by Nichole Van
Marianne kept shooting her looks. Distressed, concerned, speculative kinds of looks.
What was going on here?
Inside, Kinningsley was expansively impressive. The large front door opened into an enormous central hall. Though hall seemed too tame a description. It was more like a ballroom, with a coffered, barrel-vaulted ceiling and freestanding columns lining both sides. Niches with marble statues were carved into the walls at regular intervals. Everything glittered with gold and veined marble. The room was lit through skylights in the ceiling, surely a modern invention for the time period.
It was utterly breathtaking.
All of this was Timothy’s? And, by extension, possibly to be hers? The scope was staggering.
Obviously, plenty of buildings in the twenty-first century were similarly grand. But she had never been in one that was someone’s private home, with the possibility of it becoming her private home.
Somehow the reality of it all far outstripped her expectations. And her expectations had already been of the extra-big variety.
A footman approached her, waiting patiently. Timothy calmly pulled off his overcoat, hat and gloves. He caught her eye and shot a glance at her own pelisse. Understanding, Jasmine unbuttoned her pelisse and handed it along with her bonnet and gloves to the waiting footman.
Yes. This way of life would take some getting used to. The air hung heavy with etiquette and prestige.
Marianne stood near her elbow, almost wringing her hands. She kept shooting glances down the long entrance hall. As if she expected someone to come around the corner at any moment.
Turning to his uncle, Timothy tugged down his coat sleeve.
“Uncle, I understand congratulations are in order. Emilia is formally betrothed to the Duke’s son?”
Mr. Linwood nodded his head, curt and sharp. “Yes. The Duke and a small party will arrive in three days’ time to finalize the contracts.”
“Excellent. Is Emilia already here then?”
“Yes. She arrived with Aunt Linwood and Mary yesterday.”
“I see I turned up home to a full house.” Jasmine didn’t miss the bite in Timothy’s tone. “Any other invitations you extended on my behalf, Uncle?”
Uncle Linwood cast a glance down the enormous entry hall too, shot a quelling look at Jasmine and then flicked his eyes to Marianne.
What? What was the man trying to communicate here? Was eye-signing part of The Rules too? Gah! She had so much to learn.
Marianne seemingly understood the message. “Come, Miss Fleury. Let us leave the gentleman to their talking.” She tucked a hand through Jasmine’s elbow, intent on leading her through a side door.
“Yes, Nephew.” Uncle Linwood motioned for Timothy to follow him in the opposite direction. “Let us talk.”
A clatter of voices erupted from the end of the hall.
A group of women stepped into the enormous vaulted entry. Two older women and three younger. All prettily dressed in soft pastel colors, wearing bonnets and gloves.
Was this who Uncle Linwood wanted them to avoid? Why?
“Cousin Linwood!” A tall chestnut beauty strode toward them, her gray eyes proclaiming her family. “You have finally arrived.”
“Emilia.” Timothy clasped her hands and bestowed a polite kiss on his cousin’s cheek. “Aunt Linwood. Mary.”
He greeted one of the older women, who must be his aunt, and her other daughter. Like her husband, Aunt Linwood oozed hauteur and censure. Timothy held himself stiff. Formal. Reserved.
Not good.
Emilia smiled prettily, clasping his arm. “Miss Heartstone had nearly despaired of you.” She gestured toward the other young lady who had stopped in front of him. A young, very . . . nondescript sort of girl. Miss Heartstone? The older woman at her side clearly being her mother.
Ahhhhh. Was this why everyone was acting so weird? But why?
Timothy bowed to the women, who politely curtsied in return.
“And who is . . . this, Nephew?” Aunt Linwood turned her gaze to Jasmine, eyes penetrating and vaguely beady. Her hawk-like nose completed the bird-of-prey comparison. She looked like the type of person who would enjoy swooping and squawking, pecking out the eyes of rivals—
Timothy stepped to Jasmine’s side, slipping his cool mask for a brief second to give her a this-is-going-to-be-okay sort of look. He made the necessary introductions. Yep, the other two women were Mrs. Heartstone and her daughter.
