by Jo Noelle
“Lucy.” The man held out a hand to her, which the woman took. They walked to the door where they paused. He asked Cora, “May we accompany you back?”
“No, thank you. I won’t be along for a minute or two.” She turned away and walked toward the piano, dismissing them both. After a long moment, Cora heard their steps retreating down the hall. When she returned and closed the door, both men surged out from behind the curtain, laughing. The second man grabbed a candlestick from the piano’s music deck and touched the flame to the oil lamp overhead. Soft, buttery light brightened the room.
The men slung their arms around each other’s shoulders. The man who had been hiding beside her had light hair and dark blue eyes. Cora was mesmerized as his smile transformed his face, making him look more youthful than she had first guessed. She couldn’t help it—she thought he looked like a Ken doll. Tall and broad-shouldered, perfectly sculpted nose and jaw, thick, wavy sandy-blond hair, right down to the full-lipped smile and dimples.
The man beside him with curly white-blond hair was of a slighter frame and height, though still much taller than her. He turned toward his friend. “And why might you be hiding in the curtains, Simon? And with a woman I don’t think I’ve met.” He bowed at the waist toward Cora. “Miss, I am delighted to serve as a witness in your claim against him, or for him, as it were.” His face was alight with mischief. “You’ve been caught in the parson’s mousetrap, Simon.” Then he addressed Cora again, giving a deep bow. “Well done, miss. You’ve won my sincere admiration and a fine husband.”
Simon’s face flushed, and his eyes darted toward Cora with a look of fear just before he bowed as well, but his throat bobbed once deeply with obvious worry.
Cora couldn’t help but let the pause extend. Make them sweat. She knew the rule of this day—caught alone, save her honor, marriage required. She walked back to the pianoforte, considering how she might turn this situation on its ear, and ran her finger slowly around the edge of the case.
She smiled and rolled her eyes, then addressed the shorter man. “I was hiding there first.” She turned then to Simon. “You were the trespasser. Marriage isn’t required—I didn’t compromise you. I can’t imagine marrying a man when I don’t even know his full name.” In this century, getting caught kissing would be grounds for a marriage offer. Kissing him might be fun. Definitely worth a try. Marriage—no.
He stared, his mouth dropping open, but he only said, “Thank you. But only you can be compromised—I cannot.”
His friend barked a loud laugh. “It seems I am in need of an introduction.”
“I’m Cora Rey.” She noticed the taller man didn’t offer his name, so she extended her hand. “Since we’re certainly familiar enough to hide together in the dark …” She paused and smiled at Simon. “Or have you lay on my lap.” She looked at the shorter man. “I’ll give my own introduction, thank you very much.”
Simon stepped forward and took her hand, not in a clasp but gently by the fingers and lifted as he again bowed. Before his indigo eyes left hers, he said, “I’m Simon Tuttle. My friends call me Albans.” He completed his bow, bringing Cora’s fingers to his lips.
Time seemed to stop for Cora—maybe even her breathing—as his lips lingered and his hand beneath hers slid across her palm, his fingers caressing her wrist. Her stomach tumbled and fizzed as she watched him slowly rise to his full height again, towering above her. Oh, my! Now she realized who he looked like. Her nine-year-old self had fallen in love with John Smith in Disney’s Pocahontas, and the man standing before her was the flesh-and-blood version.
He inclined his head to the left and said, “And this rake here is Mr. Everett Hawley, who will one day be leg-shackled for the price of a single kiss.”
Everett bowed. “Miss Rey. You’re one of the Americans.”
“Please call me Cora.”
Then Everett replied to his friend, “That was the closest Lucy and I have come yet to getting caught out. Her father is rightfully suspicious.” But then his face and voice softened. “I believe she’s bound my heart. I would much rather offer for her than for her to think I’m forced.”
