Time for a Duke

by Ruth J. Hartman

  Izzy expected the man to berate her further. Instead, he slumped onto a chair near her. He slid his gaze once again to the paper in his hand. "It can't be. It simply can't be."

  Izzy took a deep breath and was relieved to find it no longer hurt her chest. "What are you talking about?" She just wanted out of there, away from the rude tour guide with all the weird questions, and away from the mean women who'd put her in that position.

  "The… the date." The edges of the yellow paper fluttered as he waved it around.

  "Why not? Don't you people in England use the same date as we do in America?"

  He jerked his head up. "America? That explains your strange accent. And your insolence."

  "Insolence? I don't think so. I'm just standing up for myself. And there's nothing strange about my accent. What about yours? How long did it take you to learn to speak like you're from the year—"

  "Eighteen-twelve." He rubbed a large hand down his face until his fingers rested on his chin. "The year is 1812."

  Chapter Two

  Charles couldn't take his eyes from the woman sitting on his settee. Despite the fact she was dressed strangely, she was stunning. Her long dark hair was pulled away from her face with some sort of band. And long lashes, black as night, the sight of which quickened his heartbeat, surrounded her dark eyes. He sighed, running his hand through his hair. How had it happened that a woman from the future sat here in his home? Of course, he'd read of time travel, but never in his wildest imagination…

  Izzy leaned forward. "I can hardly believe this. It's actually 1812?"

  He nodded. "Yes. It is."

  She sighed. "Maybe it would explain some of what's going on. Like your convincing accent, the furniture being a different color, and the fact no one else from my tour group seems to be here." Izzy glanced around the room as if they would somehow appear. "Wow. It feels like I'm having a dream. I've read about time travel in books before but…" She shook her head. "And to think it all happened through your closet, of all places." Her eyes were opened wide, her face pale. Was there a slight tremble to her hands?

  Izzy voiced his exact thought! Never before had a woman even hinted to reading such books for pleasure. It was as if he'd encountered a new creature. She wasn't a servant, as in his home, nor was she nobility. He'd not encountered anyone in between those two tiers before. However, there was some quality about her that sparked his curiosity. Wanting to calm the pounding of his heart, he needed to focus on something else. "Can I ask you something, Izzy?"

  She took two deep breaths and shrugged. Was she having trouble breathing? "I guess. I can't imagine anything sounding stranger than the situation we're finding ourselves in."

  He nodded. "I… well that's to say… why are you called Izzy?"

  She raised her eyebrows. "With all that's going on, that's the question you want to ask?"

  Charles crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. "I just want to know."

  "Okay, your grace, Izzy is a nickname for Isabella."

  He tilted his head. "Isabella. What a lovely name. Much better than—"

  She held up a hand. "Don't go there, duke."

  The left corner of his mouth pulled up. "I ascertain 'don't go there' means 'please don't say that.' In which case, I'll refrain from making comparisons. Still, I think I'll call you by your given name, if it suits you."

  Izzy nodded. "I suppose. It's not my favorite, but it's my real name, after all." She squinted her eyes half-closed and lifted her chin. "But do I have to refer to you as 'your grace'?"

  "You may call me Charles, if you wish."

  "Charles." She pursed her lips. "Much less formal."

  Charles chuckled. "Yes. Quite."

  Scratch. Scratch.

  Isabella whipped her head around as she stared at the closed door. "Hey, I heard that sound when I was in the closet. What is it?"

  Charles stood up and straightened his jacket. He headed toward the door. Reaching for the handle, he said, "Isabella, I would like you to meet…" he swung the door open with a flourish and announced "…Kitty."

  Isabella opened her eyes wide. "Oh, she's darling. I love cats." Kitty, an orange tiger-striped shorthair, trotted toward her. She rubbed her face and body against Isabella's leg and wound around the lady's feet, snuggling close.

  Lucky cat. Why couldn't it be me? Charles' face heated. Why had that thought crossed his mind? Isabella stroked the cat, murmuring something intelligible. Her fingers made rivulets through Kitty's fur. She stroked the cat's face. Charles wouldn't mind her doing that to him. And he wouldn't even care what she murmured. Comparing him to a jackal would even be acceptable.

