Her lips quivered at her old title. “I’ll try,” she said in a small voice.
“Good girl. I’m going to kiss you now.”
“You are?” she asked, drawing back a little.
“Yes, but try not to look so shocked, will you?”
“Oh, Edward, I’m not shocked; you have kissed me a hundred times before. It’s only that I had not expected an announcement.”
“This kiss is to be different,” he said decisively. “I’m not holding a wooden sword this time, and Alex is not lying at your feet playing the slain dragon.”
She laughed. “Very well, then, Prince Raleigh Don; only hurry before someone comes.”
She closed her eyes and lifted her face expectantly toward his.
There was a moment’s pause, then he kissed her quite abruptly. He did not pull her into an embrace or touch her in any way except for that brief meeting of lips.
“That should convince you that I’m serious,” he said when he pulled back.
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, unable to think of anything to say. The kiss was sweet as Edward’s always had been, just as Alexander’s kisses were sweet. It was the kiss of a beloved brother.
“Remember, now,” Edward said. “Next week you have to give me an answer.”
“I’ll remember,” she whispered.
Chapter Seven
The coffee the maid left outside Simon’s door was cold by the time he awoke on Tuesday morning. He brought the cup inside his room and tried to sip it anyway, but the dregs were thick as lily pads in a pond. He set the vile mess on his dresser and sighed.
He missed the twenty-first century. Hot coffee. Hot showers. Television—he’d give his little finger to see a football game. Or a decent drama. One of his best buddies was in a soap now, and Simon loved to watch him every now and then, so he could call him and offer critiques on his heavy acting. No, wait; that had been in the time before—Elena’s world. God only knew where Larry was now.
Simon had only known a few people in the new world he caused. Even Dell didn’t recognize him. After being thrown out of Chesterton Place, Simon had flown back to L.A. and burst into his agent’s office. Dell claimed they’d never met, but if he’d leave a photo and resume at the front desk, the agency would get back to him.
There was nothing so paralyzing as finding he’d lived a portion of his life without knowing it. In the new world, everything past the time he should have met Elena was blank; he could only remember his former past. How was that possible? Had he caused an alternate world to spring into existence? If so, shouldn’t there be another one of him running around? But there hadn’t been.
The nightshirt one of the servants had provided made him itch, and Simon scratched his chest while walking to the window. He stared down at the lawn without seeing it, old science-fiction stories leafing through his mind. Paradoxes, that’s what those stories had called the seemingly irreconcilable contradictions caused by time travel. He would probably stimulate more paradoxes before he was done.
He’d be lucky to survive this experience with his mind intact. Never had he played such a desperate role before, not in all the movies in which he’d starred. What was an assassin or a cop to an inept time-traveler bumbling his way through the past, snuffing out lives every time he bumped his elbow?
Simon turned to the table beside his bed, where a pitcher of water and a porcelain basin were placed. He poured water into the bowl and slipped the nightshirt over his head.
In his former life, Elena’s management of his career had often caused problems between them. (But it was the least of their problems; he was the greatest, and that guilt would never go away.) Countless times he’d accused her of being too aggressive, of using her wealth to open doors he didn’t need opened. His talent—such as it was—would determine their future. That’s what he’d told her, over and over.
Seemed she was right after all; contacts made all the difference. Elena had been the one to make him a star. And look how he’d repaid her.
Simon began splashing water and soap over himself. It was a cold business. He’d like a bath, but after he saw the commotion it caused—maids boiling pots of water in the kitchens and hauling them upstairs—he couldn’t ask. When he’d offered to bring the water up himself, one of the maids became angry, and the other cried, saying she’d be dismissed if she didn’t do her work.
How did people live without bathrooms? If he were staying any longer than a month, he’d build something, though he was no plumber. And it wasn’t only a bathtub he wanted. That disgusting chamberpot under his bed was worse than a litterbox. He wished he had money to tip the slop boy enormously, but all he could do was apologize when the kid came around. And he was going to have to stop doing that; the boy had begun to look at him like he was crazy.
