The Magic of Love Series

by Margaret Locke

  Cat handed her a Kleenex. “C’mon, Miss Austen, let’s go greet our guests.”

  Chapter 2

  Deveric strode into the room, adjusting his shirt cuffs under his navy-colored tailcoat, satisfied he’d intimidated his brother into staying away from the gaming tables later that evening. Now to dress for his mother’s blasted ball.

  Shaking off thoughts of Chance, he paused. An eerie wave of dizziness washed over him, and he closed his eyes, fighting for balance. Upon opening them, shock shot through him, sending frissons of unease racing around his whole body.

  He’d been heading for his study to join his friends, Arth and Emerlin, for a quick drink before the evening’s activities. Now, he was in a different room entirely. A ballroom, from the looks of it, but not his ballroom. People filled the space, but none of their faces were familiar. What the devil?

  He stood stock still as if his Hessian boots were rooted to the floor. What had happened? How did he get here? Where was here? Everyone was staring at him, scrutinizing him from head to toe. He scanned the room, senses alert. No one appeared armed or threatening, but he wished he had his pistol, regardless. Who were these people? Their hair and garments looked foreign, not quite right in cut or style.

  His stomach lurched as the room spun around him. The strains of a waltz tickled his ears, but no musicians were in sight, even as a few couples moved in awkward steps around a small open area. Attuning his senses, he sought out the source of the music, his eyes zeroing in on a black box perched on top of a bookshelf. On it sat a small, rectangular item somehow illuminated from within. Echoes of Mozart bounced through the room. There was no other conclusion he could draw than that the box with the lit-up object on it was making the noise.

  His eyes bulged and his jaw dropped. He could almost hear his mother chiding him to stop making such a spectacle of himself—there was the family reputation to uphold, after all, and a Claremont did not panic—but he couldn’t stop his gaze from darting around the space in which he found himself. It was an odd ballroom, undersized and lined with bookcases at its edges, each filled with numerous volumes.

  A ball in a library?

  Everything was all wrong.

  Black dots swam before his eyes as he looked up, attempting to regain his composure. Simple glass-covered globes, not the grand chandeliers of Clarehaven’s ballroom, hung at regular intervals from the ceiling. The candles in them weren’t lit. The warm glow from the fire in the fireplace and a few thick, flickering, pillar-shaped candles on the tops of the bookshelves were the only sources of light.

  Suddenly, two bright lights shone through the front window, brighter than anything he’d ever seen. They moved at an incredible rate of speed, flashing by in an instant, and Deveric raced toward the door, pushing past a dancing couple as he tried to determine the source.

  “Hello. I’m Eliza, Eliza James,” came a voice from his right.

  He looked down as a young woman hooked her arm through his and smiled up at him. Perhaps not so young, he amended, noting the small lines starting to form around her eyes. But she, at least, looked properly attired, more so than anyone else in the room, though the bodice of her dress was perhaps overly snug. He stared a moment too long before quickly moving his eyes back up to her face, his ears burning. Gentlemen do not openly ogle women’s bosoms, even ones as plentiful as this one.

  She was a beauty, with eyes of a startlingly deep blue and hair a fine straw-colored blonde. He fought the inexplicable urge to touch one of the tendrils hanging down near her delicate ear.

  No woman of good breeding would ever approach a man on her own and introduce herself, much less slip her arm through his in such a familiar manner. His eyes flickered down to her bosom again. The dress was no lower-cut than those worn by his sisters, and yet the mounds straining against the bodice definitely sparked a very unexpected, very non-familial response.

  His mother would be appalled at the way this woman so brazenly presented herself. Was she a member of the demimonde, a woman well-versed in the art of seduction? That would explain her unusual behavior.

  “Mattersley. Deveric Mattersley.” Damn, why had he introduced himself with his full name? He hadn’t made that mistake in years, not since he was a child. Simply not done, Claremont, his mother would say. Even his mother always called him Claremont.

  The woman nodded, still smiling. Her grin was unnaturally wide, showing a large amount of teeth. Startling. At least they were straight and white. He pulled his eyes away. Why in God’s name was he noticing a woman’s teeth?

  No recognition showed in the woman’s eyes. She didn’t know the Mattersley name?