Cora caught the look on both Everett’s and Simon’s faces—Everett appeared sincere and Simon sad though he nodded as if with understanding. She sensed that there was something left unsaid between them but fully comprehended by both.
Simon cleared his throat. “May I escort you to dinner?” he asked Cora as he winged his right arm toward her.
“Do we have to go back?” Cora asked, causing Everett to laugh again, but she continued. “I hate playing the games that are going on in the ballroom.”
Simon winked at her. “Then change the rules, or the game, to please yourself.”
The three walked the long hallways back. Everett strode ahead of them as if he were a lookout. Maybe he was. Simon paused when Everett stopped at a corner, then turned to Simon and nodded. He and Cora continued on, reaching the same corner to see the room emptying through doors at the other end.
“I’ll go ahead. I’d like to find a spot near Lucy. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cora.”
“And yours, Everett. It’s a delight.”
He left through the doors, and Cora took a step away as well. Simon’s hand covered hers at the crook of his arm. “I would be pleased to share your company. If you so choose.”
It wasn’t a question, but Cora heard the uncertainty in his voice. “Yes, thank you.” She could not think of a better way to end this dreadful evening than to sit with a new friend.
Simon led them to a table in the corner of the room and seated them in a position to watch the throng of guests filling the massive hall. She looked around and saw her friends at different tables. Shortly, a dinner of venison was served. Honestly, Cora had never understood people’s aversion to the gamey taste of wild meat. Her appreciation of all things hunted began early in life—and this was heavenly. Someone sure knew what they were doing in the kitchen.
Each time a couple passed their table and caught Simon’s eye, the man and lady bowed their heads and said, “Your Grace.” Simon appeared to take it all in stride, but Cora was in awe at the respect Simon received by the simple greeting.
“What interests do you have?” Simon asked, spearing a white carrot.
Cora quickly popped a small bite of meat into her mouth to buy a little time, considering which of her interests to choose that might be reasonable for this time period. Teaching children—no, not with her current status as an heiress. Krav Maga—definitely not martial arts. “I enjoy music.” Yikes! Now I have to remember who was popular at this time.
“Do you have a favorite composer?”
Called it. “I don’t think so. Currently, I like Mendelssohn’s violin concerto, but Schumann’s piano concerto is wonderful as well. I would love to see Wagner’s Tannhauser. There’s so much incredible music right now.”
“I agree.” He was slow to continue. “I haven’t … ” He swallowed hard. “I haven’t had as much enjoyment in recent days.” He took a breath as if to continue, but his lips pressed together like he was damming up the words.
Finally he asked, “Do you also play an instrument?”
My answer for this question could make me a Regency rock star, but I don’t think I want to go into all the instruments I play. “Yes.”
His eyebrows lifted in expectation of her continuing.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Cora said, emphasizing his title, hoping to pull off the snarky comment, but she couldn’t hold back a giggle. He joined with her, and the sound of it shot through Cora, straight to her heart.
She pondered how she had always read about companionable silence, but she never understood it until now. This man was comfortable to her. He just felt right. When they finished their meals, Simon escorted her back to the ballroom.
“They’re Grace-ing you again,” Cora whispered, somewhat closer to his ear than she had intended to, then raised a fan to conceal a sly smile.
“You can’t throw
a cat without hitting someone or another called ‘Grace’ or ‘Lord’ at this or any other society party,” he answered.
Cora nearly snorted. “I didn’t expect you to say that.”
“My mother’s family is Scottish. They have a colorful way of saying things.”
“Sorry. Your comment gave me a very vivid picture of a mangy cat landing on some man and then scrambling from table to table in a fright-filled panic.”
A low laugh rumbled in Simon’s throat. His eyes twinkled. Cora found her hand pressed to her stomach, chills erupting across her skin. How she loved that sound. For the way he was dressed and the deference he obviously received from the gathered crowd, Simon was a man of respect, yet he was genuine.
