Once Upon a Time Travel

by Sariah Wilson

  “The chef calls them Pierres, after himself.”

  The first thought I had was that I had probably just screwed the Hostess company out of millions of dollars in the future. The second was that Hartley had done this. Hartley had the chef make Twinkies.

  For me.

  Hope bubbled up in my chest, strong and pure. It had to mean something. I needed it to mean something.

  I could only cross my fingers and pray that the nudge had worked.

  * * *

  “Are you mad?” Hartley practically sputtered the words, almost too furious to even speak.

  James stood there as if he hadn’t just behaved abominably. “I am quite sane, thank you. I am not sure I understand your concern.”

  Not understand his concern? Hartley closed the study doors, just barely refraining from slamming them. “You were just kissing Emma where all of God and country could have witnessed it!”

  “I am quite certain neither God nor England would care had they witnessed it.” He put his hands behind his back, his eyes dancing with mischief, looking just as he did when he was twelve and dropped a frog down the back of Jane’s dress. “And do you mean Miss Blythe?”

  “Of course I mean Miss Blythe!” Now he was using her given name aloud, in the presence of others. A line had been crossed, and he had to cross back.

  “My dear brother, are you actually yelling at me?”

  He was. He was yelling. It seemed to happen rather frequently where Emma was concerned. Miss Blythe, he angrily corrected himself, as James just had. “I am only trying to . . .” His voice trailed off, and he knew that he had no explanation that would satisfy either his brother or himself. “You should not be kissing her.”

  Hartley’s blatant hypocrisy stared him in the face. How could he be angry with James for kissing Emma when he had kissed her so many times that he was beginning to lose count?

  That was untrue. He had not lost count. He had not forgotten a single moment of what it felt like to hold her in his arms—the shape of her lips, the taste of her mouth, her pliant softness and eagerness making him forget himself again and again.

  If anything he should be pleased. This was what he had wanted. For James and Emma to wed. For an heir to be born, ensuring the earldom would continue.

  He again imagined Emma large with James’s child and felt physically ill. And a sort of ugly jealousy he’d never experienced before. What was wrong with him? This was what he wanted. Why was he feeling this way?

  Unaware of Hartley’s inner struggle, James said, “I’m not sure what the issue is with me kissing my bride-to-be.”

  Hartley’s throat felt thick with an emotion he couldn’t identify as rage raced through his veins. Remembering a trick his mother had taught him as a child, he counted slowly to ten in his head before answering. He impressed himself with the steadiness of his reply. “Are you betrothed yet? Has she accepted you?”

  That mischievous twinkle in his eye was back. “We are not betrothed yet. Would it bother you if we were?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THINGS I’M GOING TO INVENT IF I GET STUCK IN 1816

  Porta-potties

  Would it bother him? It hardly seemed a strong enough word. Particularly since Hartley had briefly considered committing fratricide. He opened his mouth several times, intending to speak but unable to find the right words.

  The words that would absolve him of his inexplicable negative reaction to what he’d spent months plotting.

  Realizing a response would not be forthcoming, James continued. “Asking her is only a formality at this point, is it not?”

  Even if it was only a formality, James had just put Emma in an untenable situation. He had flouted convention. Why? Did he mean to embarrass Emma? The family?

  Or perhaps James just liked Emma. And simply lost his head. As Hartley himself had done often enough. How could he fault James for that? They hadn’t spent much time together yet, but Emma’s charm, her beauty, her wit, her . . . everything. How could James not be drawn in?

  “Not to mention, it felt as if she rather enjoyed it.”

  If Hartley had been forced to account for his actions later, he would have been unable to explain why he did what he did next. He grabbed his brother by the lapels, pulling him up from the chair, and planted him a facer, knocking him to the floor.

  He felt both appalled and relieved in the moment that followed. He had forgotten his signet ring and had caused his brother’s lip to bleed. He offered James his handkerchief. “My apologies. You are bleeding. You need to clean up before we rejoin the party because Emma faints at the sight of blood.”

  James dabbed at his lower lip, pulling the handkerchief away from his mouth to look at it. “No apologies necessary. That was an ungentlemanly thing to say. I deserved it.”

  Deserved it? Had James provoked him on purpose?

  And if he had, why?

  Hartley offered his brother his hand and noted the small smile on James’s face, as if he knew something Hartley did not.

  After James got to his feet, he tossed the handkerchief onto the desk. “I have a theory that I would like to share with you. I believe that you have feelings for Miss Blythe,” he said, causing Hartley to realize that he had again referred to her as Emma, “which is why you planted me a facer and why you know such an intimate detail about her. It’s the sort of thing that the besotted always know about their true loves. Because they care enough to know them.”

  He could not allow it to be true. “How can I not know that? She bloody faints every time someone is cut. Or how she gets angry when I’m trying to have a rational discussion with her. I can’t get through two sentences without her collapsing into a heap.”

  “Rational discussion?” James still sounded amused. “It sounds like a brilliant plan to me. Perhaps I should have fainted so that I could have avoided this discussion.” With a slight inclination of his head, James left the room, still wearing that aggravating smirk.

