Forever, Lately

by Linore Rose Burkard

  LILLIPUT PRESS

  OHIO

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales, is completely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover Design by 100Covers.com

  To Nick Harrison, my editor in days past and now

  my agent, who said of this book, “A masterful handling

  of a difficult genre.” Thanks for believing!

  FOREVER, LATELY: A REGENCY TIME TRAVEL ROMANCE

  Copyright ©2019 Linore Rose Burkard

  1st edition

  Burkard, Linore Rose

  ISBN: 9781733311106 (ppb)

  ISBN: 9781733311113 (ebk)

  LCCN:

  PCIP:

  1. Fiction—Historical Romance 2.Time Travel 3.Regency Romance

  Printed in the United States of America

  What Readers Are Saying About

  Forever, Lately

  Move over, Poldark! Julian St. John is our new English heartthrob! The fun is on with Burkard’s cast of mismatched, mischievous characters. I highly recommend this read!

  Lisa K. Simonds, Author, All In

  A delicious romp through time that will keep you on the edge of your seat! This was such a fun read. The plot moved quickly to the expected time-travel and then didn’t stop! A hilarious mix of misunderstandings…combine into one nail-biting experience that doesn’t hit the brakes until the final pages!

  Nicole Sager, Author, The Heart of Arcrea

  This is such a good book. Pure Magic. It's the best Regency novel I've ever read! I'm actually sorry it is over.

  Kristen Malone, Historical Romance Writer

  In Forever, Lately, Linore Rose Burkard has combined romance and time travel into a delightful roller coaster ride of a book! Had me reading non-stop. Highly recommended!

  Donna J. Shepherd, Author, Love Under the Bubble Wrap

  I would read anything Linore Burkard writes. It takes a great author to write so well in multiple genres, and this regency time travel is a great addition to Linore’s other works, including a Christian Regency series and her heart stopping dystopian trilogy. This is an author you don’t want to miss!

  Jaimee Dinnison, Reader Reviewer

  With eccentric characters, well-defined period details (have you been to 1816, Ms. Burkard?) and a rollicking plot, Linore Rose Burkard takes us on a fast-paced, unpredictable journey that leaves the reader breathless until the very end!

  Janice Dick, Author, Eye of the Storm

  This story is fantastic! Will leave you wishing you had your own portal to another time. I was completely enthralled. I highly recommend this book.

  Deb Mitchell, Reader Reviewer

  Can I just say I am in love with St. John? Thank you for such an amazing and fabulous story!

  Hannah Q., Reader Reviewer

  Such a fun read! I do believe it is my favorite of your books!

  Debbie Lynne Costello, Author, Sword of Forgiveness

  Forever, Lately may turn out to be my fav read in the past decade!

  Judith Blevins, Writer

  This time travel romance was a winner. The author’s extensive research and excellent writing style created such a plausible story that I slipped in and out of the time-periods seamlessly.

  Diane Hiller Engelhardt, Reader Reviewer

  A delightful book that, chapter after chapter, kept me wanting to turn the pages!

  Lisa G. Smith, Reader Reviewer

  Loved this book! The opening threw me into a tailspin and I (thought) I had an idea of where the book was going but I was wrong! The pressures in each time period created lasting suspense. A really enjoyable read.

  Fiona Rowe, Reader Reviewer

  Research, research, research! Ms. Burkard shows her diligence. I’m a history buff and the first part of the 19th century is my favorite era. Plot twists will keep readers turning pages, (as well as) lively, often humorous transitions from one century to the other!

  Peggy Lovelace Ellis, Writer, Freelance Editor

  Linore Rose Burkard

  All I really need

  Is time travel and you.

  Daley

  CHAPTER 1

  March 1816

  England

  J ulian St. John dug in his heels and spurred on Brutus, his thoroughbred of sixteen hands, as he approached the drive to his estate. A light rain was falling, obscuring the moonlight, and he wanted nothing more than to get home and return to his books and fireside. He’d been dragged off by a messenger who’d claimed that a “proper lady” was on the road and in need of assistance.

