She pulled her hand away and began to stand, but he grabbed her wrist, kept her beside him. "You are alive, Carolly. Perhaps more alive than anyone I have ever met."
She shook her head. "I'm different, James. I was born in the twentieth century, and now I am forced to be an angel—"
"No!" He shook his head, trying to make her focus on the rational, the here and now—anything but her strange delusions. "There is nothing wrong with what we did. I was merely jesting before. God is not punishing me. Kissing is perfectly natural. And as for your culpability, I simply overwhelmed your maidenly sensibilities."
"Not a prayer," she said. "You could never overwhelm those." She grinned at him, and for a moment he was lost in the brilliance of her smile. But then her expression faded as she grew serious. "Of course there's nothing wrong with kissing—provided you do it with a living person. I'm dead, James. I want you to fall in love, but necrophilia wasn't what I had in mind."
He was shocked. Necrophilia? She should not even know such a word, much less understand it. Certainly such words were not taught to gently bred girls. Yet, neither would a common laborer have learned it. In fact, most educated men did not even know it.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, he pushed himself upright to confront her. "Who are you?"
"I've already told you, James. When are you going to start believing me?"
He had no answer.
She passed a hand over his swelling knee. "I better get your valet. You'll need to ice that before it becomes a grapefruit. Even so, you may have to cut your trousers just to get them off." At his look of astonishment, she chuckled and pushed to her feet. "Good Lord, James, you don't mind rolling around on the floor with me, but you're shocked when I talk about taking off your pants? Don't be such a prude." Then she dropped a chaste kiss on his forehead and disappeared, leaving him more frustrated and confused than ever.
***
Back in her room, Carolly sat on her bed and listened to James and his valet shuffle by. The valet murmured something polite, but James responded with a string of curses that made Carolly giggle. She hadn't thought he knew how to swear, but obviously she'd been wrong. Obviously James possessed a rough edge that he rarely revealed to anyone.
Carolly dropped onto her pillow, her thoughts spinning back to that moment on the floor. He'd kissed her. She touched her fingertips to her lips, still feeling them tingle. She'd never wanted a man more.
Abruptly, she pulled her hand away. She couldn't give in. She was working her way toward being an angel, and angels didn't seduce their charges. Besides, with luck she'd only be around a few more weeks, a couple of months at most. She was finally getting the hang of this time-travel business. Her last life had been very short. If she worked hard, then this one would go equally quickly. It wasn't fair to James to start something that would end so soon.
Yet her legs still trembled with wanting, and her heart beat triple-time with every thump as James's valet helped him to his master suite.
She had to do something fast, had to get him interested in other women. Her chest squeezed at the thought, but she refused to be stopped. True angels didn't lose their focus. She had a mission, a purpose here, and she wasn't going to welsh on it no matter what the personal cost.
But how? It wasn't like eligible women were beating down James's door.
Carolly bit her lip and wondered what was wrong with the local females. James was a handsome, well-dressed man. She sighed in wistful memory of tonight's dinner. He'd worn a dark maroon evening coat contrasted with a white linen shirt and a single diamond to anchor his cravat. Carolly's mouth watered even now. If only other women could see him like that. They'd climb in the windows to get to him. Surely then he'd find one to his liking, one who could change his life and make him happy.
Carolly flopped over in bed. How? How would she get women here? As far as she could tell, no one ever came to visit. Obviously, a person had to be nearly beaten to death to be invited in.
The answer came suddenly. It was like a divine whisper in her mind, and she knew immediately that it was the perfect solution. And so simple!
A ball. Just like the one where Prince Charming finally met Cinderella. A huge ball for all the eligible ladies in the land, or at least from the surrounding area. Given James's title and wealth, they'd be crammed into the rafters.
Organizing would be a lot of work, of course. And she'd need Mrs. Potherby's help every step of the way. But this was still the perfect solution.