  She glanced up. "Charles?"

  "Yes?" He hoped his face had lost the color that often accompanied the heat.

  "Why is your cat named Kitty? Isn't that kind of boring?"

  Charles raised his eyebrows. "With the situation in which we find ourselves, that's the question you wish to ask?" He bit his lip, hoping to stop the smirk that threatened to emerge.

  Isabella laughed. It was a musical sound, sweet to Charles' ears. "All right, you got me there."

  Charles shrugged. "I don't know. She followed our butler in from the woods one day and never left. No one bothered to give her a name, so it's just Kitty."

  "Maybe while I'm here, I can think of a better name for her. Do you think she'd want to be named after royalty? Or maybe something more common." Isabella glanced down at the animal in question. "She seems royal to me."

  He laughed. "Somehow I don't suppose my animal cares this way or that about a name. Only that we feed her stomach."

  "Oh, I have to disagree. Animals have need for love and friendship just like people. They have feelings that can be hurt. And they know when we're upset or angry or content. Sometimes they understand us better than other people do."

  Charles shook his head. "You have quite the imagination, Isabella."

  "I'll think of the right name for Kitty before I leave." She frowned. "How long do you suppose I'll be… here?"

  He crossed the room and sat in the chair next to hers. "This is all new to me, as well."

  Her face reddened. "Of course, you're right. It's just that I…"

  Charles reached for her hand when Kitty jumped down and crossed the room to play with a ball of string. "It's all right. I don't know what's going to happen, but we'll figure it out together."

  Isabella swallowed and nodded. "All right."

  Footsteps could be heard tapping their way down the hall. "Charles? Where are you?"

  Charles gasped. "It's my uncle. He's headed this direction. Quick, he mustn't see you. Hide in the—" No, the closet won't do. She would be terrified. "Hide over here, behind the curtains."

  Isabella darted across the room and slipped behind the long, cream curtains. Her hand pulled the fabric around her. He waited until he saw no movement before opening the door.

  "In here, Uncle." Charles took a deep breath, letting it out an increment at a time. Why did his uncle pick this particular moment to seek him out again?

  "Ah, there you are." Sebastian waddled through the doorway. "We need to further discuss your dilemma."

  "I wasn't aware I had one."

  "The Christmas Eve Ball is in two weeks. You're running out of time to procure an escort. It's unseemly to wait until the last minute, you know. I'll not have our family name besmirched because of something you have or haven't done."

  What should I do? With his unexpected guest in the house, he couldn't just go off to the ball and leave her alone. Someone else might stumble across her and have her hauled off to prison. He would never forgive himself if that happened.

  His uncle crossed his arms over his tummy. "Well?"

  Charles' tongue felt like sand. "I—"

  His uncle sighed. "Charles, you're an adult, so I'll not demand this from you, but… it would make an old man happy to see his nephew settled…" He pivoted his head away "…before I die."

  Charles rolled his eyes. Why was his uncle
so dramatic? There was no one in all of London he wished to escort. Not a single woman. But he had to do something. Being harangued daily was getting tiresome. And the ton had certain expectations of a man in his position. He darted a glance toward the curtain. Did he dare?

  Tap. Tap. Tap. His uncle connected his boot with the floor in impatience. "Charles—"

  "Isabella."

  His uncle raised his bushy gray eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

  "She is who I'll be taking to the ball." Charles detected a tiny squeak and shuffle from behind the curtain. Hopefully his uncle hadn't heard it. A quick glance assured him his uncle was unaware they weren't alone in the room.

  "I don't know anyone by that name who is of marriageable age."Sebastian widened his eyes. "Surely not Isabella Cornwell? She isn't even twelve years of age!"

  Charles held up his hands. "No, no. Of course it isn't she. For what do you take me?"

  "Well then who? Who is this Isabella? Is she from a connected family? Good breeding?"

  Charles swallowed hard. He'd not even ascertained the woman's last name yet! "Ah… Russell. Isabella Russell."

