Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  And now… after all these years of believing it impossible… tomorrow Lady Julia Tate was to become his wife. He should be ecstatic. So why wasn't he? Kate. Dead and gone for a year, and yet she had the power to drive a wedge between them. Surely that would change… eventually. Would it not?

  Oliver rubbed the back of his neck as he stood in front of the marble fireplace in his bedchamber, the last embers slowly going dark. The brandy decanter on the nearby table beckoned as a solution to the growing November chill, but he decided he'd had enough for one night. The last thing he wanted was to be jug-bitten on his wedding day. Julia deserved better than that. Tomorrow would be the beginning of their life together.

  He should call for Hanes to help him undress for bed so that he would be well rested for his wedding day. But he knew he wouldn't sleep. What he really wanted to do was to sneak over to Pendleton House into Julia's room and tell her all the things he hadn't been able to tell her before. Why he hadn't sought her out before. How his marriage to Kate had occurred. That she was the one he'd always wanted. And mostly he wanted to know if she could ever feel the same way about him. All the things he should have brought up before, but had been reluctant to do while she could still cry off. But now he wondered—what was she thinking, the night before the wedding, in her bed a few streets away? Was she sleeping peacefully at the thought of becoming his wife, or was she wishing she had never agreed to his proposal?

  He shivered as the air cooled, and began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, arms folded across his chest.

  Chapter Three

  At roughly the same time, Julia was pacing back and forth in front of her own fireplace, trying to convince herself that her doubts were nothing but pre-wedding jitters, as her mother had suggested. But after what she had overheard at the Stanton home that evening, painful memories reverberated in her mind, making sleep impossible. She was a fool to marry a man who didn't return her feelings, for whom she might never be more than second-best. Why hadn't she insisted on having a heart-to-heart talk with Oliver before agreeing to marry him? Because now it was too late. If she did not appear at St. George's the next day, there would be a dreadful scandal. Oliver would be humiliated and never want to see her again. Her mother would be dreadfully cross about having to cancel all of her elaborate arrangements. And she would be condemned to once more watch Oliver marry another woman.

  Julia threw herself on the crumpled bed and had a good cry. When she had finally run out of tears, she leaned against the pillows and recalled the night eight years ago when she'd seen Oliver again and realized that she might be interested in marriage after all. In the intervening years since their separation, he'd grown taller, his shoulders had filled out, and his face—well, he had the sort of masculine good looks that young girls dreamed about—dark hair, intense brown eyes, a strong Roman nose, and a serious countenance that promised steadiness and dependability. While she hadn't thought herself the type to fall victim to a handsome face, in this case… she would have had to be a fool not to be affected, and there weren't many fools in the ballroom, she noted. The only lady's eyes not on Oliver Stanton were her mother's, and that was because her back had been turned to him when he approached their group.

  She smiled slightly as she recalled the expression on his face when she looked up to catch him staring at her as she danced with young Hughley. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and she almost missed a step, so impatient was she for the dance to end so that she could renew their acquaintance.

  By happy chance, he seemed equally eager to talk to her, and even better, their old camaraderie seemed to be there still. The brief time they had together was the most stimulating time she'd ever had at a ball, and she thought Oliver was equally thrilled to renew their friendship. There was a certain look of admiration in his eyes that gave her hope that his interest might take a more intimate direction, as hers had. Now that they were both in London, she anticipated that they would see each other at other events and become reacquainted as adults. Who knew what would happen? All sorts of possibilities had cascaded through her mind, and the revolving theme in all of them was Oliver and her. Together.

  Castles in the air, all of it.

  For the remainder of the Season—and all subsequent ones—Oliver made himself scarce, at least where Julia was concerned. An old friend might be expected to call at least once or twice, and perhaps even take her on a drive through the park, for old time's sake. When that didn't happen, Julia could not help but think he was deliberately avoiding her. When their paths did cross, he would shrug and mumble something about his demanding work at the bank, which she believed could be true, knowing his grandfather as she did, as well as Oliver's determination to please him. But he'd been seen at other events—just not those she attended, even when her mother saw to it that he was invited. He hadn't shown preference to any lady, though, so Julia still had hope that one day, when he was ready to settle down, his interest might settle on her. Seasons and years passed, and Julia had almost convinced herself she wasn't in love with Oliver after all when she heard that he was engaged to marry. And not just to any lady—Kate.

  Julia hugged herself tightly as she always did when reliving the anguish and despair of the moment when she'd realized that Oliver was lost to her forever. The fact that it was her best friend Kate was a double blow, since Kate was the only person who knew the depth of her feelings for Oliver. Her cheeks were hot as she tossed her head back and forth on the pillow, recalling that dreadful day when she'd locked herself in her room, refusing to eat, her mind reeling with images of Kate and Oliver together, laughing at her… or worse, pitying her.

  Dark days indeed. If it hadn't been for the constant demands of her charitable work, she might have never come out of it. Devoting her days to helping the less fortunate had helped dull the pain of heartbreak. She'd even managed to convince herself that all that remained of her feelings for Oliver was nostalgia for their childhood bond… until the news came that Kate had been killed in a carriage accident.