  He’d ridden all the way into the village and found no lady in need of help. Neither did he see the boy who’d appeared at his door claiming there was one. He didn’t mind an urgent gallop; he was born for speed, and thrived on racing, but it was a fool’s errand and he was tired. He secured his hat and nudged on Brutus with his heels. As he neared the turnoff to his own drive, suddenly the lights of a coach against the side of the road about fifty feet ahead lit up, looking dully at him like two sleepy eyes.

  St. John squinted and slowed Brutus. The coach hadn’t moved, so he spurred the animal gently towards it, wondering if his assistance was needed after all. But the sound of a whip and a coachman’s yell brought the idle vehicle to life, and it barreled down the road—straight towards him. He moved Brutus to the side but was astonished when the coach veered again in his direction. Was the coachman buffle-headed?

  He spurred the animal’s sides and maneuvered off the road and up a steep incline, and then turned to watch the vehicle. Unbelievably, it was still coming crazily at him, its lamplights brighter now, blazing like evil eyes. And closing in. This wasn’t poor driving—the coach was trying to hit him! As it bowled towards him, the coachman’s face materialised out of the haze, his eyes opened wide in terror.

  A fence prevented St. John from vanishing into the trees that fronted his property, but just as the coach would have bowled into him, he shouted at Brutus, snapped his spurs, and cracked the reins—they missed a collision by inches as the sturdy animal lunged out of harm’s way. The coach’s horses hit the fence whinnying.

  Turning Brutus around quickly, St. John patted his neck while surveying the vehicle as it came to a rollicking stop, balanced precariously on the incline. The messenger boy, he saw now, had fallen from the coach to his backside in the wet brush.

  Taking a deep breath at the close call, St. John quietly reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a pistol. Good thing he rarely rode in the evenings without one. Good thing too, that he was an excellent horseman or that insane coachman might have caused his demise.

  Brutus nickered nervously. “Good show, old boy,” he said, never moving his eyes from the sleek black coach, silent and mysterious. Its horses stamped impatiently. There was no other sound as he approached and made his way past the closed door, but he found the coachman huddled on his perch.

  “How the devil do you explain your driving? Are you hocused?” he asked, thinking the man was in his cups.

  “Nay, guv’nor. Followin’ me orders, that’s what.”

  “Orders from whom?” St. John demanded. “Who do you have in there?”

  “T'mistress an’ 'er sister,” he answered sullenly.

  St. John’s heart sank—two women—if the driver could be trusted. “And you drove like a madman with women aboard!”

  The man shifted uneasily on h
is perch but muttered, “I follows me orders, guv’nor.”

  “And what were your orders, precisely?” he asked in a scathing tone.

  Again the man shifted uneasily. “Ask t’mistress.”

  “Who is your mistress?”

  The coachman gave him a guarded look. “Ask t’mistress,” he repeated.

  St. John turned away in disgust and urged his horse nearer the window of the equipage. He peered cautiously inside but saw only darkness. Dismounting, he kept the reins in one hand.

  “Hello?” No answer. He readied his pistol. “If you do not answer, I warn you—I am armed.” When still no sound came forth, he reached for the latch and turned it, eliciting a gentle click. Holding the pistol out, he swung the door open and peered inside. “Hello,” he said again, wishing the clouds weren’t obstructing the moon so well.

  He heard movement and tensed. A muffled sob came from the far side of the coach. He shoved his pistol in a pocket—heavens, it was a woman—and was about to jump in when a female laugh, very close to his head, rang out, clear and distinct.

  “Oh, Margaret,” the voice scolded. “You’ve spoilt it! You needn’t blubber; we are unharmed, are we not? And you can see St. John is equally unscathed.”

  Julian forced himself to take a deep breath before he spoke. “What the devil have you done?” he hissed at the speaker, who now pushed her face forward from the shadows, where the coach lamp illumined the lovely features of Clarissa Andrews in all her wicked, seductive beauty.

