Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  Alec. He’d followed her, after all. He was suddenly towering over the stranger.

  “Carstairs, what an unpleasant surprise. The lady and I are having a private discussion.”

  Ignoring him, Alec turned to face her. “Are you all right?” Taking in her disheveled appearance, he added tersely, “Has he hurt you in any way?”

  “No, I am fine,” Annabelle replied, masking her relief. “I merely needed some fresh air.”

  “I meant no harm,” the man said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I was merely engaging in an innocent flirtation with a desirable woman.”

  “She’s little more than a child,” Alec bit out. And as offended as she was by his comment, this didn’t seem like a time to argue.

  “She is hardly a child, Carstairs,” the man drawled. “If she were, I doubt you’d be treating me to such a manly display.”

  She could sense the tension in Alec. He was keeping his temper in check, but just barely.

  “Who are you?” Annabelle asked. “Why are you here in my home?”

  “Your home?” His eyes widened with surprise. “You must be Miss Layton, Gareth’s sister. He and I are very close friends.”

  “Of late,” she said, “he has been less particular in his friendships.”

  The stranger darkened at that. “As it turns out, we are business partners of a sort. I am Damien Digby, at your service.”

  Gareth had been wrong. She could not like Mr. Digby.

  “How utterly perfect you are, Miss Layton. When your brother spoke of your beauty, I thought he exaggerated. I can see now he was being coy. I will look forward to seeing you inside.”

  With a cold look at Alec, he turned and strode purposefully toward the house.

  • • •

  “Don’t you know enough not to run off without a proper escort, Annabelle?” Alec demanded, anger sharpening his voice.

  At his tone, her own temper flared. “I was more than fine, Alec. I’ve grown … what was the word you used? Oh yes, big. I’m big now, like a sturdy tree out in the lawn. Perhaps if you think on it, you can come up with an even more unflattering term. In the meantime, I will take care of myself.”

  “Don’t be foolish. You don’t know what a man like that is capable of.”

  “You heard him say he meant no harm.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew they were false. She’d seen the look in Digby’s eyes.

  “He is a cad, the very worst sort.” Alec put a hand to the edge of his cravat, as if it were suddenly too tight. “And much as it pains me to say so, you are at an age when such men will seek you out.”

  “I cannot help the fact that I’ve grown up, Alec. I’m sorry the end result of it has been so unfortunate.”

  He met that statement with a long moment of silence, merely watching her in the moonlight, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I don’t think that is the right word.”

  She didn’t want to find out which word he would choose instead. Her confidence had been battered enough for one evening. “I have to return to the party.” She started to move away, but he put his hands on her shoulders to still her.

  “Have you really taken to carrying around pistols, Annabelle?”

  “Of course not. I was bluffing. I would never ruin the line of this lovely dress.”

  His eyes sparked briefly with amusement, and perhaps admiration. “Lovely as your dress is, you can’t return to the party looking as you do. Let me help you.”

  He reached down to loosen one of the diamond clips tangled in her hair, and slowly worked it free, standing so close she had to remind herself to breathe. He smelled of sandalwood and crisp, clean linen. “This one will also have to be reset,” he said, moving to the other clip, his amusement fading. In moments, the rest of her hair tumbled down to her waist, and he ran his fingers through its long length in an effort to smooth it. Then he cleared his throat, dropping his hands to his sides.

  “I’m not much of a lady’s maid.” He tucked the clips into her gloved hands and stepped back.

  “People will wonder what we’ve been doing out here in the dark,” she said, daring him to think of her that way. But his face was inscrutable, and she fought back a stab of frustration. “Of course, no one would suspect you of misbehaving. You are far too honorable. You’re practically my brother.”

  “I am not your brother, Annabelle. And I’m not as honorable as you think.” Abruptly, he turned toward the castle. “Follow me to the servants’ entrance, and go up to your room from there.” She hurried to keep up with his long strides. “Go straight to your maid,” he called over his shoulder. “Dinner will be served soon. Your absence will be noticed if you don’t hurry.”