  Julia covered her face with her hands as she recalled her initial reaction of joy that Oliver was free again, and then her utter shame that she'd been essentially finding pleasure in Kate's death. Her former friend was gone forever, leaving her infant daughter motherless and Oliver undoubtedly in the throes of grief, and all she could do was wonder if she and Oliver might have a future after all. And when only three weeks ago—his year of mourning barely ended—he had, in fact, made her an offer of marriage, she had found herself unable to refuse, in spite of her misgivings.

  But now—after the drunken words of the revelers at Oliver's bachelor party—the doubts came back in full force. Marriage was for a lifetime. What if Oliver's feelings for her would never equal those he had for Kate? Could she bear to live with him year in and year out knowing that he still grieved his first wife? And while she didn't believe her dowry to be much of an inducement for the heir apparent of a wealthy banking family, her social connections might be. In fact, she could imagine his grandfather making the suggestion that he offer for the eldest Pendleton daughter, a spinster at twenty-seven, and a childhood friend as well—and Oliver shrugging and thinking he might as well do it as not.

  The very thought caused her to flinch, and she knew she couldn't go through with it. But… how could she not go through with it? Leaving Oliver at the altar would cause a dreadful scandal, as well as shame and humiliate him. She'd almost certainly lose his friendship, as well as put paid to her chance of ever becoming his wife. It was one of those moments when she'd prefer to have the ground open up and swallow her than face the humiliating consequences of her actions. That was what set her to reflecting on her mother's own fall-through-the-earth moment and what she'd done about it, and before Julia knew it, she was dressed in gray travel clothes and an old cloak and heading out the door to hail a hackney cab, coins and jewelry clinking together in her pockets.

  Just do it, she told herself. Escape to another time until you can clear your thoughts
and come to term with the fact that Oliver is now forever lost to you. And have a royally great adventure while you're at it, because there will still be a great deal of unpleasantness to deal with when you finally decide to return.

  Chapter Four

  November 22, 2015

  Hyde Park

  London

  "Mummy, that lady is a ghost!"

  Julia heard the little girl's screech before she was fully aware of her surroundings, a garden of some sort—were those rose bushes?—not far from a rather hideous statue. Her legs crumpled beneath her, and she landed in a heap on the cold ground, releasing a rather shrill scream of her own. Madame Herne had warned her that she might feel rather unsettled for a few minutes after entry; it was not unlike the queasiness that often came upon her during a lengthy carriage trip.

  Leaning back on the ground, she closed her eyes and tried to take in as many breaths of fresh air as she could. It smelled differently from what she was used to, but it did help to blow away the nausea.

  "The lady dressed in period costume? Oh, dear, she seems to be ill! Do you need help, my dear?"

  Julia opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by a small crowd, mostly women and children. For a moment, she was silent, scrutinizing those around her. She'd been warned to expect to see women in trousers and other odd forms of dress, but the reality of it was startling. The thirtyish woman bending over her had a drawing of a heart with an arrow through it on her cheek and small gold rings on her eyebrows. The young girl hanging back grasped her hand and tried to pull her away.

  "Get back, Mummy! I saw her appear out of nowhere. She's magical!"

  "Mummy" rolled her eyes. "Don't be silly, Quinn. The poor woman is ill, that's all. I wish your father wouldn't let you spend so much time playing computer games."

  Julia pushed herself up to a sitting position. "Thank you. I believe I'm well enough now. It was just a—a momentary weakness."

  She smiled at the terrified child, around six years old, wearing an aqua-colored coat with an odd metal fastening over navy blue trousers that clung to every curve of her leg—and her shoes! Quite the most singular shoes she had ever seen—bright pink and parrot green with white ties and soles.

  But then, two hundred years had passed, she reminded herself. Undoubtedly, the world was a different place. Wasn't that the reason she had come? To find a respite from her problems until she could was ready to resolve them?

  Taking the woman's outstretched hand, she rose to her feet and dusted off her skirts. The little girl backed away. Her mother gave Julia an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. This isn't typical of her." She waved her arm to indicate the expanses of the park. "But I suppose an event like this might tend to unloose a child's imagination."

  An event like this? Julia's face must have signaled her confusion, because the woman gave her an odd look.

  "Winter Wonderland. Isn't that why you're here, dressed as you are?"

  Julia swallowed and nodded her head. "Er—yes, of course," she lied. Winter Wonderland?

  The group around her began to disperse, and she reiterated her thanks as she scrambled to follow them. Outside of the garden area she found herself engulfed by a group of people moving away in the opposite direction, toward the sounds of the odd music she'd been hearing in the distance.

  Turning the corner, she stopped in mid-stride and nearly stumbled, causing the people behind her to swear loudly and push her to the side, where she stared open-mouthed at the staggering conglomeration of amusements she assumed was "Winter Wonderland."

  The first thing that struck her was the enormous wheel, covered with lights, rotating round and round, as though powered by magic. What could it possibly be? As she moved closer, she could hear screams of delight—and were those seats with people on them? Why would anyone want to do that? What if the whole structure came tumbling down? She stood and watched it for a time, mesmerized by the rotation of the wheel and the growing queues of people waiting their turn.

