by Kim Bowman
"And if you're wrong?"
Donovan paused long enough to wave a hand at Past Duke. "Do be quiet. Your attempt to distract me shall be in vain." He resumed his search, shifting papers on the desk for several moments before finding what he wanted. With a smirk, he looked up at the other him. "Ah, here we are. The notes my secretary needs me to sign, dated…" He glanced at the letters, unbelieving. "This cannot be. There must be a mistake. I'm certain there's a missive here from my friend John Dickens."
"Unless I'm telling the truth," Past Duke suggested.
Eyes narrowed, Donovan glared at the specter. "You are not real." He tossed the pages to the desk and jerked open the ledger book. Nothing had been written past December 24, 1812. He shoved the book aside and frantically searched the other papers littering the desk. None of them had a date past 1812 either. "This cannot be. I don't—"
His other self was gone.
Now he disappears.
With a sigh, he sank down into the desk chair. He propped his elbows on the leather blotter and dropped his head into his hands. How could his mind make sense of this? The only logical explanation was he'd died and his destination had not been heaven but a home of eternal torment.
But I don't feel dead…
Rest. I just need to find my bed and get a good night's sleep. All will be well come morning.
He rose and started for the door.
"Of course he's in his study. He's always in his study."
He stiffened, and fear mixed with excitement held him frozen in place. It couldn't be. Then the door opened and she was there — really there, standing in the doorway…
Delia.
Chapter Three
Terror and joy gripped him. He didn't know whether to be afraid she was real or scared she might not be. How he'd give anything to carry this image with him. Her face alight with happiness and excitement, a smile so contagious it infected all around her.
The study came to life in a way it hadn't in years. Still, Donovan couldn't reconcile that he was back in 1812, reliving Christmas Eve, when in reality it was 1820. Traveling through the wall of time just wasn't possible.
This Delia had long since faded from his memory. Replaced with the image of her cheeks stained with dried tears, her bright blue eyes dulled from crying, pain etched across her beautiful face… pain he'd caused.
That had been the last time he'd seen her. March 12, 1813. She hadn't even celebrated her eighteenth birthday.
But she was here now. Standing in front of him. Alive and happy. He closed the space between them and embraced her, grabbed her to him tightly, wanting to never let her go. It had been so many years, too many. It no longer mattered if this was a dream or not. He was holding Delia, his baby sister, and she was alive and she was real.
"My gown!" She pushed at him. "You're wrinkling my gown."
Heat flickered across his face, and he reluctantly released her. "Sorry."
She scowled and ran her gloved hands down the front of her dress, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles he'd caused. He stared, unspeaking. The bold red of the satin dress — made more noticeable by the gold and white of her pelisse — shimmered about her, bringing out the deep blue of her eyes.
Delia lifted her face. "Are you — why are you staring at me like that?"
How did he explain? He couldn't find the words. How could he tell her that he'd missed her when she didn't even know eight years had passed? Had eight years passed? For him it had, and every day without her had been torture. And he'd never stop blaming himself for her death. How did he tell her she'd be dead in a few short months? What could he have done differently? What can I do differently to keep her safe? Is this it? Is this why I came back?
"Donovan…"
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
Delia placed her hands on her hips. "Honestly, what has gotten into you this evening? You still aren't wearing your gloves, hat, or the burgundy tailcoat I had made for you."
"Tailcoat?"
She let out an exasperated sigh. "You aren't going to make a fuss over it, are you? Black is such a dull color."
This isn't real. She's not real. No matter how much his mind screamed at him that this wasn't possible, that he couldn't be seeing his long-dead sister, he couldn't deny what was right in front of him. Her eyes shining, dancing with laughter and life. He hated that that light had been taken from her.
Rage boiled in him again. It was this dreadful holiday. It brought back all the memories, made him relive it all again. All the sadness, all the pain. The hurt in Delia's eyes, the tears streaming down her face. He couldn't go through that again, couldn't bear it. Perhaps if they'd never gone to the ball…
"Do hurry, brother dear. We mustn't be late picking up Tess."
"I'm not at all certain that spending Christmas Eve at a ball is the best use of our time. Perhaps we should stay home with Mother instead."
Her face fell and her hands dropped to her sides. "But we have to go. We just have to. You promised."
He couldn't. He just couldn't take her to the ball, knowing what would happen. They'd stay home and enjoy a quiet Christmas Eve with their mother. He'd relish the evening with his baby sister, before she disappeared from his life again or he awoke.
"My mind is quite made up. I'll send the carriage for Tess and inform her we are unable to attend."
"It's not fair." Delia stomped her foot. "You don't want to go because you know—" She clamped her mouth shut.
Yes, he knew. Knew she only had a few months to live. How he wished it wasn't true, and he envied her the gift of oblivion.
"I'll never forgive you if you don't take me. Never!" She fled the room, yelling for their mother.
The words were like a punch to his gut. She'd said that to him at the ball. And had meant it. She'd gone to her watery grave hating him. He couldn't let that happen again.
The room fell cold. A strong current of air swept through the study, extinguishing all the candles and lamps, casting the room into darkness save the flickering of the weak flames in the fireplace. Chills raced up and down Donovan's spine, raising the hair at the nape of his neck.
