by Nichole Van
He kissed her forehead. Her cheek. His lips hovered over hers.
“I love you, Miss Jasmine Fleury.”
And then he kissed her. Sweet. Longing. Full of hope. Of promise.
Her heart crumbled under the onslaught. Poor thing. It could only handle so much.
She could taste her tears on his lips.
“I love you too,” she murmured.
She felt his answering smile. Surely more Pure Joy.
Happiness swamped her. To hold the love of such a man . . .
“Return with me. Live in my century. I cannot bear the thought of giving you up.”
Which just made her cry harder.
“Please tell me these are good tears?” His breath a whisper against her mouth.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Oh, my love, yes!”
About five thousand hours later (okay, so maybe it was only fifteen minutes), they managed to pull their mouths apart. Timothy scrubbed her wet cheeks with his thumbs.
“But what about your people? Your family and estates? Miss Heartstone and her buckets of viscount-saving money?”
She could see his mind churning, gaze distant. “I will find a way. Somehow.”
“I do have my small trust fund from Marmi. It’s not much, but it might help. We could convert it into jewels or gold and take it with us.”
A pause. “I would never ask that of you. That inheritance was your gift from Marmi. Besides, it cannot be a simple task to retrieve the money.”
Drat. “You’re right. It’s all tied up in investments and stuff. It would definitely take time. And with Rita threatening legal action . . .”
“Do not worry. Though I would have been too proud before, now I have no compunction asking Arthur for financial help. Being in this century has given me ideas—”
She gave a shocked mock-gasp. “Lord Linwood! You are not contemplating going into trade, are you?”
He gave a wry chuckle. “Not precisely. I will need to discuss options with Daniel, but I think there might be a way to invest in trade without damaging the family prospects too much. It will be tricky, but if Arthur has some loose capital, I think I could find a solution. I have faith we will find a path. The portal brought me to you and now wishes us to return together. Good things fall apart—”
“—so better things can fall together. If anyone can find a solution, it will be you, my love.”
He closed his eyes, a puff of air bursting from him, face almost pained. “I will never tire of hearing you call me my love.”
“So, I guess I’m headed for 1815. But, hold on, someone once told me there are, like, lots and lots of rules to follow. Something about gray gloves and spring picnics . . . I know, I know, it sounded crazy to me too.”
Timothy gave her his softest Buttery Laugh. “There will be many rules to learn . . . basic decorum, how to greet people, elocution and posture, fan etiquette—”
“Whoa . . . fan etiquette? You’re joking, right?”
He cocked an eyebrow.
Not joking. Got it. Fan etiquette. Who knew?
“But do not fear, my darling. It is nothing you will have to master immediately. You will have all the time you need to adapt. As soon as we return to Kinningsley, I will recall Marianne from London. She can teach you what you need to learn to be a lady. Though I do not think you will find it too challenging. Your huge heart and charming affections will win over any who would doubt you.”
“That sounds . . . perfect.” She pressed her palms into his chest. She needed to know one thing. “What about you? Will you go back to being as you were?”
“As I was?”
“Yes. The Rules, remember? Will you go back to following them when you return to 1815?”
He pulled back slightly, gaze suddenly wary. Not a good sign.
“No offense, but Rule-Bound Timothy is a bit of a downer,” she said.
“Truly? You did call me a nerd earlier.”
“Nerd is a good thing.”
He let out a long sigh. “There are certain strictures of society that must be adhered to in the nineteenth century. As I said, you will need to learn certain rules yourself. It is only common courtesy—”
“Okay, I’ll grant you that. All the rules about gloves and ballroom etiquette and greeting people, blah, blah. I know I need to obey those rules too.” She gave a dismissive gesture with her hand. “But the weird rules about not laughing or showing emotions? Those have to go. I can’t watch you withdraw back into yourself. It’s not healthy. I need a pledge, Lord Linwood. A guarantee I won’t lose the man I love.”