The only problem was how to convince James. Worse yet, she had to convince him without giving in to her baser instincts. Without throwing herself into his arms in the most shameless fashion. It would be a difficult task, because more than anything else—more than throwing a Cinderella ball, and perhaps even more than gaining her angel wings—Carolly desperately longed to finish what they'd started on that bedroom floor.
Chapter Six
Carolly tried not to run. She tried not to streak through the house on the way to the library, but it was hard to restrain herself.
The mail had arrived.
Mrs. Potherby had told her quite clearly: The post had come. And with it came the London Times. Finally, she had a chance to find out exactly when and where in time she'd landed. Sure she knew the date, but Carolly needed to fit herself into world events. Plus, she was desperate to get an idea of modern fashions. After all, she didn't want to disgrace herself at James's ball.
She barely checked her speed at the closed library door, pausing only to throw it open before she sailed through. "Good morning, James!" she called sweetly.
He sat in a comfortable leather chair, one that might have been a recliner if they were a hundred years in the future. As it was, it seemed big and warm and very elegant—the perfect backdrop for James in his superbly fitted, tightly clinging coat and pantaloons. Geez, didn't the man ever look bad? After last night's disaster with his knee, he could at least appear a bit disheveled. But no, he had to look like a Greek god. An annoyed Greek god. One with a fearsome scowl.
"Goodness, Carolly, has no one ever taught you to knock?"
She grinned at him, her eyes hungrily taking in both him and the newspaper spread across his knees. "Of course I know how to knock. I was trying to catch you doing something scandalous."
"In the library?" He seemed more shocked by the suggested location than by anything else.
She gave an airy wave. "If you prefer, I can burst into your bedchamber."
He carefully set down his paper. "I would rather you not burst in on me at all."
She crossed the room to drop into a chair. "I'll try, of course, but my mother used to say I have the manners of a barnyard animal. Is that the newspaper?" She leaned across to lift if off his knee, but he neatly folded it up out of her reach.
"Is there something you wanted, Miss Carolly?" His tone of annoyance finally broke through her fixation, and she realized she'd have to cajole him out of his ill temper just to get her hands on his paper.
She sighed and flopped back into her chair, then looked at the difficult man across from her. "How's the knee?"
"My leg is recovering quite nicely. I shall no doubt be able to ride as early as tomorrow."
She nodded, suddenly understanding. "You're in a bad mood because you couldn't go riding today."
"I am in a perfectly normal humor."
"Which for you means a bad mood, especially when you can't ride in the morning." She dropped her chin onto her hand, her gaze straying longingly to the newspaper. "Unless it was something you read. What's happening in the world? I'm desperate for a peek."
To her surprise, he seemed to soften toward her. His lips lost their pinched look. The change was as startling as it was subtle. "I would not worry about Napoleon, Carolly," he said gently. "We managed him before, we shall manage him again."
"Napoleon?" Carolly perked up. Of course, the Napoleonic wars! "Is he doing something?”
James flipped the paper to the front page, his expression grim. "He has e
scaped."
"Escaped St. Helena?"
He gave her a sad look, the one men reserved for particularly ditzy women. "From Elba."
"No . . ." She frowned, sifting through her dim memories of history class. "Oh, right. He's doing his hundred-day thing." If she remembered correctly, Napoleon marched through France bent on a glorious re-instatement as supreme emperor. It took the English a hundred days to defeat him.
"I beg your pardon?"
She curled her legs up beneath her as she settled into her chair. "You have to remember that for me the Napoleonic wars happened over a hundred years ago. The most I can remember about him was that he died on my birthday."
"He is still alive, Carolly."
She tried not to laugh at his solemn expression, but it was hard. He took everything so very seriously. "Well, of course he is, silly. He will die on my birthday. May fifth, by the way—in case you want to get me a present." She was teasing him, but he seemed to take the comment as proof of her idiocy.
"That was two weeks ago," he said repressively.
She sighed with her own special dramatic flair. "Oh, well, can't blame me for trying. So what were we talking about?"