The ladies all curtsied, smooth and precise. Like boards moving up and down. How did they do that? Her own curtsy was decidedly bobbly still. More wet noodle.
An uncomfortable little silence ensued once everyone stopped curtsying. The kind of silence that was all catty-contemptuous and dagger-laced.
Or, at least, that was the message Jasmine got from the looks Aunt Linwood shot her way.
Emilia sighed, clearly oblivious to the tense undercurrents in the room. Or possibly just uncaring.
“Heavens, Cousin Linwood! You are so stiff. You can at least kiss Miss Heartstone’s hand. You are the soul of propriety—”
“Emilia—” Uncle Linwood shot her a warning glance.
“Whatever is the matter, Father? Certainly there is nothing wrong with Cousin Linwood kissing the hand of his betrothed?”
Say whaaaa??!!
No!
Just . . . no, no, no!!!
Jasmine bit her lips together.
What the hell?! Had Timothy lied to her?
No. She rejected the idea immediately.
She knew him well enough to understand that telltale signs of shock. He was just as surprised as she was.
Timothy froze. And ever so slowly, turned to look at his uncle. Who merely tilted his head the tiniest fraction of an inch. Eyes telling all.
This wasn’t happening. Arthur and no money, etiquette, rules and now this?
“If you will forgive us gentlemen, ladies, my nephew and I have much to discuss.” Uncle Linwood gestured for Timothy to accompany him into a side room.
Silence.
And then Timothy nodded. “Ladies.” He bowed. So proper. So reserved. Face an impassive mask.
Marianne patted her arm. “Let us see you settled, Miss Fleury.”
Jasmine shot Timothy one last look as Marianne led her away.
His eyes said it all.
He was a man drowning, pounded under by heavy surf and not a life preserver in sight.
“Are you daft boy? Parading a woman like Miss Fleury in front of your guests? And at this time? Have you no sense at all?” The second the study door closed, Uncle Linwood launched into Timothy. Haughty. Arrogant. “Heaven knows how we shall explain this horrid impropriety to Mrs. Heartstone. I just hope the debacle can be smoothed over.”
Something hot and livid burned in Timothy’s chest at hearing that scathing ‘Miss Fleury’ on his uncle’s lips.
Damn the man!
His uncle strolled to a sideboard and reached for a decanter of Timothy’s best brandy.
“What the bloody hell have you done?!” Timothy hissed, crossing the carpet. He was a hair’s breadth away from beating the man senseless. Finding out Arthur was short on capital was bad enough, but a betrothal?!
Uncle Linwood turned toward him and then took a step backward, obviously reading the blatant anger on Timothy’s face.
“You will control yourself, boy. What has gotten into you?”
Anger surged through Timothy. Wild and hot. The kind of fury that turned the world red and got men killed.
“Me?!” He barely resisted shouting. “I am the one who has returned home to find I have been promised in marriage Without. My. Consent!”
“Rule number nineteen.”
A gentleman never loses his temper.
“Do not quote those damn rules to me, Uncle.”
“Well, you seem to need reminding. You disappear for nearly two months and then show up with some doxy making doe-eyes at you—”
“You will not speak of Miss Fleury in such to
nes. She is a lady—”
“You cannot be serious about her, boy.” It was not a question. “I could not imagine anyone more unsuitable. She is American. Though it is irrelevant, as you are now promised elsewhere.”
And just like that. He was going to have to kill his uncle. Pistols at dawn. Jasmine would probably find it thrilling. He could see her holding on to his arm, bouncing up and down, giggling because she was going to witness a real live duel.
The thought robbed his breath.
Timothy paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. This could not be happening. He had plans. He had seen a possible path. This was a disaster of such magnitude—
Ah, there came the panic again. His dear old friend. The bitter, terrible irony of it.
His uncle merely sipped his brandy, clearly unconcerned.
The man was cut from the very same cloth as Timothy’s father. Funny. He had not disliked his Uncle Linwood this much before his jaunt into the twenty-first century.