He leaned back into her. “Mmmm, the man you love . . .”
“No distracting me. Do we have a deal?”
A decisive nod. “I will abstain from following rules that restrict my range of emotions.”
“Pinky swear.” She pulled back and held out her hand, smallest finger extended. Eyes determined and serious.
“Pinky swear?”
“You wrap your pinky finger around mine.”
He did so. Her hand so small next to his.
“Now repeat after me, ‘I, Timothy Linwood, do solemnly swear that I will relinquish all rules which govern emotions and their display, or the lack thereof, for now and forever more. And I also grant Jasmine Fleury the authority to police my adherence to said oath.’”
He raised an eyebrow, but repeated the words. A smile tugging at his lips.
Then he pulled her tighter into his chest. She went willingly, loving his arms around her.
“I do believe that pinky-sworn oaths have to be sealed with a kiss.” He dipped his head.
She wrapped her hands around his neck, arching up on her tiptoes. “I do think you are completely correct in the matter, Lord Linwood.”
Chapter 24
The lane to Kinningsley
May 14, 1815
How are you feeling?” Jasmine had to ask it. Again.
“You mean have I changed in the last five minutes?” Timothy replied.
“Yes.”
A soft Buttery Laugh. Man, she loved that sound. “As you would say, I’m good. You will be able to see the front facade of Kinningsley once we top this hill.” He gestured up the narrow lane.
She tucked her hand tighter around his elbow. And then used her free hand to lift her skirts.
Her skirts!
Emme had an impressive stash of Regency era attire. When Jasmine had called to give her the low-down on everything Timothy-related, Emme had been surprisingly supportive—both about No Rules Timothy and Jasmine returning with him to 1815—saying she would miss Jasmine. As a parting gift, Emme had insisted Jasmine help herself to the clothes too.
So Jasmine was now wearing a sprigged muslin high-waisted dress covered with a blue velvet pelisse, which was like a tight overdress-thingy. The ensemble hung straight to her ankles with only a single thin petticoat underneath, the entire effect meant to mimic the flowing dresses of ancient Greece and Rome.
A matching blue silk bonnet perched on top of her hair which was pulled back and curled. She had watched an awesome YouTube video on how to do perfect Regency hairstyles. Though she had no idea how to recreate the look without a curling iron and hair spray.
She found the thought of Marianne’s impending tutoring comforting. There would be a lot to learn, but she could do it. Just like going to college or something. Another skill set.
Timothy had already helped her learn a few basics. Mostly just how to curtsy and greet someone. He had called her a natural.
She could do this. She would spend her days with Marianne learning to be a nineteenth century lady, while Timothy spent time with Arthur and Daniel, resolving his financial woes. Timothy figured it would take around six months to a year for both of them but, in the end, all would be well.
Interestingly, the entire process had been tinged with a sense of rightness, for lack of a better word. As if she were putting together the self she had always been.
When she strolled into the kitchen of Duir Cot
tage in her 1815 clothes, Timothy had stared at her for a full minute before letting a slow, wicked smile dimple his cheeks. Classic Hungry Wolf.
She took that as approval.
Timothy was back to looking every inch the nineteenth century aristocrat. His coat brushed, cravat perfectly tied, boots gleaming. Top hat and gloves back in place.
The trip through the portal had been . . . simple. Almost uneventful.
Ironic, really, given all the trouble it had caused.
Walking downstairs, hand-in-hand, the portal had pulsed strong, those golden tendrils of energy swirling around her. As if welcoming them, tugging her forward. Eager.
All she had to do was hold hands with Timothy, wrapping him in the gold ribbons as well.
She had smiled, thinking of Timothy and how happy he would be to see his family, his home. The second their hands touched the stone, the world had turned black, vertigo rushing over her.
And then they were in 1815. Just like that.
All the hustle and bustle of modernity gone. Instead, the world became fields and clean air and quiet.
Without any transportation and Haldon Manor still a building site, they had opted to walk the few miles cross-country to Kinningsley.