He sighed, wishing there was something for him to do today. Yesterday he had explored the grounds and found the pond where Darby’s murder, or accident, was to occur. Less than a mile from the house, it was hidden by a screen of widely-spaced trees topping a small hill. He was able to circle the entire lake within minutes. It was a romantic, pine-scented spot meant for lovers, not death.
He was bored without Darby. She left early every morning and didn’t return until almost dinnertime. Alexander was gone most of the time, too; either in his studio or down at the potteries. Simon didn’t miss Alexander, but he wished he were around to keep Lenora off him. She was as persistent as any Hollywood wannabee who thought the path to success ran through his bedroom.
Don’t think about it.
Simon seized a towel from the table’s cabinet and rubbed the water from his body. Long after he was dry, he continued to scrape the towel across his chest and arms and legs in rough strokes. He wanted to hurt, hoped to drive out his mental pain with physical discomfort. Don’t think about betrayal and what it did to your marriage. All that was finished. Nothing he could do about it now.
But there was something he could do; something decent for a change. He could stop thinking about Darby, about the way her eyes shined into his with innocent wonder, believing he was an angel. He could stop hearing her strong voice vibrating with morality and courage, something he’d thought had disappeared from the world.
But he couldn’t stop. He saw her face every time he closed his eyes. The old warning signals were squealing again, only this was not a simple physical attraction to be satisfied in a night. She had made him see her as a person, not just a body. And he was beginning to love being near that person. He hadn’t felt this way since he met Elena.
But it was hopeless, utterly hopeless. He couldn’t fall in love with her. It wasn’t as if he could take her forward with him; they had tried that once already. And he had a life to get back to—unless he’d managed to wipe out his own ancestors on this little excursion.
Forget it. Let Darby continue to think he was an angel. It was the best thing for her. Surely he could do that one little thing.
He held his satin kneepants between forefinger and thumb. Absolutely disgusting to put them on again, but he had no choice. If only the costumery had carried more clothing from this period; well, maybe they had; he was the one who got the time wrong. And now he was trapped at Brightings, couldn’t even go with Darby to the potteries until Beckett finished his clothes.
He pulled on his breeches and tried not to breathe. Every other night the maid would wash them for him, but this was the off-day. He had no desire to jog in them this morning; he might start drawing flies. Not that anyone would notice. No deodorants here, though all kinds of perfumes were used to mask the scent of under-washed bodies. At least most of the gentlefolk bathed enough to avoid being offensive—Richard and Gacia being notable exceptions—but the poor servants worked too hard to manage it.
Funny how accustomed a person could grow to odorless bodies. If someone from his era didn’t wash, everybody knew it right away and ostracized him. Here, personal scent seemed as individual as hair color.
Darby smelled clean and
sweet, like the rosebuds in her garden.
Before he put on his shirt, he shaved himself with the lethal straight-edge Simbar had given him and only sliced his chin once. If he’d had any sense, he would have brought a few disposable razors with him. But, wary of changing anything else in the past, he’d panicked at the last minute and left all remnants of the future behind.
It was hard to admit it to himself, but he still felt panicked. When he returned to his present, what changes would he find he’d caused this time?
He had to be smart, had to think, to step as carefully through this century as if land mines littered the ground. And the first thing he must do was direct Lenora’s attention away from him. What a laugh on him it would be if he, not Darby, caused the break-up between Alexander and Lenora.
Most of all, he had to remain alert to guess who, if anyone, might try to hurt Darby.
When he finished dressing, he went downstairs and had breakfast alone. He had learned there were no early risers living here, other than Darby, Alexander, and Richard. He enjoyed the solitude of the early morning. There was a peacefulness in the dining room that he’d found in few places. The sun streamed through the windows, highlighting the sheen on the mahogany table and illuminating every nick and scratch. The breakfast dishes—always the same array of breads, meats, and eggs, but plenty of variety—steamed invitingly on the sideboard. From the kitchen came the sounds of pots banging and voices raised in argument, all cozily muffled by a green baize door.