  He was dismissing her, because she was a foolish girl he neither wanted nor needed. It was evident in every terse, clipped word.

  When they reached the house, she passed quietly through the doorway leading into the kitchen. In the confusion, as the staff prepared trays of food to be brought up for dinner, she was able to slip by unnoticed. In moments, she was up the stairs.

  • • •

  Only when she’d vanished from sight did Alec allow his careful control to slip. The ghosts of his past were all around him. He and Gareth and Annabelle, rolling down the hillside over there on that warm spring day, laughing aloud as governesses and tutors ran after them, bemoaning grass stains and inappropriate behavior. That long ago summer night, sitting with Annabelle on the bench behind the folly, her hand in his, because while she loved to look up at the stars, she was frightened of the dark. That afternoon when he’d come down from Oxford for a visit, and she leapt into his arms. His only searing thought had been, “how beautiful you’ve become.” That morning two years ago, when everything changed.

  He hadn’t been able to sleep. It had been intensely hot, even at that early hour of the morning, so he’d gone for a walk, hoping for a breeze. Hearing her laughter, he’d been drawn to it, never expecting to find Annabelle dancing in the fountain, a pagan goddess of the dawn, water coursing over every nearly naked curve. The pink tips of her breasts had been visible through her wet shift, and he’d felt like the worst sort of lecher for wanting her. Even now, he hardened at the memory, his mouth dry as dust.

  Annabelle was free in a way he’d never been, full of life and laughter. She was warm, vital, and sparkling, like flames in the night. But never had someone been more unsuited to the path that he must follow. His happiness was not his own. It did not matter that he wanted her, that he could no longer deny his desire. How shocked she’d be to know that while he had been untangling her hair, he’d been imagining it wound around him, her body naked beneath his own.

  Some men are born to titles, wealth, and prestige. And then there are…

  The Honorables

  No title. No power. No problem.

  In 1815 London, these five unlikely friends dwell on the fringes of Society, never to inherit their noble families' titles. But love's reach knows no bounds…

  A brand-new Regency series by

  Elizabeth Boyce

  Coming in fall 2014 to Crimson Romance.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  (From Once Upon a Wager by Julie LeMense)

  July 1808

  St. James Street, London

  Alec Carstairs, heir to the eighth Earl of Dorset, looked down at the letter on his desk, torn between feelings of frustration and something else he refused to acknowledge. Her handwriting was as awful as ever—undisciplined, like the young woman herself—but he knew better than to blame any long-suffering governess. Annabelle Layton did as she pleased. She always had, regardless of the consequences.

  Alec,

  I am sorry, as you well know. Two years is past time to forgive me, don’t you think? The whole episode is best forgotten. You needn’t miss Gareth’s party again. I do not, I believe, have a sickness that is catching.

  Please say you will come.

  Your erstwhile friend,

 
Annabelle Layton

  A ragged sigh escaped him, the force of it sending the missive skittering across his desk, a Tudor-era monstrosity sent over from his family’s London town home. Of course he’d forgiven her, if that was even the right word. She’d been so young then—just sixteen—uninhibited and free, with little thought for propriety or decorum. Forgetting the incident, however, was another matter entirely. It had irrevocably changed the way he saw her … to his everlasting shame.

  “My sister insisted I hand deliver it,” Gareth said, dropping himself into a tufted armchair across from the desk, startling Alec from his thoughts. He’d all but forgotten Layton’s presence in the room, an unintended slight that had thankfully gone unnoticed. Alec’s distraction would only have piqued Gareth’s curiosity. After all, Gareth, like Annabelle, wasn’t easily ignored. Both were golden haired and blue-eyed—a gift from the stunning Lady Layton. They’d been the boon companions of his otherwise lonely childhood. But none of them was a child anymore.

  “Say yes, Carstairs. If you are any kind of friend, you’ll not make me go back to Astley Castle by myself. God knows I’d rather stay in London.”