“There.” Timothy pointed up the lane and across the fields. A stately mansion rose in the distance.
She froze, all the air swooshing from her lungs.
The word impressive was an understatement. She knew he was wealthy. Knew he was a lord and a viscount.
But . . . wow!
The house gleamed in the sunlight, golden stone shaped into regal columns and pedimented friezes. Imposing in its grandeur. The entire building an homage to classical architecture.
“I take it meets with your approval?”
“It’ll do,” she replied archly.
He flashed her those darling smile holes of his.
She suddenly felt overwhelmed. It was more than just having to learn the social mores of this time period. Timothy had promised he would find a way for them to be together. Obviously, that meant marriage.
Not that they had talked about it specifically or anything. A woman had to be superdy-duperdy careful how the ol’ M-word dropped into a conversation.
But the implication was definitely there. And she knew they loved each other.
Which meant she would be a viscountess and mistress of this house, these people. Everything.
Again. Wow.
A breath of panicky nervousness tried to wreck her excited mood. Could she do this? It would be a huge task . . .
Pep talk. Baby steps. With Timothy and Marianne’s help and some time, she could do this. Learn what she needed to learn. She had at least a year. No need to be worried. Though maybe she should have brought a copy of Timothy’s rules, just in case.
“Will your absence have been missed, do you think?” she asked as they continued to walk.
“Given that both Arthur and Daniel know about the portal, I hope they put the puzzle pieces together and concocted some story to explain my absence.”
“So no vultures swarming, eager to take over the estate?”
Another Dimple-Kissed smile. “I doubt my Uncle Linwood would make an appearance. We shall see what has happened soon enough.”
As they walked up the lane, approaching the house, heads swung in their direction. Farmers doffed their hats, maids curtsied, gardeners bowed. But no one waved hello. No one smiled in greeting. In fact, no one said anything beyond a murmured, ‘My lord.’
All very careful. Measured. Cautious.
This was his life, Jasmine realized. This was how people always treated him. A title more than a human being. As if he were placed onto a shelf labeled Other and not allowed to play with the rest of the toys.
She knew this distinction was partially of his own creation—that he had deliberately placed himself apart. But she couldn’t help the surge of protectiveness that tore through her.
He was so much more than just a title. He was a fiercely brilliant man with passions and dreams and a caring heart. Who also happened to be amazingly talented at dish cleaning, pantry organization and, let’s face it, kissing.
Things, she realized, others rarely saw in him.
Did anyone, besides herself, know the real Timothy Linwood?
As they drew near the curved front steps, a female figure burst out of the front door, dark hair bouncing as she took the steps at a half run.
“Timothy! At last!” she cried, throwing herself into his arms, planting a decidedly warm kiss on his cheek.
Marianne. The woman could only be his younger sister, Arthur Knight’s wife. How perfect she was already here! Jasmine could start her lady-training immediately.
For his part, Timothy gathered his sister close, sweeping her into a tight hug that pulled her off her feet.
This was more like it.
Someone else who saw the real Timothy inside.
Petite like Jasmine with dark hair and her brother’s gray eyes, Marianne exuded a gentleness of spirit that her brother did not. She clung to him, her voice muffled against his chest. “We were so terribly worried. You have been gone for so long and without a word.”
“Hush, Marianne. I have returned. But why are you here? I thought you and Arthur were in London?”
“How could I remain in London when you had disappeared?” She shook her dark head. “You did not return from Kinningsley. Then word reached us you had never arrived here, though your horse was found wandering near Haldon Manor. Arthur thought you had estate issues to resolve. But then Daniel said you had been called away on Parliamentary business. And, in the end, they both admitted they did not know where you had gone.” She pulled back and looked up at him, her bottom lip quivering. “I was so afraid you had been robbed and murdered, and they would return your lifeless body to me.” She buried her face in his neckcloth again.