  His uncle rubbed his chin with a chubby hand. "I don't believe I know any Russells."

  "They're fairly new to London, Uncle."

  "I see."

  No, you actually don't. Charles needed his uncle to accept the idea that he was taking someone unknown to the ball; someone he couldn't prove was worthy of his invitation. "Now you don't have to worry about me not having an escort. Yes? It's in enough time to not be considered unseemly."

  Sebastian shrugged. "Yes… I suppose. But—"

  A knock on the doorframe had both men turning toward the open doorway. Mary, one of their maids, stood with hands folded in front of her.

  Sebastian tapped his boot. "Yes, Mary, what is it?"

  Mary briefly raised her eyes in Charles' uncle's direction. "Excuse me, my lord, you're needed in the parlor. You have a visitor."

  His uncle nodded. "Yes, yes. I'll be there momentarily."

  Charles usually felt impatience with the servants, who seemed to appear at the most inopportune times. At least this time it came as a welcome reprieve. Charles held his breath until his uncle left the room. He hurried after him to the door and closed it with a soft click.

  "All right, Isabella. You may come out now. It's safe."

  ****

  Izzy bolted from behind the curtain, flailing her hands about in the air. "Are you crazy?"

  Charles frowned. "No, I'm quite sane."

  "I mean, what were you thinking? I can't go to a ball. In 1812. In one of those dresses. I can't even do the twist, much less a waltz."

  He tilted his head. "Twist?"

  She waved a hand in his direction. "It's an old… Never mind."

  Charles crossed the room to stand near her. He took her hands in his. "I'm sorry to have put you in this uncomfortable position. I, well you see…"

  "I get it. Your uncle is pushing you to find a wife, and he wants you to go to this ball to find one. Right? Two weeks, so I guess it would make the ball on Christmas Eve?" His hands were warm. With him touching her, she felt safe. Safer than she'd been since being locked in the closet. Safer than anytime she could remember with a man.

  "Yes." He peered down at their joined hands. "I know it's much to ask. But would you consider…" He glanced back up at her with the warmest brown eyes she'd ever seen. How could a man have such long eyelashes? Most women weren't so fortunate. Hers were only made longer by lengthening mascara.

  Izzy sighed. "Okay." She owed him at least that for keeping her secret.

  He opened his eyes wide. "Does that mean yes?"

  "Yes."

  He pulled her toward him in a fierce hug. Although startling, it was so much nicer than being dragged from the room by her wrists. The warmth generated between them threatened to combust her, as heat flamed in her chest.

  Charles stepped back to arm's length away, dropping his hands. His face resembled a ripe strawberry. "Please excuse my—"

  Izzy giggled. "Don't worry about it. "It's o — all right. But I don't have a dress, remember? Or shoes, or know how to do the dances you guys do." This time, she grabbed his hand. It just felt plain wonderful. How odd, though, since they'd only just met. And didn't even live in the same century.

  Charles smiled. "Don't give it another thought, Isabella. I'll take care of everything. We just have to make sure to keep you hidden until then."

  She tilted her head. "But how?"

  "It's a big house. Leave it to me."

  ****

  Izzy dreaded the ball. She couldn't imagine wearing a huge dress down to her feet. How much did those things weigh, anyway? Would the shape of it make her resemble a big bell? She'd bet anything they were hot and scratchy. And it didn't even include dancing in the stupid thing. As clumsy as she was, Charles would be lucky to have any skin on the tops of his feet and ankles by the end of the ball. Maybe she could just sit in a chair somewhere, watching other people dance. Or maybe Charles could dance with someone else.

  A jolt of jealousy zapped her heart when she envisioned Charles with his arms around another woman. His focus on her. Speaking only to her. Izzy shook her head. But why in the world should she care? She'd only just met him and they hardly knew anything about each other. Her acceptance to help him with his uncle and the ball was only gratitude for him protecting her while she was here.

  If anyone else found out about her, she'd either be locked up in jail or tossed in some insane asylum. Besides, living here in this time would never suit her. Women here were dependent on men, looking to them to make their decisions. What kind of life was that for someone who'd had a taste of independence and freedom of choice?