  So would Alec, but he undoubtedly had different reasons for that sentiment. “My schedule is very full, Gareth. My father has secured a new seat for me in the House of Commons, and I must memorize the current legislation. It sounds like another excuse, but it is not.” And it wasn’t. Not really. Alec felt the press of his new position closing in all around him: the impressive bachelor lodgings, the tailored wardrobe from Weston, the stacks of leather-bound folios packed with Parliamentary proposals. The eighth earl insisted that his son’s surroundings reflect his recently elevated status.

  “Have I ever told you your father frightens me? I swear his face would split down the center if he attempted a smile.”

  “He is stern,” Alec admitted, “but only because he takes his responsibilities so seriously.” As a child, he’d been frightened of his father, as well.

  “Well, he is a spoilsport all the same. You’re only twenty-five. Why must you bother with the Commons?”

  “I’d rather talk about the party, Gareth. I should think you’d be eager to attend. It will celebrate your birthday, after all.”

  “Yes, but who knows what they’ve planned? Last year, the order of precedence going into dinner was decided not by titles, mind you, but by the high scores from an archery contest Annabelle organized out on the lawn.”

  Alec refused to smile, despite the temptation. “Surely she didn’t lead the way into dinner? She hasn’t even made her debut.” To do so would have been highly improper. But not atypical.

  “How did you know Annabelle won?”

  “Of course she did. You’re forgetting we taught her the finer points of the game.” Just as they’d taught her to shoot pistols, bet on cards, and ride bareback. He’d had a hand, he supposed, in making her into the hoyden she’d become.

  “Annabelle will always play to her interests,” Gareth admitted. “Which means that this year, there will be lots of dancing at the party. She’s mad for it, all of that spinning and skipping about. I ask you, who wants a Scottish reel back home when I can dance with the high-flyers in Covent Garden? Now there’s a dance I don’t mind doing.”

  An inappropriate image of Annabelle came to mind, but Alec forced it aside, turning his focus on her brother. “You look as colorful as any bird-of-paradise in the Garden, Gareth. That satin waistcoat is nearly blinding in the afternoon light. My eyesight may not recover.”

  “Just because Brummell dresses like an undertaker doesn’t mean that I have to be similarly sepulchral. Especially when there is a party I must attend. Say you will come. I don’t know the reason behind your estrangement with Annabelle—and do not deny there is one—but I’m certain that she’s to blame. She can be a maddening creature. Still, she misses your friendship. She said … let me think … that it ‘had more value than you have lately accorded it.’ I had to promise to say exactly those words.”

  Ah, their friendship. Old and inviolable once. Annabelle’s barbs, like her arrows, were always well aimed.

  With a deep breath, and before he could stop himself, Alec took a sheet of parchment and scribbled a few words upon it. He then folded it upon itself. He extracted a stick of sealing wax from a side drawer, heating it briefly above the beeswax oil lamp on his desk. He dripped a small puddle of wax where the folds met, and pressed it with his signet ring. Satisfied the seal would hold fast against Gareth’s attempts to loosen it, Alec handed him the note. “I will be there,” he said. “But I have little doubt I will regret it.”

  Gareth merely chuckled. “If you’re going to regret something, make the pain of it worthwhile. Come join me at The Anchor on Park Street. I plan on getting well and truly drunk before I meet up with Digby to play cards. It will lessen the sting of my certain defeat.”

  “Damien Digby is an ass. He makes you risk too much.”

  “I can only stand one respectable friend, Alec. And that would be you,” Gareth added, “in case you’re wondering.”

  “You say ‘respectable’ instead of ‘boring’ to spare my feelings, I know. Go on without me. If I’m to travel to Nuneaton for your birthday, there are things I must do.” Like memorizing names, organizing arguments, and—above all else—practicing a brotherly smile.

  After Gareth departed, Alec pushed away from his desk, and walked over to the study’s large bay window, which looked out upon St. James Street below. Bracing his hands against the sun-warmed panes, he watched carriages and pedestrians move down the cobble-stoned thoroughfare, regretting his impulsiveness. Undoubtedly, his decision was a poor one. What would Annabelle read into his reply?