While he was sipping his second cup of tea—now he knew why the English liked that drink; it was because their coffee was so bad—Lenora entered the room, and his feeling of peace dissolved.
She wore a burgundy velvet riding habit that outlined the graceful curves of her body. Her eyes sparkled when she saw him, though feint shadows beneath marred their brightness.
“I hoped to find you here,” she said, moving to the sideboard and lifting covers off dishes. She picked up a plate, placed a muffin and a smear of butter on it, then sat across from him. “I wanted to find someone willing to accompany me on a ride this morning.”
“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble,” said Simon.
She frowned impishly. “You are unkind, sir, to allow a lady to drop her line and hook no fish.”
“I’m afraid you’d better fish somewhere else if you’re wanting me to ride with you. I don’t know a lot about horses.”
“That can be remedied in only one way,” she said teasingly.
“Maybe so, but I don’t want to remedy it.” He made a great show of draining the last of his tea, then scraped back his chair, rising.
“A carriage ride, then?” she asked in a hopeful voice.
“Nope. Don’t know how to drive one.”
“Then you were not lying when you told Fiona White you couldn’t drive. I can teach you. We might start with the gig.”
“No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.” He circled the table and walked toward the door.
“You can’t refuse. I don’t know how it is you’ve lived this long without learning how to drive, but think what an advantage you’ll have in mobility.” When he continued to edge toward the door, she added enticingly, “You’ll be able to visit the potteries at any time of the day without bothering the driver. And if you used the tilbury, you could carry a hot luncheon to Alexander and Darby.”
He paused and considered. It would be good to be able to do that.
Sensing victory, Lenora smiled slowly. “Besides, you must admit you have nothing better to do with your time. I’ve seen you moping around the house like a lost bull.”
“Since you put it that way, I guess I’ll have to go,” said Simon, unable to prevent himself from responding to her charm.
“Good.” She took a bite of muffin and patted her lips with her napkin. “I shall tell Simbar to order the gig as soon as I finish my breakfast. Why don’t you come back and sit down? I hate eating alone.”
* * *
Less than a half-hour later, Simon took his seat beside Lenora in the Brightings’s crisp black gig. The two-wheeler had green leather seats and polished brass fixtures. It was a fine-looking little sports coupe, Simon thought with a smile. The black horse attached to it looked fine, too.
Lenora took the reins in one hand, a whip in the other, and gave Simon a sly look beneath her lashes. “Watch me, now,” she said. “In a moment you will be doing as I do. Only let me get the carriage onto the road where it is straight.” And so saying, she cracked the whip, crying, “Go, Sasha!”
The mare tossed her mane and pranced forward. When they reached the road, Lenora pulled on the reins, then handed them to Simon. He immediately took one rein in each hand and shook his head when she offered the whip.
“You Americans,” Lenora said. “Do you think you’re driving a covered wagon? Here. Put both reins in one hand, holding them thus.” She manipulated his fingers to her satisfaction, then moved his arm. “You must center your hand in front of yourself. No, bend your wrist; that’s it. Keep your elbow close; that will prevent you from exerting too much pressure on Sasha’s mouth. No, no; touch lightly; you don’t want to make her a puller, do you? Now, take the whip in your other hand and crack it.”
“I don’t like whips,” he said, eyeing the horse with a sudden storm of love. He was going to drive a carriage!
“Sasha expects it,” Lenora said dryly. “It is the sound, you know; you are not actually going to strike her. She is too fine a beast for that.”
“Um, okay.” He raised the whip and flapped it feebly.
Lenora laughed. “You really do know nothing, do you? I thought you had a carriage that was robbed. How did you drive that?”
