been unearthed. With a sigh, she told herself to stop being ridiculous. She finally managed to unlock the door, and quickly ushered Blakely inside, eager to shut the door on Camden and his unsettling stare.

  “What has gotten into you?” Blakely asked. “You seem so distracted. Is it something to do with the man — ”

  “Nothing has gotten into me,” Del said as she peeled off her gloves. She threw them and her reticule onto the mahogany side table. “I am going to go change out of my gown. Why don’t you go into the study and pour us some brandy? I need something to wash the taste of Jane’s gin from my mouth.”

  Del started up the stairs before Blakely could respond. By the time she reached her bedroom, she had already removed the pins from her hair, and was shaking the blonde curls loose until they fell down around her shoulders. She struggled out of her gown, corset, and chemise, and then slipped into a red silk robe. She turned to go back downstairs, carefully avoiding the full-length mirror that stood near the door of her bedroom. She didn’t want to catch a glimpse of herself, didn’t want to see how the passage of time had stamped fine lines around eyes dimmed by too much experience. She wasn’t exactly in her dotage yet — she was only twenty-eight — but the weight of a difficult and complicated life often made her feel much older than her actual years.

  Del slowly descended the stairs, the marble risers cool against her bare feet. Although she tried to confine her thoughts to the fact that Blakely and brandy were waiting in the study, she found they kept drifting to the look on Camden’s face when he recognized her. But why should he be stuck in her mind? Why should she be thinking of this young man — this mere child — when an old friend sat waiting just down the hall? Del shook her head as if to physically wipe Camden’s image from her mind, and went to the study.

  Blakely was indeed waiting for her, sitting on the settee, holding a brandy tumbler in one hand while the other idly plucked at the burgundy upholstery. He shifted when he heard her come in, and then leaned casually against one of the settee’s arms. Del walked over to the sideboard, took the glass of brandy Blakely had poured for her, and went to sit in the wingback chair opposite the settee. She took a long sip of the brandy, peering at Blakely over the rim of the tumbler.

  This was the man that should be occupying her thoughts. Blakely was everything Camden was not: he was broad shouldered, with steely muscles that flexed and strained against the fine wool of his coat. He had none of Camden’s gawkiness, none of that golden innocence. Blakely moved with cool assuredness, radiating power and grace and a wealth of experience. Where Camden’s mien was a reflection of his guilelessness, Blakely’s dark hair, gleaming green eyes, and the ever-present hint of stubble that lined his hard jaw telegraphed a mysterious sense of danger that Del had always found exciting. Yet it was Camden, this young man she didn’t even know, that she was suddenly picturing underneath her, with his large hands running over her naked body.

  She grew warm at the images in her mind, her nipples hardening until they chafed against the silk of her robe.

  “Rather introspective tonight, aren’t we, dear?” Blakely asked.

  The picture of Camden dissolved and vanished at the sound of Blakely’s voice. “My mind does seem to be wandering,” Del said.

  “Come, sit next to me,” Blakely said as his gaze traveled to where Del’s robe gaped open, revealing the curve of one breast and her nipple still hard from imagination. “I’ll banish all wayward thoughts and replace them with dark and wicked ones.”

  Del sat silent for a moment, watching Blakely’s gaze rove over her body. Then she stood, and murmured “not tonight” as she walked over to the sideboard to pour herself more brandy. She heard him approaching her, and then he pressed against her, pinning her against the sideboard. One of his large hands snaked around to her belly, untying the sash of her robe and pulling it open, exposing her bare skin to the cool evening air. Without thinking, she spread her legs and arched her back, and Blakely thrust against her until she could feel him harden.

  “My God, I want you,” Blakely said against her ear as his hands cupped her breasts, lifting and squeezing until they ached from pleasure.

  Del felt him pull away from her, and she realized he was fumbling to open his breeches. Her body reacted instinctively with anticipation. She began to pull her robe up to her hips, and was about to murmur his name when she froze, letting the silk fall back around her ankles.

  It hadn’t been Blakely’s name about to tumble from her lips at all, but Camden’s. Dear God, why could she not get him out of her head?

  “I can’t do this tonight, Blakely,” Del said, her voice raspy, as she quickly retied her robe. She grabbed her brandy from the sideboard and went back to the chair to sit down.

  “Bloody hell,” Blakely spat, panting in frustration, his brows furrowed and his hands fisted at his sides. “I want you.”

  “That’s most apparent,” Del said, looking pointedly to where his erect cock still strained against his breeches. “But you know our arrangement, what you agreed to before you ever decided to consort with me. You know that I am not obligated to have sex with you if I choose not to.”

  “Not that — well, yes that,” Blakely said as he adjusted his breeches. “But that’s not what I meant.”