  Annabelle,

  I’ve missed our friendship, too. I will see you at Gareth’s party. But you must promise to keep your clothes on.

  • • •

  As he waited for his father to join him in the library at Dorset House, Alec took a brief glance at its worn leather tomes, all lined up in an orderly fashion along dozens of age-darkened wood shelves. This was Henry Carstairs’s domain, the inner sanctum where he built his political coalitions, and entertained allies with brandy after dinner. On the rare occasions Alec had been in London as a child, it had also been the room where Father meted out his punishments. Perhaps that was why Edmunds, their butler, had seated him here, rather than in the family drawing room. The earl’s note had hinted at his strong displeasure, though Alec was long past the age of birch rods and bloodied hands.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, the earl strode into the room, a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm, his reading spectacles perched on the edge of his nose, making his eyes seem owlish. Trim and fighting-fit, Father would make for a very intimidating owl indeed, though Alec now bested him in height by two inches. He was no longer the small, sickly boy who had so often been ignored, along with his mother. He’d finally earned his father’s attention, even his respect, despite their high price. Standing quickly, he offered a quick bow. “Good morning, Father. You wished to see me.”

  “Take your seat,” the earl said, settling into the large baronial chair behind his desk. “I was not happy to learn that you are going to Nuneaton for the Layton boy’s fete, when you should be here preparing for the Commons.”

  “Even allowing for travel there and back, I will only be gone three days. I’ll be bringing along the summaries prepared for me, and I’ve memorized the names of all the members, as well as their political positions.”

  His father shifted in the chair, displeasure obvious in the tight set of his jaw. “I expected you to join us for dinner tomorrow. Lord Fitzsimmons and his daughter, Jane, will be in attendance. He’s proven a useful ally in Parliament, and the girl is a reliable and sober sort. She’d make a good wife for you.”

  Of late, Father had mentioned marriage repeatedly, and Miss Fitzsimmons in particular. “I’m sorry I was not informed of your plans,” Alec replied. “I cannot attend. I’ve already accepted the invitati
on to Astley Castle.”

  “To travel there for a such a short trip, when our Arbury Hall will have to be readied. I think it an imposition.”

  The Hall, which bordered the Layton estate, was kept in a constant state of readiness, because Father expected nothing less. It wouldn’t be wise, though, to point that out. “I won’t be staying at the Hall. I’ll stop by to have the carriage checked and to greet the servants, but I will sleep at the castle. They’ll have a number of overnight guests.”

  “Those guests won’t be from the best families, I can assure you. And the Layton boy is drinking and gambling himself into the grave. I don’t like that you associate with him.”

  “I don’t share his vices, Father.”

  “No, but never underestimate the allure of recklessness. The boy is shockingly irresponsible, and the girl is at an age now when your childhood friendship might be mistaken for something more.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “Annabelle Layton is the sort that invites scandal. The whole family is, which is something we can’t afford, not if all my plans for you are to be realized.”

  “They are good people who mean no harm.”

  “They are remarkably odd. Lady Charlotte is weak-minded, and Sir Frederick … I’ve rarely met a more compulsive man. Nervous and awkward, but mention some sort of flying insect, and he’ll prattle on for hours. Lepidopterology is all the rage, but I can’t abide butterflies.”

  When Alec was a child, quiet in a lonely household, the Laytons had seemed exuberant, exotic even. They’d lived and loved with abandon, while he and his own mother had been starved of affection. Alec couldn’t fight back a flash of anger at the memory. But those days were past. With hard work and dedication, he’d found a way to earn his father’s love. And not just for himself.

  But it was true that Gareth was increasingly a victim of his weaknesses. Just yesterday, he’d tried to talk Alec into a large wager. Lord Chetwiggin’s grays were racing against Lord Sherford’s blacks in a torchlit sprint on Hampstead Heath. Alec and Gareth would leave for Nuneaton beforehand, but Digby was placing a bet in Gareth’s stead. Undoubtedly, it would be made for far more than he could afford.