“How?” Timothy ground out between clenched teeth.
“As I told you when I saw you last at Lady Cartwright’s ball, I am well acquainted with Miss Heartstone’s guardian—”
“Uncle, we live in 1815. Not 1315. You cannot go around promising family members in marriage without their express, written, cognizant, present, vocal consent!”
Yes. Shallow breathing. Heart thumping. Palms sweating. Would that he could find a century where such things did not happen on a regular basis.
“I thought I had your consent, Nephew.” The loud clink of the glass hitting Timothy’s desk was the only indication of his uncle’s agitation. “You instructed Daniel to open a dialogue with her guardian. I was merely following up on your inquiry. Her dowry is necessary for the survival of our family fortunes and, given the ferocity of gentlemen scrambling for her hand, I was concerned she would not last on the marriage mart until your return. So I took steps to secure her for you. Mrs. Heartstone liked you best of all the candidates presented and convinced her daughter to accept your suit. I had thought you would be pleased. There is no other dowry as large or as accessible. Does your Miss Fleury come with sixty thousand pounds?”
Timothy’s silence spoke volumes.
No. He wanted to rage. She comes with so much more than mere money.
Jasmine was light. Sunshine to his dreary rain. Joy. Happiness. His every hope and need.
“Who are this Miss Fleury’s family? What are her connections?”
It was lowering to realize that several months ago, Timothy would have asked the same question. But now . . .
“Emilia is finally on the verge of a formal betrothal. Your betrothal to Miss Heartstone was a key factor in the Duke’s decision.”
“So this is about Emilia and your family?”
“Do not be a fool, boy. You have always known this is how your marriage would come about. Keep your Miss Fleury. Set her up as the most vaunted mistress in London. But you will do your family duty and marry Miss Heartstone.”
Timothy closed his eyes against the pain of the thought, bile rising in his throat.
Mistress?! As if he would ever denigrate Jasmine in such a way. She deserved nothing less than his name, his protection . . . every last worldly possession he could offer.
His internal struggle did not go unnoticed.
“You are altered. Your emotions hover at the surface.” Uncle Linwood walked to stand in front of the fireplace.
Timothy didn’t trust himself to respond to the baiting.
“You were always weak.” His uncle flicked a speck of lint off his sleeve. “Your father knew it and tried his hardest to stamp out your mother’s insipid blood—”
“Are you quite through insulting my honor and my family, Uncle?” Timothy pitched his voice to be suitably scathing.
Uncle Linwood lifted his eyes, raising an appraising eyebrow. “That is better, Nephew. ‘Tis a small comfort to realize you might yet have something of a gentleman in you.”
Timothy kept every muscle of his body still. Refusing to allow his uncle the satisfaction of a reaction.
He had promised not to retreat back into his rules, but The Rules were made to deal with men like Mr. John Linwood. How could his uncle do this to him? Promise him into marriage without his consent?
“Who knows about the betrothal?” He had to ask.
A pause.
“It was quite thoroughly announced in London. I needed all Miss Heartstone’s other suitors to understand she had been claimed.”
Of course. Timothy closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the noose tighten around his neck.
His uncle pointed out the obvious. “You cannot renege at this point, Timothy. The deal is done. Miss Heartstone will be ruined if you bow out. Not even you are so cruel as to do that to an innocent young woman.”
“I will ask her to release me. If she breaks the engagement, she will suffer no harm—”
“Are you daft, Timothy? The viscountcy needs funds. Now.” Uncle Linwood stirred the fire to life, emphasizing his point with jabs of the fire poker. “How will your tenants eat if you default and have to sell their lands? Who will care for those family members who cannot care for themselves? Will you relegate them to the poor house? Will you thrust us all into scandal and infamy over a flighty, American nobody? No matter your current anger, the deed is done. You have no choice.”
Timothy stared straight ahead, chest heaving.
Well, he had a choice. He could do as James had done. Pass money into the future (if he could find any money to pass forward, that is). Fake his death. And return with Jasmine to 2015. Make a life for himself there.