“Had a driver,” he mumbled, raising the whip again.
“Be courageous, then, Simon—I hope I may call you by your first name?—now, crack it!”
He snapped the whip in the air, loud as a gunshot. Sasha jerked forward. Simon lost his balance momentarily, then braced his feet and concentrated on the position of his hands. After a moment, he risked a look at the countryside creeping by. The wind whispered through his hair. He could hear birds in the trees protesting the carriage’s rumbling passage on the rough road.
He was exhilarated. He had never felt more accomplished, not even the first time he drove a Porsche.
“How am I doing?” he asked Lenora proudly.
“Well enough for a first-time driver,” she said. “If you don’t relax, though, Sasha will become nervous.”
Deflated, he lowered his shoulders and tried to relax. “How did you learn to drive? And don’t tell me you’ve known how since you were three; I won’t like it.”
She smiled briefly. “No, my parents didn’t own a carriage. Reece taught me.”
Her expression grew thoughtful. Hoping to find out more about her relationship with her husband, he said, “I understand Mr. Ellison died some months ago. I imagine you miss him very much.”
She seemed to collect her thoughts before answering. “Reece and I had a rather ... tempestuous marriage, Simon. It is never good to speak ill of the dead, but my husband possessed a number of habits that made living with him difficult.”
“You almost sound relieved he’s gone.”
Lenora glanced at him sharply. “Don’t misunderstand. I loved Reece. His death devastated me.”
She looked into the distance, her eyes sharpening. Simon followed the line of her gaze and saw a large carriage approaching from the opposite direction. Adrenaline began to spurt through his veins. He was relieved when she placed her hands over his and guided the horse to the side of the road. When the carriage passed by with yards to spare, Simon sighed deeply.
“You worry too much,” she told him, a fetching glimmer entering her eyes. “Don’t you know you are safe with me?” Her tone implied she was not speaking about driving.
“Am I?” he questioned warily. She was pulling him toward her with a power he knew only too well.
“Of course you are. I have always been
discreet in whatever I do.”
His mouth went dry. “Is that so?”
The horse slowed as Simon’s grip on the reins loosened. He had never been able to resist a beautiful woman who desired him. It was the weakness that destroyed his marriage; Elena had endured his liaisons for years before giving up on him.
The thought cooled him like ice water. He straightened virtuously, turned his attention to the dusty road, and flicked the reins. Sasha picked up her pace.
Lenora was undaunted by the change in his mood. “Yes, it is. I hope you don’t think I accepted Reece’s shortcomings without indulging a few of my own. A woman who remains docile while her husband does anything he likes is spineless, in my opinion. Now in my case, I have a particular fondness for the company of handsome gentlemen. Yet never have I betrayed a trust. There are no expectations on my part when I form ... attachments. It is the joy of companionship that I seek, nothing more. Do you not find that a refreshing attribute in a woman?”
“Um. Have you had a great many of these attachments?” He awaited her answer with trepidation. Was he wishing a nymphomaniac on Alexander?
“Not so very many. Enough to know what it is I look for, which is simply pleasure.” She gave him a deep, meaningful look. “I’m not at all like other women, am I? Not like Darby, for example, who would require a marriage license before allowing a gentleman to kiss her hand.”
Dear God, she was a feminine version of himself. Ignoring the reference to Darby, he said, “You must have many admirers. Claude Heathershaw, for one; I’ve noticed he pays you a lot of attention.”
He cared little what she thought about Heathershaw, but he didn’t want to seem too pointed in his interest in her feelings for Alexander, which did concern him greatly.
“Claude.” Her lips twisted scornfully. “Of late, he appears more drawn to Darby than myself.”
Simon’s heart jumped and began to race. Was she jealous? Would she try to kill Darby in a jealous rage? But that made little sense; she seldom displayed interest in Claude, who was no prize, anyway; and Lenora seemed like a practical woman. If she married again, surely it would be to advance herself.
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