"Napoleon." He said the word as if he didn't really want to hear any more of her nonsense, but couldn't stop himself.
"Right. If memory serves," she said, gazing sweetly at him, "and believe me, it wasn't all that reliable even before this reincarnation stuff." He clearly didn't know how to respond to that, so she just kept talking, ticking off the facts on her fingers: "First, Napoleon escapes from Elba. Then he marches around terrifying everybody for a hundred days before he gets it at Waterloo."
"Where?”
"Waterloo. Oh, you mean, where is Waterloo. Gee, I don't know." She shrugged. "What exactly is Napoleon doing?"
James glanced down at the paper, and Carolly noticed how tightly he gripped the pages. "He is gathering another army."
"Oh." Slowly she began to fit the pieces, not into a world order, but into the way they fit James personally. She eyed his injured leg, now stretched in front of him, all hint of last night's accident totally masked. "You were wounded in the army, weren't you?"
"Yes." The word came out almost as hard as the planes of his face.
"You must be worried about your military friends."
He didn't answer, but she saw the anguish in his eyes.
"Well, don't worry. The British perform brilliantly at Waterloo."
"Carolly—"
"I know, I know—where exactly is Waterloo? Let's see. Where do you think he'll march first?"
James shook his head, and she wondered briefly how involved he'd been in military strategy. Probably deeply. He seemed born to command. "It must be really hard for you to be out of the loop, so to speak."
"I beg your pardon?”
"Well, you're stuck in the countryside far away from the most important battle of the century."
"Carolly—," he began, but she cut him off.
"Oh, stop thinking so much and just play along for a moment. Where do you think Napoleon will go first?"
He sighed, but his gaze grew abstract as he started thinking. "Probably into Belgium to reestablish France's so-called natural borders."
She nodded. "Well, there you have it. Waterloo must be on the way to Belgium."
He frowned at her. "Or perhaps he will cut south into Spain, or expand westward toward Italy."
She shrugged. "Whatever. Waterloo is in Europe somewhere. I'm sure of it. Unless it was that big naval battle . . ." She shook her head. "I really wish I could remember. Mostly I remember reading Tolkien's Lord of the Rings through history class. Elven battles seemed much more interesting at the time."
"Of course," he agreed, his voice completely deadpan.
Carolly glanced up, then suddenly fell backward with a peal of laughter. "Oh, James, lighten up. I promise, Napoleon rules for a hundred days, gets beaten at Waterloo by . . . um . . . beef . . . beef Wellington, and then gets sent off to St. Helena."
"To die on your birthday. Which has already passed." His tone remained excruciatingly disbelieving.
"Well, he obviously doesn't die this year." She laughed. "It's in ten, twenty years or so. Does it really matter?"
He took a long time to answer, but when he did it was with infinite sadness. "No. I do not suppose it does."
Carolly felt her good mood slowly evaporate. The man across from her was the most handsome she'd ever met. In fact, he was a lot of "mosts." The most sexy, the most infuriating, and the most sweet. But he thought she was completely insane.
"James—"
"Perhaps you should go rest for a while, Carolly. We will have a busy afternoon hunting insects with Margaret."
"I'm not crazy, James."
"I never said you were."
"But you're thinking it." Carolly bit her lip, wondering exactly how she could bring him around. Then she remembered the other reason she'd come here this morning. Putting on the smile that had always worked wonders on her father, she clapped her hands as if suddenly getting a brilliant idea. "I know, we'll make the ball a Waterloo theme party! Naturally, it's going to be the topic of the hour. It'll be great."
"Ball? What ball?"
Carolly tried to look shocked. Her best strategy was to pretend he'd forgotten, even though she'd never mentioned it to him. "Why, your ball, of course. You're going to have a party. With dancing and food and lots of champagne."
He leaned forward, and Carolly was relieved to see the lines of strain ease from his face. Unfortunately, he shifted to a severe frown. "I am not going to have a party, Carolly. I do not give balls, I do not dance, and I do not have champagne."