His face crumpled as he held her. “I am safe and whole, sister—”
“And then Uncle Linwood showed up on the doorstep—”
“Uncle Linwood is here?”
Marianne spoke sotto voce, but Jasmine leaned in, hearing her clearly. “Yes, and he has been horrid. Well, more horrid than usual, saying you have mismanaged the estate and all is lost, that the viscountcy is bankrupt. Is that where you went, to find a solution? Arthur is beside himself, as all our capital is tied up in rebuilding Haldon Manor at the moment, and we haven’t a farthing to advance you to help weather this crisis. What is to be done, Timothy?”
Oh no! Jasmine swallowed.
Arthur had no liquid money. That was . . . bad.
Timothy stilled and then lifted his eyes. His gaze troubled but his jaw determined.
It was okay. They would be okay. There were other options, weren’t there?
Marianne hiccupped. “I am just so very relieved you have returned, brother. But why did you act so rashly? Why not tell me of the betrothal yourself?”
On the heels of Marianne’s other comments, that didn’t make much sense. Had Timothy’s cousin, Emilia, finally become engaged to that second son of a duke? Timothy had mentioned the possibility often enough.
Marianne pulled back and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, shooting Jasmine a questioning glance.
“We most certainly did not expect you to arrive with a female guest. It will be quite scandalous—”
“What betrothal, Marianne? Did Uncle finally solidify the betrothal with the Duke?”
Marianne looked surprised. “Yes, that too. But I was referring to—”
“Nephew, welcome. We have been most concerned about your welfare.” A cool aristocratic voice cut through the air. Jasmine swiveled to see an older gentleman coming down the front steps.
Silver-haired and haughty with the same pale gray eyes as his niece and nephew.
It was like seeing Timothy thirty years in the future. Cold, withdrawn Timothy, that is. Rule-Bound Timothy.
The man stopped at the base of the stairs, face impassive. Every emotion sucke
d inside a chilly exterior. This could only be Timothy’s uncle and heir, Mr. John Linwood.
“Really, Marianne, such an emotional display is a disgrac—”
“Uncle.” Timothy silenced his uncle’s rebuke, keeping a firm arm around Marianne. “What an unexpected surprise. How odd for you to suddenly decide to take a trip to Herefordshire.”
“Not odd at all, Nephew, given the circumstances. The family name and honor must be maintained, despite others’ seeming disregard for them.”
Jasmine watched Timothy literally stiffen at his uncle’s words. His face retreating back into that well-worn mask.
Drat. This was so not good.
Worry tugged at her heart. First, the news that Arthur might not be able to help financially and now Timothy’s uncle was here, railing on him about propriety. Ingrained habits were hard to break. And being back in the same environment that bred them would be a challenge.
Trust. She needed to trust him. Timothy could do this. She could do this. They would find a way. The portal and Fate had brought them this far . . .
“Will you present your guest, Nephew?” Mr. Linwood gave Jasmine a scathing look, up and down. Eyes narrowing.
Gesturing for Jasmine to join him at his side, Timothy said, “Marianne, Uncle Linwood, may I present Miss Jasmine Fleury?” Jasmine curtsied. It may have been somewhat wobbly, but she was a work in progress, right? “Miss Fleury, my sister, Mrs. Arthur Knight and my uncle, Mr. John Linwood.”
Marianne returned the curtsy, smooth and elegant. Not a wobble in sight. How did she do that?
Mr. Linwood merely gave a haughty nod.
And then he turned, utterly dismissing her.
Not the most auspicious of beginnings.
It’s okay, she told herself. She was in this to win the war, not every little skirmish.
With a sweep of his hand, Timothy indicated they were to go up the stairs and into the house. He turned and offered Jasmine his arm, his face still tucked behind that old mask.
She gave him her most encouraging smile. He visibly relaxed at seeing her, flashing her his dimples. But his body remained stiff as he led her up the stairs. She knew him well enough to recognize the tense set of his shoulders as worry and nervousness.