"You aren't allowed to change the future, only fix it."
He jerked around, startled. Past Duke stood beside one of the high-back chairs with his arms crossed, the bright light illuminating from him almost blinding in the darkened study.
Donovan cursed. "What does that mean?" The blasted man could go to the devil for all he cared. How was he supposed to fix the past if he didn't change it?
Past him narrowed his eyes. "It means you have to face what happened and fix it. Not try to manipulate things so they turn out the way you want. And the only way to do that is for you to go to the ball — again."
Of their own accord, his feet moved toward the door, his body full of dread. This was surely eternal damnation, having to relive the pain and suffering of the people he loved the most.
Chapter Four
Time never stopped, waited for no one. Just moved forward like the hands on a clock, uncaring about what was left behind. Second by second. Minute by minute. It could no sooner return to the past any more than turning an hourglass over would actually reset time or make it move backward.
Except in dreams. That's the only place where time didn't exist but took the weary dreamer where he wanted to be… sometimes where he didn't want to be.
When sleeping, every detail, every nuance, everything that had happened that night constantly replayed in his mind. Tortured him. And if he were being honest, the nightmare often continued when he was awake. Yet in the end, everything always remained unchanged. Logic reasoned that this time would be no different. But his heart kept arguing, What if it is? What if you truly can change the past?
The jostling of the carriage as it moved toward the Warren townhouse in Mayfair pulled him from his thoughts. Surely the mind wasn't capable of creating the sensation that he was bouncing about, jerking to and fro as the coach wheels struck the occasional rut or stone in the road
.
He glanced at the seat across from him, half expecting to find it empty, yet not surprised at all when his gazed landed on Delia. Head bent, she was searching for something inside her reticule, humming softly. Already several of the pins holding her hair in place had come loose and dark curls spilled over her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face.
Donovan had to check himself, ignore the inclination to reach out and give a gentle tug on one of the ringlets as he'd often done. Perhaps pull a bit harder as repayment for the outrageous burgundy tailcoat he now wore. With a matching hat, no less. He rolled his eyes. Could be worse… could be the same bold red as her dress—
Black… he'd worn black. He distinctly remembered wearing a black tailcoat when he'd attended the Kringles' ball the first time in 1812. He stared down as if looking at a ghost. His ghost. The past duke — the other him — had been wearing a wine-colored tailcoat. This tailcoat.
How is this possible? How can I be back in 1812?
Lost in his reflections, he didn't notice that the carriage had stopped until the footman opened the door. With a mixture of hopeful anticipation and anxious trepidation, he alighted to assist Tess inside the coach.
Like his own brownstone, the Warren townhouse had a wrought iron fence out front as well as on the second- and third-floor balconies. Wooden columns painted white bracketed the black door. He hadn't been back to her home… not since that night — this night.
Donovan kicked the carriage step, releasing some of his frustration.
"I'll be sure to give the Kringles your regards, Mama."
Tess! Her singsong voice poured over him like warmth from the sun. Please let her be there, let me see her beautiful face. Donovan swung around. His heart skipped then pounded rapidly, taking his breath away.
Her white satin pelisse fluttered ever so softly, billowing out around her feet as she glided down the path. A golden ribbon held her light-colored curls in place, a style that reminded him of an angel's halo. And that's what the lovely creature strolling toward him resembled. An ethereal being.
That feeling. That overwhelming, intoxicating feeling that she was tugging on his heartstrings washed over him, leaving him with the sensation he was floating. He had to check himself. Refrain from running down the walk and scooping her up in his arms.
How he'd missed spending the evenings with her, playing chess, cribbage, and confiding in her some of the more outrageous things being bet on at White's. Even placing a few anonymous bets for her in the book.
He'd had no secrets from her — well, save one. Never had he let her know his true feelings, that he wanted to spend his life with no one but her, loved her deeply. Donovan wasn't even sure when it had happened. One day he'd just realized she was his world. Yet he'd never told her. Had let fear of disappointing his father with a less-than-perfect marriage match silence him, even after the man had died.
Tess stopped in front of him, lifted her hand to his chin, and pushed his mouth closed. "It's impolite to stare, Gatewood. Especially if it's unclear whether the look is one of male appreciation or disapproval."
He longed to take her in his arms, hold her tight, and tell her how much he loved her. But he had to settle with lifting her gloved hand to his mouth for a kiss, letting his lips linger a bit longer than needed, squeezing her fingers ever so softly so as not to alarm her.
"I assure you, m'lady, the appraisal was one of admiration. You are a diamond of the first water."
She smiled, revealing the dimples in her cheeks. "Thank you. I must say, that's quite a compliment, coming from you."
One I should have given you before now. How he wanted to take her lips in a devouring kiss, yearned to feel her skin next to his without the barrier of gloves, to feel her body pressed to h—
"Do hurry, you two. We're already late." His sister let out a sigh as she sat back in her seat.
Blasted Delia. Donovan would be sure to mention to Lord Stanchbach how much she hoped he'd escort her to supper. Perhaps an evening of listening to the man's nose whistle would teach the mouthy chit to keep her tongue.