  Confused, Del looked at him, her gaze following him as he walked stiffly back to the settee and sat down on its edge. “What did you mean, then?”

  Blakely leaned forward, and Del knew he wanted to come to her, to touch her or sit next to her. But he didn’t, and Del could see how hard he struggled to keep himself in check. “I want you to myself,” he said, his gaze steady. “I want you to give up all the others.”

  Del blinked, taken aback. “Blakely,” she said, and her tone made it sound like a warning. “You know that is the last thing I want.”

  “I could offer you security,” he said quickly. “I could you give you all the financial support you need, whatever you want.”

  “But I notice matrimony is not on the table.”

  Blakely paled, swallowed hard. “If that’s what it takes … ” he said, his voice strangled.

  “Oh my.” Del laughed. “The consummate bachelor Blakely is actually proposing marriage? Don’t scowl at me, Blakely, engagements should be a joyous o
ccasion.”

  “Dammit, Del — ” Blakely started to rise from the settee, but Del raised a hand to stop him.

  “I can’t — I won’t put myself at the mercy of any one person.” Del’s tone had turned serious. “I’ve worked too hard, struggled too much for my independence and freedom to just throw it away. To put myself in the one situation I’ve spent my life trying to avoid.”

  “Blast you and your damned independence. Is it really worth so much that you will cling to it at the exclusion of all else?”

  Del bristled. “What else is there that matters?”

  “How about security? How about companionship? Or love?”

  “You know I love you, we’ve been dear friends for almost a decade now.”

  Blakely gave a rueful laugh. “We’re friends, yes, but I doubt you even know what love is. You are so careful to keep people at a distance, with all of your stupid ‘arrangements.’ And you will never let anyone in, will you? You hide here in this damned townhouse, all alone, no servants or anyone about, only taking visitors on your own terms, and pushing anyone away who tries to get too close.”

  “I am not alone,” Del said, carefully schooling her features to appear light and flippant. “I always have Mrs. Tiddles to keep me company and keep me out of trouble.”

  Blakely’s face darkened. “There you go, making stupid jests to avoid any uncomfortable conversation.” He squinted at her for a moment, looking as though he wanted to shout at her and only the barest thread of self-restraint stopped him. “Your imaginary great-aunt does not actually count as a companion,” he said finally, his voice soft and carefully controlled. “Though how you’ve managed to fool everyone with that silly ruse and convince them you are merely a respectable woman living with her aunt is beyond me.”

  “I manage to fool everyone because people want to be fooled. They see what they want to see and believe what they want to believe.” She sounded almost angry, or perhaps it was just a note of practical resignation that had turned her voice hard. “Denial must be the most powerful force on earth; it makes all unpleasant truths disappear. It makes the poor and sick invisible, it makes the nobility useful, and it makes whores into respectable women.” Del gulped her brandy, coughing and wiping the sticky liquid from her lips. She shifted in her chair, only now noticing the silk robe had fallen open, exposing her long legs up to the thigh. “In any event, society does not concern itself so much with a twenty-eight-year-old spinster who keeps to herself, not when there are so many more important rich and titled children to keep track of.”

  They regarded each other in silence for a moment, both frustrated, both wary.

  “You will never allow it to happen, will you?” Blakely said, his voice low and quiet.

  Del arched a brow. “Allow what?” she asked.

  “You will never allow anyone to love you. You will never let your defenses down.” Blakely got up with a jerk, and walked over to the side table to pour more brandy. He grabbed the decanter with a clenched hand, brandy sloshing over the rim of the tumbler as he poured it.

  “You are so untouchable,” he said as he returned to stand in front of Del’s chair. “Like an orchid under glass. Beautiful, exotic — and forever out of reach. But someday, someone will come along who will shatter the glass, who will ignore the jagged edges and reach inside and grab you. And you will be powerless to stop it.” His gaze slid from hers, and he peered into the tumbler, as if searching for some elusive answer marinating at the bottom. “God knows I’m not brave enough to attempt it.” He gave a sort of helpless laugh, and then anger seized his features. He threw his tumbler against the far wall and stalked out of the study while the shards of glass still rained down to the floor.

  Chapter Three

  “Why I let you drag me to these low-class soirees of yours, Farber, I will never know.” Wittingham smoothed his wool coat as he walked, picking at an invisible speck of lint and straightening his already impeccable cravat.

  “Because deep down in that snobby little heart of yours, you know you love them,” Farber said with a laugh as he poked Wittingham, causing his friend to frown and smooth his coat yet again. “You enjoyed the other party you attended at Jane’s. And you are as eager as I to force Camden here to have a bit of fun.” He gave Camden a playful shove.

  “I am the epitome of fun,” Camden said sardonically.