  She smiled at him, turning her head demurely, only it wasn’t an honest movement, for there was nothing demure about Miss Andrews. She was a vixen, a minx, a she-devil, and she’d been trying to get St. John beneath her power since the start of the season. She knew, as did all of London that St. John, after thirty-four years of bachelorhood, was in need of a wife. He’d made an oath to the Marquess of Worleydon, his deceased guardian, and he meant to keep it.

  “Allow me to congratulate you, Julian, on the excellent handling of your horse,” she purred. “I am infinitely relieved you have kept yourself in one piece, you must know. I should have been utterly cast down had you been harmed.”

  Steely blue eyes glinted at her.

  He wished he could tell her to go to the devil, to plague him with her incessant fooleries, but he was too much a gentleman—by God, he would be a gentleman. So he said only, “You could have got someone killed.”

  “Yes, you,” she agreed calmly. “But here you are, as handsome and alive as ever.” She gave him a sweet smile, reminding him of what he found so vexatious in her. She had an innocent smile, delectable lips, but behind it all a black heart.

  “Oh, come, Julian, you give me too much credit. No one was anything near being killed. You know it was naught but a lark, only a lark!”

  “Only a lark?” His voice dripped ice. “Your coach came directly at me, and if I had been any less a rider, I’d have broken my neck. My horse might have died as well.”

  She was thoughtful a moment. “We were not supposed to drive quite so close to you, I own. And why do you insist upon riding such an immense animal? We should have fared the worst, not you; only it did not work out the way I planned.” She spoke with barely a moment’s stopping. “And I warrant you would have come to rescue me in a moment if Margaret had not spoilt everything.” She pouted at him from within the reaches of a richly beribboned bonnet. “I was perfectly prepared to swoon for your benefit. You would have come to my aid, would you not?” She looked at him hopefully, but he made no answer. He directed his next words to the opposite wall of the coach.

  “Are you all right, Miss Margaret?” He couldn’t see Miss Andrews's younger sister, but a sniffle came from the darkness.

  “I—I think so. Thank you, sir.”

  “Margaret’s perfectly well!” Miss Andrews cried, moving forward so her ample bosom, half revealed in the formal dress of evening wear, was not only plainly in sight, but she blocked any possible view behind her. St. John looked away, refusing to admire her.

  Other men did admire her, for she could have made any wall in the kingdom proud with her portrait. She had dark, lustrous hair, an ovaline face with a well-delineated nose, and dark, long-lashed eyes. She also had slim ankles and small feet, which he knew from attending many a ball or rout in town. But St. John could not admire Miss Andrews's face or slim ankles, for her brazen impudence gave him a disgust of her.

  In the past he would have taken advantage of her, welcomed her when she teased him with her alluring countenance and everything beneath it. At times he wanted nothing more than to take hold of her and…He forced his mind to concentrate only on her irksome behaviour. Tonight’s escapade, what she called a ‘mere lark,’ was the latest in a string of vexatious attempts by her to gain his attention. And it was merely a hoax, another of her tricks, to put him in her path.

  As he considered how best to give her a set-down, the jarring sound of a ring tone, quite close, made St. John turn in amazement and look around, not understanding the sound or its source. It was unrecognizable. But Claire Channing, the author writing St. John’s story, did. She shut her eyes with a low groan, while St. John and the coach, the dark road, all of it, vanished, and she was back, sitting before her laptop, waiting for the call to go to voice mail.

  CHAPTER 2

  Dove Cottage, Maine

  Present Day

  Note to self: Mute the cell phone before writing!

  Claire didn’t get many calls. She’d become downright reclusive as her career as an author took off. Her agent could be calling but that was doubtful. Her last two books were flops, and the one he was shopping around now had only garnered “mild interest” from publishers. He’d called it “promising,” but Claire suspected he was only being nice.