  But who knew if she'd even still be here in two weeks? While she knew she had a good job back home and an apartment, aside from some casual friends and co-workers, was there anyone who would miss her for long? It's not as if she even had a pet, since her apartment didn't allow them. However, she wanted to go back. Needed to. If she didn't show up for her meeting a week after Christmas about the big promotion they dangled in front of her, she was burnt toast.

  Everything about the country and time period she found herself in was foreign. The speech, mannerisms, and clothes would be hard to accept. She was pretty sure someone would frown at her if she wore jeans and sweatshirts all the time. Izzy sighed. Having no idea how she ended up here, she'd an even less idea how to get back, but it must have something to do with the closet.

  The door to the small bedroom squeaked open. Ready to bolt behind the bed, she scurried that direction and slid between the bed and the wall.

  "Isabella? It is I. Charles."

  She rose up above the headboard just enough to peer over the cherry wood. Wait, he's not alone! A young woman was with him. Izzy folded herself into as tight a ball as possible, trying to ignore the dust hippos lingering there. Their maid needed a firm scolding. Oh good grief. She was already starting to sound like Charles.

  "It's all right, Isabella."

  She heard the squeaky hinges creak and the door shut with a soft click, but she still didn't move. What was the man thinking? Why would he tell someone else about her after going to all the trouble to hide her in this out-of-the-way bedroom? Izzy pinched her nose tight to ward off a sneeze. There was so much dust in this house. Guess modern vacuums did do a better job than brooms and mops.

  She heard footsteps, which stopped beside the headboard. Izzy glanced down and spotted Charles' boots. Realizing she still held onto her nose, she dropped her hand to her lap.

  "Isabella, I can see you. You may as well acknowledge me."

  How embarrassing. She peered up at him. He was smirking, of all the nerve. Well, all right. If the man wanted to tell someone about her, risking her being hauled off to the pokey, then so be it. If they sent her to the stockade, or whatever it was they did here and now, then he could just live with the guilt for the rest of his days.

  Izzy stood up, straightened he
r rumpled clothes, and smoothed down the wayward dark curls that had escaped from her ponytail holder. Boy, she missed her suitcase full of clothes and her hair conditioner. She peeked toward the door. The young woman, wearing a dark dress up to her neck and down to the floor, stood with hands clasped.

  Charles reached for Izzy's hand, helping her maneuver back out from behind the headboard. "Isabella, this is Sarah. She is going to help us."

  Izzy frowned. "Help us do what?"

  He shrugged, not making direct eye contact. "It wouldn't be proper for me to help you dress in all those layers of petticoats and under things, now would it?"

  Izzy's face heated. She glanced at Charles and imagined her face was as red as his was. "No, I suppose not." Although a sudden image of Charles helping her naked self to step into silky petticoats, touching her bare skin with his large hands, gave her the shivers. She swallowed. "So, uh…" She leaned closer to Charles. "How do we know she won't, you know, tell anyone about me?"

  Charles shook his head and lowered his voice. "Out of all of my servants, she is one of the few whom I trust to do her job thoroughly. I didn't tell her when you're from, but I did tell her you're from America. Anything she perceives as different, she'll attribute to that. Plus the fact I have promised her a small sum of money after we've accomplished our task."

  "Don't you mean if we accomplish it?"

  He leaned in close to her. Izzy could smell peppermint on his breath. She shuddered to think what hers must smell like without her rechargeable toothbrush and floss. She pressed her lips tightly together. "Isabella, we must succeed. If someone were to find out the truth…" He glanced away, then back. "We simply must succeed."

  Izzy touched his arm. "Then we will." She grinned when one corner of his mouth lifted. A sudden impulse to kiss it overcame her, but quickly vanished when Sarah's shoes scuffled on the floor a few feet away. It was a shame, because Izzy's lips practically itched to make contact with his.

  Charles stepped back and glanced toward the maid. "All right, Sarah, bring in the dresses."

  "Yes, your grace."

  Izzy tilted her head. "Dresses? Plural?"