  “Not since you started your employment,” Hollsworth piped up from behind the group. “You haven’t gone out a single night since you started working for your father. Not very nice of you, really, to leave Farber without funds to lose at the hazard table.”

  Farber turned to scowl at Hollsworth. “I have been doing just fine in the funds department, thank you,” he said, not quite mustering up any plausible indignation.

  “Yes, you have been doing quite well since you took up with that silly chit of an actress,” Wittingham said. “What’s her name? Millie? Mary?”

  “Mare,” Farber said.

  Hollsworth laughed. “Yes, since you’ve been riding — ”

  “No, don’t do it,” Wittingham admonished. “I cannot abide any poorly crafted allusions to Farber and his activities with his equine-monikered mistress.” Wittingham turned to look at his friend, and when it looked like he was about to say something else, Wittingham raised a hand to cut him off. “I mean it, Hollsworth, enough with your bad puns and horrible jests.” Once satisfied that Hollsworth wasn’t about to spout out another one of his famously cringe-inducing jokes, Wittingham turned back to Farber. “Really Farber, I should be quite used to your antics by now, but to allow some woman to support you … that seems too base for even you.”

  “I may allow her to give me a shilling here and there, but I give her plenty in return,” Farber said as he cupped the front of his breeches. “Almost more than she can handle,” he added with a smug a laugh. Behind him, Hollsworth snorted gleefully at the innuendo.

  “You do realize that makes you a common prostitute, don’t you?” Wittingham said, the edges of his lips curling up in a poorly concealed smirk.

  Farber’s expression was suddenly devoid of smugness. “I — I’m not — ”

  “You’re a whore!” Hollsworth yelled, laughing louder. He gave Farber a shove, causing him to stumble before he shoved Hollsworth back.

  Leaving the two men to scuffle harmlessly behind them, Wittingham turned to Camden. “Worthless cads,” Wittingham muttered, but Camden heard the note of brotherly affection in his tone that belied his harsh words and haughty demeanor.

  “They’re just young, and too fun-loving for their own good,” Camden said with a glance back at their friends. Farber now had Hollsworth’s head under his arm, clamped tightly to his side, and Farber mussed his hair while Hollsworth yelled, “Let go!” and, “Ouch, dammit!”

  “I suppose we were like that once,” Wittingham sighed, slowing his pace so Farber and Hollsworth wouldn’t fall too far behind. “But then things happened to make us abandon our carefree ways — like you becoming employed and me being older than ten.”

  Camden grinned. “You can’t fool me, Wittingham. You aren’t nearly as priggish as you pretend to be.”

  “No, I’m far worse. I suspect it is my advanced age — ”

  “You’re only twenty-five!”

  “Yes, but sometimes those six years that separate me from them — ” Wittingham made a vague gesture in the direction of Farber and Hollsworth, “ — seem more like decades.”

  “Really, Wittingham, you’ll have yourself in the grave before you’re thirty.”

  “And perhaps it will be not a moment too soon. Ahh, I believe this is the townhouse.” Wittingham said before Camden could respond. He stopped walking and turned to Farber, who was still scuffling with Hollsworth. “Stop that, man, and tell me if we’ve found the place.”

  Farber released Hollsworth from a headlock a
nd squinted up at the townhouse. “This is it,” he said. “This is Jane’s house.”

  Farber leapt up the stairs and rapped on the door. It opened a moment later, noise and cigar smoke seeming to tumble from the house and pour out onto the street.

  “Jane!” Farber said in greeting to the woman who stood in the doorway. “You’ve missed me, haven’t you? Fear not, I have finally come, and look, I’ve brought Wittingham, Camden, and Hollsworth.”

  “And now the party can finally begin,” Jane said flatly. There was the sound of breaking glass, and the voices behind her swelled into raucous laughter, as if the people inside were in on the joke.

  “Perhaps the party has already begun,” Farber said, unfazed by Jane’s sarcasm, “but at least now it can get good.”

  Jane turned her gaze from Farber and looked over his friends. Camden felt strangely exposed by her inspection. She was an unsettling creature — one who seemed to reside in the twilight of unclassification. She was attractive, yet none of her features taken singly would be pleasing in themselves. Her eyes were too large, her nose too long, her jaw too severe — yet it all added up to an arresting whole. She was poised, almost regal, but as an actress, Camden knew she couldn’t have come from well-bred stock. Her voice was slightly too high pitched to be strictly pleasant, yet she spoke with such seductive authority that Camden thought there would be few who would hesitate to obey her every command.

  “If you are the missing ingredient to a perfect party,” Jane said, drawing her gaze back to Farber, “then I suppose I should not deprive anyone of your presence for a second longer.” She stepped inside the doorway, and gestured for the men to come inside, taking coats and hats and canes as they passed.