As he helped Tess into the carriage, the sweet scents of honeysuckle and rosewater enveloped him, penetrated straight to his heart. He wanted to breathe her in, pull her close and let the essence of her pour into him until they were one.
Once Tess was settled, the driver continued down Berkeley Street, turning left onto Piccadilly. No sooner had they crossed St. James when the pungent smells from Paxton and Whitfield, a couple of streets over, washed through the carriage. The foul odors of vinegar and sour curds turned his stomach, reminding him why he'd never acquired much of a taste for cheese.
But if this was a dream, would the sweet aromas of Tess's honeysuckle and rosewater have tickled his nose so? Would his stomach have recoiled against the putrid stenches emanating from the cheesemonger's shop? Surely one didn't have a sense of smell in a dream?
"Don't tell me you're pouting already, Gatewood. It's so unbecoming for a duke to sulk."
"He's losing his touch, Tess. He never even complained once about my dress or insisted I change."
"Oh, the poor man. Must be his age," Tess said.
Tess and Delia's laughter echoed within the confines of the carriage. The sound was unfamiliar yet at the same time soothing. Streetlight spilled in through the window, casting their faces in its luminous glow. Just as suddenly, shadow once again overtook them as the lantern was left behind.
He locked eyes with Tess, wishing the interior of the coach held the brightness of a few moments ago. Unlike Delia, who loved to shock the ton by being straightforward and blunt, Tess held all those around her captivated with her candid eloquence. Him most of all. When she looked at him with those sapphire blue eyes, he wanted to devour her and give her the world at the same time. She hated the freckles that dotted her nose, but he found them endearing and wanted to kiss each of them, hoped all of their daughters—
Time hadn't stopped for Tess either. She'd married someone else.
Only him.
It had only stopped for him. Forever stuck in that moment when he could have done something different but hadn't.
The closer the carriage approached to Holly Hall, the more his anxiety grew. His time with Delia was running out. He didn't want to relive it again. Perhaps he should just return home and lock her in her room. She'd be safe that way.
Delia let out a long sigh. "I do feel sorry for his wife."
"Yes, but at the rate he's going, he'll never have a wife," Tess replied.
He opened his mouth to snap at them, but couldn't. Something tickled at the back of his mind. A memory. One long forgotten. What had he answered? What had he said? Like a wave hitting the shore, he remembered…
"Perhaps I haven't married of my own choosing. As it is, I have yet to find a lady to marry of noble enough birth who doesn't annoy me or bore me to tears," he shot back.
The coach fell quiet. No one spoke another word. When they reached Holly Hall, Tess walked past him without a glance, and they didn't say anything else to one another that night.
Delia had not been so quiet. "You are the foulest creature I've ever known."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Poor sweet Tess. What you said was mean and spiteful."
He was taken aback. He hadn't insulted Tess, hadn't spoken of her at all.
"Are you that dimwitted? Can you not see it? Why do you think we escort her?"
He shrugged. "I assumed it was because her mother is in ill health and her father has passed away, so there is no one else to offer her an escort."
She stared at him, mouth agape. "And you think she couldn't go with someone else and avoid your foul moods?"
He'd never thought of it. His mother and Tess's had been close since childhood. It only seemed natural for Tess to be an extension of their family.
"It would serve you right if she accepted one of the marriage proposals she's received."
If memory served him, other than a few pleasantries exchanged when t
hey met at social outings, they'd never truly talked again after that night. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, just assumed that with Delia gone…
But now, thinking back, when she'd walked past him, she'd seemed… hurt. He clearly pictured it now. Her face had been somber, eyes downcast, lips even, not a hint of a smile. Could it have been something he'd said? They'd both been so animated and gay before his comment. Had he been that harsh? Had he been the reason her face had looked so sad?
He couldn't — wouldn't do that to either of them again.
"Well, ladies, there's nothing for it. I shall rely upon the two of you to school me in the proper way to behave so that I'm not such an undesirable sort. Perhaps I should fawn over the ladies as Lord Filton does? Declare my undying devotion as Lord Marreck is often prone?"
Eyes wide, Delia and Tess exchanged glances then burst into laughter.
He lifted his eyebrows. "I assure you, I'm quite serious."
"W-who are you and w-what have you done with my brother?" Delia asked between bouts of laughter.
"Whatever do you mean? I'm a perfectly agreeable fellow!"
This made the girls laugh harder, and he found himself chuckling as well. When had he laughed last? His heart warmed, melting the frost around it. The heat seemed to spread quickly through his body, and for the first time in eight years, peace filled him. Despair and loneliness had been his companions for so long he'd forgotten the welcoming feel of happiness.
All too soon the carriage came to a stop and the footman was opening the door. Donovan wanted to jerk it shut again and scream at the driver to keep moving, to take them as far from London as possible. Gretna Green. He'd marry Tess and they'd move to the country with her mother, his mother, and Delia. His sister would be angry for a while, but she'd be safe and alive.
Delia stuck her head back inside the carriage. "Do hurry, brother. We're already late."