  Hartley took a moment to collect himself before following after his sibling. James was right. He should have fainted. Because it was becoming increasingly clear to Hartley that even though he desperately wanted to deny that he had feelings for Emma as James had suggested, even he would be forced to admit that all his actions this evening pointed to the contrary.

  * * *

  I knew the exact moment that Hartley entered the ballroom. Not because I’d been watching for him, wondering if James’s plan to make him jealous had worked, but because everything felt different when he was near.

  Yes, it sounded stupid, but it was the truth.

  Both brothers walked toward me, James grinning and Hartley looking like he was about to punch somebody.

  James spoke first. “Miss Blythe, I’ve not yet had the pleasure.”

  My first instinct was to retort, Get used to it, but I refrained. “The pleasure of what?”

  He blinked a few times at me while I made a point of not looking at Hartley. Or moving closer to him. Or wrapping my arms around him and begging him to elope.

  “Of the dance. Shall we?”

  I hesitated for only a second, hoping Hartley might say something. That he might pull out a sword and demand that James unhand me. I stole a glance at his face, his stony, jaw-clenched expression making him look like some kind of avenging angel, but he didn’t interfere as I put my hand on James’s elbow.

  We stood across from each other in a line with the other dancing couples. Back in the future, I would have been beyond excited if a guy like James had asked me to dance. Now he just seemed all slick and playboyish. I liked charm as much as the next girl, but Hartley was more real. Even if sometimes I felt like I’d stumbled into some strange historical dream, Hartley always felt solid and substantial. I loved that. Honestly, I loved everything about him. Even the way I made him crazy. Because if James was right, and I was the only one who had that effect on Hartley, then he liked me. Maybe even loved me. Which sent whirls of giddy excitement through my belly.

&
nbsp; I saw all the side-eye I got from other women in the ballroom. I couldn’t blame them. I was here with the two best-looking men in England. As I took in all the envious stares, it was then that I noticed Hartley was dancing.

  With Lady Kitty. He almost never danced, and now he was dancing with that little man-eater. I wondered how long it would take someone to intervene if I ran across the room and started yanking out her naturally blonde hair in clumps.

  “You’re jealous.”

  Even though we were surrounded by other people, James and I were easily able to talk as we moved through the steps. “Jealous?” I repeated, startled to have been found out.

  James flashed me one of those “I know what you’re thinking” smiles. “You have no need to be. I believe my brother to be quite immune to any other woman’s charms.”

  Belief wasn’t enough of a reason to stay. “Why do you care? What do you get out of all this?”

  He didn’t answer at first, waiting until we were walking slowly down the line of dancers to say in a low voice, “I get to see my brother happy. I want him to be happy and at peace. I am surprised to see him dancing this evening. Miss Amesbury, his former fiancée, loved to dance, and he stopped after her death. When I told him the world didn’t stop dancing because one dancer left the stage, he didn’t speak to me for weeks. I am no comfort to my brother.”

  Poor James sounded haunted. Was that why he stayed away so often? Did he think he caused Hartley pain? I wished I could hug him. I settled for patting him on the arm.

  I changed the subject, and after the first dance finished he asked me to dance again, so we did. The music for the second dance ended, and as we applauded the musicians, Hartley approached us with that disdainful expression. Not that I could blame him. Being around Lady Kitty probably did that to a person.

  “Would you honor me with another dance?” James asked, his voice sounding as if he wanted to laugh but kept it in.

  Wait. Something about that was wrong. Charles had mentioned that I was allowed to dance with a man only a certain number of times before it was like announcing our engagement. From the look on Hartley’s face, I remembered that number was two.

  “Miss Blythe has promised the next dance to me,” Hartley interrupted, his voice almost like a snarl.

  My heart beat so loud, the orchestra could have kept time to it. Hartley extended his hand, and my own trembled in anticipation. I was so head over heels for this guy that the prospect of just dancing with him again seemed like the most thrilling thing in the entire world.

  A short older man climbed the dais and nodded to the musicians. He began to sing a slow, operatic song. I noticed the other couples around us waltzing.

  I would get to waltz with Hartley! Even better. I sighed in pleasure as his hand went around my waist, and despite our gloves, I could still feel the warmth of him filling in the space between us. Then we were stepping, gliding, twirling.

  “At least you’re wearing a corset this evening,” Hartley said, his voice a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

  I felt so much like a princess in a fairy tale that I just smiled as my reply and concentrated on forcing my body to stay back a respectable distance. It was enough to be near him. To have him hold me.

  To be where I belonged.

  “Are you enjoying the performance?”

  There was something different about Hartley. The way he looked at me, how he felt the need to fill the silence between us, some unexpected quiver in his voice.

  I’d never been into opera, but it was impressive to have someone so talented singing it live, something I’d never experienced before. And we were getting a private performance in an opulent and beautiful room full of happy, rich people who sparkled and laughed as they turned in large circles. It made me feel a little like I was in Pretty Woman. Only there was no flying on a private plane to an opera house. And I wasn’t a hooker.

  “I am enjoying it. He’s good. Like throw-your-panties good.”

  That earned me a raised, questioning eyebrow from Hartley.