"Wine, then. Or ale. It doesn't really matter what people drink," she said, focusing on the easiest of his objections.
"Carolly—"
"Oh, come on. It'll be fun."
"I sincerely doubt—"
"How else are you going to meet all the eligible young women in the land, hmm?"
"No."
"Let me think." She jumped up and began pacing, pretending she hadn't heard his refusal. "All I have to find out is when Napoleon lands in France, add a hundred days, and voila, we have the Battle of Waterloo."
"No, Carolly."
"I'll make all the arrangements. With Mrs. Potherby's excellent guidance, of course. Cook will be thrilled, I'm sure. She'll get to show off her culinary arts. Maybe we could even get Mags—"
"No."
"Just think of it, James."
Suddenly he stood, his injured leg rigid as he grabbed her shoulders. "I do not dance, Carolly. I do not need to meet any more women. Believe me, those already in my life are more than enough."
He glared directly at her. She made a face back at him.
"And I will not allow a rout or an endless parade of husband-hungry women through my parlor."
"But—"
"End of discussion!"
Carolly could see she was beaten. James's eyes blazed gray lightning. If she pushed any more, she risked being tossed out on her ear. At last, she sighed in defeat. "All right, James."
"Good. Now I suggest you go to your room and rest for a while. You have had an extremely taxing morning."
"You mean you've had an extremely taxing morning," she said airily. "I've just gotten started."
He groaned. It was a sound made of frustration and dread. She loved it. Finally, she was breaking through his cold reserve. Perhaps this morning hadn't been a total loss after all.
"I believe I shall go sit in the garden," he ground out.
"Good idea," she agreed, flashing one of her best smiles. "And I'll look at the fashion pages for ball gowns." She winked outrageously at him. "Just in case you change your mind."
He stared at her in open-mouthed shock. Then with a curse, he stomped out of the room. She didn't stop laughing until after she heard the front door slam behind him.
***
"Mags, tell me about your uncle." Carolly lowered her butterfly net and s
idled closer to the young girl. "Does he have any lady friends? Maybe some woman that he talks to a lot?"
The girl didn't look up, but her snide voice carried easily. "He will not many you. You are not proper enough."
Carolly winced as the words hit home; then she quickly covered her pain with a false laugh.
"Oh, how sweet of you to think of me," she said gaily. "But no, I'm talking about another lady he might get interested in." Why did the words taste like dust in her mouth?
"He sometimes goes to London." Margaret glanced up, her large eyes serious as she awaited Carolly's reaction. "Mrs. Hornswallow says all men have needs. Uncle James goes there to take care of them."
Carolly wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. Sounds like he's going to get his tooth pulled or something."
"No, he goes to have carnal relations with a woman."
"Uhh . . ." Carolly let her voice trail away. What could she say to that?
"Miss Hornswallow says we have to be practical about understanding men's baser instincts."
"Everyone has baser instincts," Carolly returned. "Men just don't bother to hide them." She let Margaret chew on that while she turned her attention to Mrs. Hornswigger, who was sitting rigidly correct under a nearby tree just up the hill. The woman seemed happily occupied with James, discussing Greek poets as if the subject truly intrigued her.
Carolly sighed. She hated to admit it, but Mrs. Hornsipper was rising in her esteem. The woman seemed quite intelligent and apparently spoke bluntly to her charge about every possible subject, including sex. Carolly couldn't help but admire such honesty. She knew how rare that was, especially in the 1900s. Unfortunately, from what Margaret had been saying, the woman's views tended to be somewhat bitter. Her attitude on men's baser instincts seemed typical of the governess's general outlook.
Carolly shook her head. Any woman who could speak so bluntly was either a realist or had been badly hurt. Glancing over at the thin governess, currently conversing with regal formality with James, Carolly judged it a little of both. The genteel poor suffered a miserable lot. Mrs. Hornswoffer was lucky to find so fair a boss as James. Yet, fair or not, her existence certainly couldn't be one filled with much joy.
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