But at what cost?
The estate would still be in shambles, unlike the healthy estate James had left to his capable brother. Not to mention, the pain of leaving Marianne and Isabel behind.
And Uncle Linwood, as his heir, was no Arthur Knight. The man would never stoop to trade to restore the family coffers, and without Timothy, Miss Heartstone would be lost. Uncle Linwood would struggle to find husbands for his daughters and most family members would find themselves socially shunned. All unentailed property would have to be sold off. The contents of the entailed properties gutted. Servants let go. Tenants pushed off the land, forced to work in factories or worse. Family members could possibly end up in the poor house.
So many people reliant on one man’s decision.
His eyes flicked to the corner of his study. Sir Robert Linwood’s armor and chain mail stood there, proud and gleaming. As if the man himself sat in judgment over Timothy and his decisions.
A relic of everything his family held dear. Of everything that honor and heritage required.
Timothy’s hand sought the gear in his pocket. He had thought to forget about the cog. About the strangling constraints of his title.
How could he have been so naive?
He wrapped his fist around the metal gear, clenching his jaw, riding the tide of anger swelling through him. Desperately pulling himself further and further inward to avoid hurling an inkwell at his uncle’s smug head.
“The honor of all of those who bear the Linwood name rests upon you.” His uncle whirled on him. The sudden action betraying his agitation. “Do not be deluded, boy. Do not let Miss Fleury’s American notions of equality and romantic love cloud your judgment. You have a duty to us all. Never forget it.”
Chapter 25
The long walk
Kinningsley
May 16, 1815
Timothy!” Jasmine’s hand reached out and snagged him. Dragging him into the shrubbery.
Timothy stumbled in surprise and then righted himself. For someone so small, she could be ferociously strong. He darted a gaze behind him, making sure no one saw them. The social pressures of 1815 life heavier than they had ever been.
Fortunately, the path was deserted, branches rustling in the morning breeze. She tugged him deeper into the trees, understanding the disaster if they were seen together.
When she finally whirled arou
nd, he could only stare. She was impossibly lovely in a vivid blue pelisse which matched her eyes, dark curls bouncing around her face.
“Jasmine,” he murmured, reaching for her. “How can it possibly be only two days since I last talked to you alone? Held you? It feels like a lifetime.”
“Oh, Timothy.” She buried her face in his great coat, wrapping her arms around his waist.
He gathered her close, throat tight. Just the simple pleasure of hugging her nearly brought him to his knees. Seeing her occasionally over the past two days—at dinner, over cards, chatting with Marianne—had not been nearly enough.
“How did you ever manage to slip away like this?” he asked. “I have been trying to speak privately with you—”
“Your aunt and cousins have been doing an effective job of keeping us apart. It’s seriously a lost art form.” She pulled back and reached up, placing a small, cold palm on either cheek. “I felt like I was plotting a prison break just to get a chance to see you. It was all cloak-and-dagger, tiptoeing-down-hallways stuff. I think I owe a footman a kiss.” She furrowed her brow. “I totally understand, now, all the sneaking that goes on in historical romances. How else are you supposed to find true love? It would be excessively thrilling if there wasn’t this sexist, women-are-chattel vibe to the whole thing—”
Timothy kissed her. Long and hard and fierce.
Bloody hell but he loved her.
“Ah, Jasmine . . . my love.” Surely she could hear the agony in his words . . .
How could he not have her? How could they be apart?
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Something throbbed and burned in his chest, making his breathing short. He drew her even closer, clutching her to him, kissing her again. Adoring the feeling of her small hands threading through his hair. The way she angled her mouth to capture even more of his.
He tasted tears and pulled back, staring into her swimming eyes.
“Oh, darling . . .” He brushed a hand over her wet cheeks.
“I-I’m okay,” she hiccupped. “It’s just been a hard couple of days, and you know I cry super easily. There are just so many r-rules to remember!” She gave a breathless, surprised laugh.