  “In the future when some women really like a musical performer, sometimes they throw their, um, underclothes at the musician.”

  He blinked a few times before responding, “Here we just applaud.”

  That made me laugh, and he grinned, tightening his grip on my hand. And it was him who pulled me slightly closer, letting his strength and warmth and delicious smell envelop me.

  I wanted to stay here, in his arms, for the rest of the night.

  For the rest of my life.

  When he spoke again, his voice sounded low and gruff. “In case I hadn’t mentioned it earlier, you look truly exquisite this evening.” Both the tone of his voice and his words made all my nerve endings spark with delight and excitement, as my heart flopped around like some out-of-water fish, caught in the net he had spun just by speaking.

  Charles had chosen a perfectly tailored pale-pink dress for me to wear, and Rosemary had been particularly proud of the tiny pink rosebuds she had put in my hair. I had plenty of borrowed jewelry.

  But none of that made me feel beautiful.

  The way he looked at me then, like I was precious and mattered and he wanted me and adored me—that was what made me feel beautiful. “Thank you.”

  That caught him off guard. “What? No retort? No self-deprecating remark?”

  “No. Just thank you.”

  The air between us was so charged and thick that I was surprised no one else seemed to notice. His eyes drifted down to my lips, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. And that I wanted it just as much as he did. My breaths became short and shallow as my skin tingled everywhere that he was touching me.

  Would anyone notice if we snuck out?

  I was about to suggest as much when his breath hitched as he said, “Emma . . .” in a way that made my toes curl inside my cute little satin flats.

  “Our aunt sent me to fetch you.” James’s voice sounded so far away that it took me a moment to register he was there.

  And that the music had stopped.

  Realization dawned on Hartley at the same time, and he released me. It was like he had torn even more pieces of me off and taken them with him as he stepped back, slightly bowing.

  “I will watch over Miss Blythe,” James offered, returning the scowl to Hartley’s face. He left without another word and without looking back at me.

  “Why do you do stuff like that that you know will make him mad?” I asked as James offered me his arm, walking across the room to where the Duchess of Warfield was hanging out with some of her entourage.

  “I told you. I’m a scientist. I need to experiment in order to prove my theory correct.” He greeted the duchess’s group and made some small talk.

  Then he turned back to me, saying he needed to take his leave, as he intended to go outside and enjoy his cheroot.

  “Your what?”

  “My cigar,” he said, patting his coat.

  Ew. That was why he had tasted so gross. “Those things will kill you. They cause cancer. And if you don’t know what cancer is, it’s a really terrible type of illness that can’t be cured and is terminal. Not to mention that they make you smell.”

  He cocked his head at me, bewildered. “You truly say whatever you’re thinking. My sisters will adore you. Which works out well, since my brother already does. As was obvious to everyone in the room when you danced. If I harbored any doubt before, that has all been erased.”

  Part of me wanted to go girly on him and jump up and down screaming, “Really? Do you think he likes me?” While the other part, who had been alone her whole life and couldn’t conceive of any universe where a guy like Hartley would ever go after a girl like me, wanted to tell him to shut up and that he was seriously mistaken.

  “I have an idea. Go wait in your room,” James said. “I believe it will prove my theory one way or the other. I will send him to you.”

  Whoa. “That is super not allowed.” Even if I had technically been in Hartley’s room
once already, James didn’t need to know that. “I don’t want him to feel forced or like he has to marry me. I’m not interested in trying to trap him.”

  “That was not what I had in mind. You can speak to him in the hallway. My guess is that if he’s willing to take the risk of going to your room, that it will be proof enough.” James bowed over my hand. “Trust me, Miss Blythe. We are to be family soon, after all.”

  He headed for the open balcony doors, leaving me unsure of what to do. I might be missed. People left all the time to go home or fix a torn skirt or use the Regency version of a portable bathroom (don’t ask, it looked like a gravy boat, and I couldn’t bring myself to try it). On the other hand, someone, like that little Lady Kitty, might notice that Hartley was gone as well and put two and two together. What if we were caught? I supposed if it came down to it, I would just go back home. I didn’t want to be with someone who would always resent me for tricking him into marriage.

  But James was right. If Hartley did come up to see me, then he would be taking an awful risk that showed he cared. That this wasn’t all just one-sided.

  I made my apologies to the duchess and her friends, saying I didn’t feel well. When I got to the stairs, I grabbed my skirts and ran until I got to my room. After I closed my bedroom door, I checked my reflection in the mirror. I tucked in a couple of stray hairs and noticed how pink my cheeks were. I didn’t know if it was from the running or the excitement.

  I brushed my teeth, again wishing for real toothpaste, and splashed some water on my face. Putting on some of my favorite Creamsicle perfume, I sat down in one of my chairs and waited. I wondered how long this would take. How much time I actually had. I crossed my legs and noticed the black hairs sticking out of my stockings.

  Enough was enough.

  Disgusted, I rang for Rosemary, and when she arrived I asked for one bucket of hot water and a razor. I was going to shave my legs. Not because I thought it was necessary or that things would go that far, but because I wanted to be as confident as possible and resembling King Kong would not help.