When they were back in the ballroom, they stood where the other guests were gathering. Music greeted Cora’s ears. Not a song but instruments tuning—violin, cello, French horn, flute, and more. She listened, picking out the different instruments that were readying to play. It signaled the recommencement of the ball, causing an ache in her gut. She would not resume her duties babysitting the matrons in the corner.
At the same moment that Cora said, “I suppose I’ll leave the party now,” Simon asked, “May I have this dance?”
She found she couldn’t say no. Her imagination leaped into action, envisioning his warm hand on her back. In fact, it was hard to speak at all, but a broad smile broke across her face, and her chest filled with excitement when she nodded her assent. “One dance before I leave.”
He led her to one end of the ballroom and positioned them near the orchestra. Soon, couples filled the room. The first strains of the waltz don’t just require that they assume dance position, but given their difference in height, she reached up for him, and he leaned nearer to her. She understood why the waltz had been frowned upon earlier in that century. There was immediate intimacy in the dance position, and her chest filled with tingly expectation.
With the rest of the instruments silent, the light, quick touch of the piano keys began the first notes of Chopin’s “Grande Valse Brilliante.” She knew there was a special difficulty with this piece—the small string section and woodwinds played the melody, lilting in two-four time, while the background bass viol and oboe carried the typical three-four time needed to dance the waltz. Unless the dancers were confident they could follow the right instruments, they might choose to sit this one out. She had believed the piece was written for concert performance for the piano and not for dancing, but here they were.
Simon’s grasp at her waist tightened as he led her backward into the first step. It was warm and comforting to be held by him, and her hand fit perfectly in his. They rose and swayed together in the close hug. With the room circling far beyond them, they stepped through dizzying turns and slow or quick steps as the varying tempo demanded.
Cora marveled at his strength and grace and gave herself up to his arms. Now she felt like Cinderella, swooped up in a dream dance with Prince Charming.
Chapter 3
Simon
Simon Tuttle, Duke of Hertfordshire, Earl of St. Albans. During his introduction to Cora, he had said, “I’m Simon Tuttle. My friends call me Albans.” Though technically true, they should now call me Hertfordshire. He cringed inwardly at the misfit of that name. He had grown up as Lord Simon and wished he could hear his own familiar name more often, especially from her.
He’d failed to mention “duke” or “earl.” Oh, and he knew why. Since the death of his father and both older brothers, the universe had singled him out to be the trophy that would be taken in the marriage mart come spring—only the women on the hunt weren’t waiting for April. They had gotten it into their bonnets to contrive to become Simon’s duchess as soon as possible.
Every event he’d attended since returning three weeks ago from his rustication with his mother’s family in Scotland had turned into a troupe of actors with each woman more daring than the last. Thank heavens for Everett’s reconnaissance, or Simon was sure he would have been trapped within mere days of stepping onto England’s soil. He was grateful he’d missed the Season. Now he had just short of a year to steel himself for the onslaught.
It came down to this—he hid. He had attended several events, if one accepts attending to mean walking through the door. Last night, he was determined to spend a quiet evening apart from well-meaning family and friends who would introduce him to not-so-well-meaning misses and their mammas.
At the Lambeth’s dinner party on Friday last, two out of the three young ladies invited suddenly became ill and requested that he escort them home. Thankfully, they made miraculous recoveries when it was learned that he would, of course, make his carriage available to both of them, and he would ride atop with his driver to aid the comfort of the women.
If he was supposed to be hiding last night, as he’d been determined to do, why did he walk Cora to dinner? Why did he relish the delicate touch of her hand pressed on the sleeve of his coat? He longed to feel that warmth again. And why did he study the color of her eyes to learn they were not blue as he first assumed but the color of violets? Her dress, a shade or two lighter, exaggerated their color.
He’d spent a restless night considering the curl of her hair, the tinkling sound of her laughter, the unladylike snort, and the pleasing curves of her gown. It wasn’t just that she was attractive to look at, but she was also bold, intervening to protect Lucy or Everett. Simon thought on how he’d nearly blurted his secret to her not an hour after they first met.