  But there were other strange delights she found when she finally turned away to explore a Hyde Park she would never have recognized. Lights were everywhere—in daylight!—of all colors, more spectacular even than those she'd seen at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens during the celebration for the King's birthday. There were signs made of moving lights! And trees covered with them. Booths and stalls with trinkets and sweets for sale. The smell of food being cooked that reminded her she hadn't eaten for nearly a full day. Ignoring the protests of her stomach, she wandered around in a daze, taking in the many other diversions around her. The extraordinary mechanical contrivances that spun people around and turned them upside down and made her shiver with horror and the excitement of the children and the joy in their parents' eyes as they bought them a treat or watched them riding the painted mechanical horses that moved up and down as they spun in a circle of lights, in time to music that reminded her of the concert of Bach organ music she'd attended once.

  Her own appearance attracted no more attention than a brief look of surprise from a few, a smile from others. No doubt they thought her part of the entertainment, while to her—she chuckled at the thought—they were the peculiar ones. Most were dressed for the chilly weather, with coats of all varying types and colors—long and short, thin or puffy, with buttons or metal fasteners, hoods somewhat similar to the one on her own cloak or knit caps or odd sorts of hats on their heads. There were rings in noses, lips, and eyebrows in addition to the traditional earlobes, and on more than one occasion, she saw little skin drawings peeking out of coats and scarves like the one she'd seen on the face of the child's mother in the garden peeking out of coats and scarves. The unusual streaks of color in some people's hair intrigued her. She knew a few ladies in her own time who discreetly "enhanced" their hair, usually to mask signs of aging, but she'd never seen anyone with hair of peacock blue or rose pink or purple. And the orange color—heaven forbid!—was the same color of as the saffron gown her mother had wanted her to wear for her presentation ball!

  The thought of her mother brought a lump to her throat. She would know—everyone would know by now—that Julia had fled. The wedding guests would be sent home. Oliver would know she wasn't to be his wife after all. But he wouldn't know why. Nobody would. She wished she had had the presence of mind to leave a note, to keep them from worrying about her. But what would she have said? That she was leaving her groom at the altar—they already knew that—and escaping to the future instead? The very idea made her snort in an unladylike manner. Talk about scandal! She could see the headlines now—in her mother's favorite scandal sheet, The Teatime Tattler. Earl's Daughter Loses Sanity on Eve of Wedding. Stanton Banking Heir Jilted at Altar, Bride Confined to Bedlam.

  No, she couldn't have left such a note to anyone outside her immediate family. There would be enough of a scandal to deal with as it was, when she returned. Because she would return, of course. Madame Herne had given her specific instructions on how to do that. But not yet. Not until she'd had her fill of this wonderful twenty-first-century wonderland.

  Sitting down to rest on a bench, she watched as a pair of lovers strolled by holding hands, and then a family with a young child crying and complaining that he was hungry.

  "Be a dear and get him a waffle, won't you, Tom? He refused to eat his breakfast, and you know how he makes me crazy when he whines like this."

  Her husband's lip curled. "You give in to his every whim. It's no wonder he's incorrigible. What the boy needs is some serious discipline."

  The mother folded her arms across her chest. "Really, Tom? Must we have this conversation again? Here? It's like, every time we go on an outing, you have to find fault with everything."

  They moved their row out of Julia's hearing, but she watched as "Tom" eventually buckled under his wife's scolding and purchased the boy something to eat at a nearby stall.

  The noises in her belly reminded her that she needed something to eat herself. But first, she needed to obtain some money. Madame Herne had advised her to find an an
tique shop or a coin shop where she could sell her jewelry and coins, but to be careful not to display them among a crowd of people, as there were pickpockets everywhere in London, even in the twenty-first century.

  Craning her neck, she decided the best way to exit the park was to stroll in the opposite direction from the flow of the park visitors. It was slow going at first, but it gave her more of a chance to observe these extraordinary people of the future. The blond-bearded young man wearing green pants with swatches of olive and brown with pockets in rather inconvenient places. The men and women who carried tiny infants in pouches strapped around their chests. The adolescent wearing a scandalously short black skirt with canary-colored stockings tucked into lavender shoes with ties of rose pink. The man with wild eyes and slovenly beard with his arms around the girl's waist was decidedly not her father, although clearly he was old enough to be. Where were her parents? Julia wondered. Children that young were not capable of discernment, she thought disapprovingly, recalling her brief infatuation with her Italian music teacher.

  As she approached the boundary of the park and the cacophony of the festival faded, she began to hear other noises, quite loud ones, indicating movement. Fast movement, far faster than a horse or carriage. Which shouldn't be surprising, really, after two hundred years. When she caught her first glimpse of a twenty-first-century vehicle, she stopped in her tracks, her hands fluttering to cover her mouth. Peculiar mechanical contrivances of all shapes and sizes, dozens of them, so close together she instinctively moved backward in expectation of a collision. The smell of the air had changed as well. Exactly what it was she didn't know, but the thought occurred to her that the horsey odors she was used to might be preferable.