  She didn’t recognize the number, so waited long enough for the caller to leave a message and then picked up. To her surprise, the caller was still on.

  “Oh good, Claire, you’re there! Adam Winthrop here.”

  Claire sighed and shut her eyes. “I’m not really here. Can you leave a message?”

  Adam’s family owned Bavarian Mountain Ski Lodge, a lucrative resort that surrounded Dove Cottage. He’d been pestering her since her arrival two weeks prior to sell them the little dwelling.

  “I’ll keep it short. It’s important. But if you don’t want to stay on, I can show up at your door in approximately…five minutes.”

  “No, no,” said Claire. Definitely not. “I’m listening. Go.” Twice before he’d offered to come to her door—or threatened to, depending on how she looked at it—and she’d put him off. Was he curious to meet the struggling author? Size up the opposition? Well, she wasn’t about to indulge him. He just wanted an opportunity to pressure her about selling.

  “Okay, look, I thought you should know,” Adam said. “The old man’s ready to up his offer.”

  Claire sighed. “How many times do I have to say this? I’m not selling. And I would never sell without Mrs. Grandison’s signature even if I wanted to, which I don't.” Charlotte Grandison was Claire's grandmother.

  “But she’s still MIA,” he countered. “The town says the land’s not deeded—it’s up for grabs, Claire, and my father’s already in the process of buying it. Once he owns it, he’ll tear down your cottage. I’m doing you a favor by offering to take it off your hands now, while you can still make money on it.”

  Claire gripped the phone. This was the first she’d heard about tearing it down. “Your father will have to tear it down around me because I’ll be here. Goodbye, Adam.”

  “Don’t go; don’t go!” His voice softened. “Look, I’m sorry about your grandmother. But you don’t really have ties to the place. You just moved in.”

  “It was my grandmother’s home, and I live here now. I’ll find that deed.”

  “Face it, Claire. If there was a deed, the town would have a copy. Mrs. Grandison lived there as a squatter, I’m sorry to say. And that makes you one too.”

  “You’re wro
ng,” she said. She hoped he was wrong. “My family bought this land, fair and square.”

  “There’s no record of a purchase.”

  “Goodbye, Adam!” Claire hung up, breathing hard. The Winthrops were going to play dirty, were they? What did they want Grandmother’s measly two acres for, anyway? They owned scads of land all around the cottage and as Adam had pointedly told her, “in plenty of other places.” She’d heard their ritzy lodge was booked year-round, even when skiing wasn’t an option—the cottage wasn’t infringing on their profits.

  Her sheepdog Charlie got up and lazily sniffed around her feet, then settled in a hump at the floor. He seemed as weary of Adam’s calls as Claire. She’d block the man in a heartbeat except she needed to know if the Winthrops were really going to snatch the cottage right out from under her.

  When she first arrived, Adam called to invite her to a small mixer, a get-together of locals. Surely she wanted to know her new neighbors? Then it was to offer his assistance—did she need help with the woodstove? Or maybe she needed some wood chopped? When temperatures dipped into freezing single digits, he called to remind her not to let her pipes freeze. But something told her he wasn’t just trying to be helpful. Sure enough, he soon revealed that his family wanted her cottage. To be exact, they wanted to tear it down for its land.

  She needed the cottage. They only wanted it because it wasn’t already theirs.

  Claire had come from Connecticut to Dove Cottage in Maine out of desperation, and with one purpose: to churn out a masterpiece to save her writing career. She’d learned of Grandmother’s disappearance months ago, but since she barely remembered the woman, she hadn’t given it much thought. Not until Mother announced she planned on having Grandmother declared dead so she could sell the cottage, did Claire feel a sense of loss about the woman, accompanied by a sudden need to check out her home. She’d been there only once when Mother had reluctantly visited, bringing Claire, aged twelve, along. Apparently, Mrs. Grandison had nearly died after routine gallbladder surgery. But she didn’t die, and Claire’s mother had never seen the need to visit the matriarch again.