Somehow Cora was different, and he wanted to satisfy his curiosity by getting to know her. He hoped it would take a very long time.
While just a day ago, he had shunned female attention, he hoped Cora was attracted to him. That thought brought him right back to where all this musing had started. He didn’t fully introduce himself because he wanted her to be attracted to him, the man, not the titles.
Simon had never thought to gain the titles, and he felt they hung on him like a wet coat as if he were a child who wore his father’s jacket out in a storm. But he believed in the responsibility the titles bequeathed. He was now responsible for the security and welfare of his mother and two younger sisters, the survival of hundreds of working families, and the husbandry of thousands of acres.
Everything was entailed to the estates. It made him a very wealthy man, but only him. Had he succumbed to death prior to his sisters, they and his mother would now be poor relations who must live on some cousin’s kindness or, worse yet, take positions of employment.
Simon launched from bed, leaving his daydreams behind, and dressed for the day. He was determined to make small fortunes for the women in his family should he die. Each of his sisters had generous dowries set aside, and his mother would have a widow’s portion, but neither of those gave them independence should they need it.
Attending the Full Moon Ball last night with Everett had been fortunate for meeting the lovely Cora, but his real reason for this visit was altogether different. As Simon entered the dining room for breakfast, Everett finished filling his plate at the sideboard. Simon likewise selected eggs, scones, and pork, then sat beside him. “When do we meet with your man of business?”
“He’ll be here soon.” Everett put his fork down. Simon steeled himself, recognizing something serious was coming. “So, that woman last night … ” Everett’s eyebrows wiggled. “Are you going to marry her?”
“I only met her last night.” Simon thought to have that end the conversation and shoved sausage in his mouth, but Everett stared at him and shrugged.
“You are, you know. Time doesn’t matter.”
“We only danced once.”
“A waltz, and that’s more than you’ve done since you were twenty. Oh, except Lady—ouch!” Everett glared at Simon and rubbed the spot on his arm where Simon had hit him. Everett laughed again. “You are.”
Chapter 4
Cora Rey
Cora glanced around. No one. She stepped into the shadows of the tree line around the mansion�
�s back park, but the ground became increasingly soggy and uneven as she neared the Thames. She backtracked to just the outer edge and stood between sparse trees, where she would still have enough privacy from curious eyes for a workout and not throw out her ankles.
At the disastrous ball—though she admitted meeting Simon wasn’t a disaster—Lady Cottrell had introduced her to her daughter, May, and invited her to spend the next few days with her in London. It wasn’t the same town Cora had visited just a week ago. The London Eye was conspicuously missing, and there were no modern buildings. However, Big Ben still stood, holding court with the neighboring palace and cathedral. And the whole city stunk. She had returned late last night to Twickenham Manor to attend a picnic Aunt Nellie had planned.
It was peaceful here. After her workout, she would enjoy a few moments wandering through the woods before returning to the manor house. She pulled the earbuds from where her phone was stashed in her bra and selected a mix. What would she do when the battery ran out? She’d have to conserve.
She stared down at the hopeless dress she wore, wishing for leggings and a sports bra or anything Spandex. When she kicked one foot in front of her, her toe caught in the material, nearly tipping her.
She studied the skirt, yards and yards of blue material folding over itself and hanging to her ankles. For a moment, she considering taking the whole thing off and wearing just the shift underneath. Way too risqué for this time period—even for Americans. Cora pulled the hemline up on both sides, pushed them backward between her legs, then pulled the ends to the front and tied them. It was ugly but functional as it drooped near her knees. It would allow her more freedom of movement.
Music pulsed as her body moved through warm-ups and into a kickboxing routine. But today, even the movement and the decibels directed into her ears couldn’t dampen her memories. If she were back in her time, today would mark three years since he died.