  “Duke of Claremont,” he added to fill the stilted silence. He pulled at his cravat, which suddenly choked him, acutely aware all eyes were on him and the woman. People were whispering to each other and pointing. Pointing? No one of his association was so vulgar as to point. He lowered his voice. “Where am I? What is this place?”

  For Deveric Mattersley, seventh Duke of Claremont, was now absolutely certain he was no longer in his own ballroom, but was, somehow, somewhere else.

  The woman pulled gently on his arm, leading him toward the back of the room. Still smiling that strange smile, she replied, “This is a New Year’s ball.”

  “But it’s March.” He fought to retain his composure—a Claremont did not panic. He surveyed the crowd once more. Another thought hit him. “And you speak oddly. American?”

  Rather than answering, she turned away. A woman across the room nodded in their direction as this Eliza James pulled on his arm again. He followed her without thinking, his mind racing. Who was that other woman? What was happening? He fought to breathe. A gentleman does not show confusion or fear.

  Suddenly, a rather heavyset woman held a black rectangle to her eye, similar to the one on the mysterious music box, and yelled, “Say cheese!” A flash shot out from the rectangle.

  “What the devil?” Deveric reacted instinctively, throwing his arm in front of his face and stepping in front of Miss James to shield her from whatever weapon this was.

  Miss James, however, ignored his question and the flashing object, grasping his arm tightly as she guided him through the doorway from which he had entered into a small room off the corridor beyond.

  “What are you doing? Where am I?” He fought to control the churning in his stomach as everything swirled around him. “This must be a dream. A bizarre dream, where music plays without an orchestra, and where lights flash by at inhuman speeds ...” His voice trailed off. He thought he might faint. How embarrassing. He, Claremont, succumbing to a fit of vapors. It was almost enough to make him laugh. A Claremont most assuredly does not faint.

  The woman said nothing, those impossibly blue eyes wide as she stared at him. It was almost as if she were as perplexed by what was happening as he was. Except no, she’d led him here. She must know what she was about.

  He could hear people counting down, and then the blare of some sort of horn instrument. As the off-key strains of people singing Auld Lang Syne filtered around the doorframe, the woman pulled his head down to hers, kissing him with those rose-hued lips. Even in his bewildered state, his body reacted instantly to the female form pressing itself against him. How peculiar. It’d been years since a woman had sparked such an intense, burning response.

  As her lips danced over his, he murmured, “A dream.” Yes, he had to be dreaming. Nothing else made sense. And if it were a dream, why not indulge? He couldn’t hurt anyone in a dream, after all. Intensifying the kiss, he stroked her lip with his tongue. “A very satisfying dream, with my very own goddess to entice me.” His hips pressed into hers, and he leaned her back against the door, anxious to continue this now very pleasant fantastical interlude.

  Then the world turned black.

  Chapter 3

  January 1st, 2012. Or not.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman who’s just traveled across an ocean and back two hundred years in time might find herself
in a bit of a pickle. Unless that woman discovers herself to be trapped in the arms of a man in possession of a good fortune ... and in want of a wife.

  Eliza blinked her eyes as that corny perversion of Jane Austen’s opening line to Pride and Prejudice flitted through her mind. She looked down at the man in whose arms she was awkwardly wedged. He was half-sitting, half-leaning on a settee sofa, out cold. His arms, however, held her firmly, and even as she attempted to shift to survey her surroundings, he clutched her to him. His warmth and size enveloped her, a strange energy humming between them.

  Peeking out over her left shoulder, Eliza could see she was in a library of some sort. Not a public library, but rather an old-fashioned personal library, like the ones she always read about in her novels. Built-in bookcases lined the two walls, filled with volumes of books in antique-style bindings— only in pristine condition. A fireplace separated the shelves on one wall, and a large portrait of an older gentleman in a white curly wig hung on the oak panels over it.

  Turning to the right, she lifted her head a bit in order to see over the back of the sofa. A large, heavy, ornately carved desk, which was covered with papers, sat near a back wall containing more bookcases. A real inkstand rested on top of the desk, and next to it, several quill pens. An old clock ticked forlornly from the wall behind the desk. She couldn’t see the entryway into the room—it must be behind her— but the distant strains of a violin and the low murmurings of conversation drifted in from somewhere close by.

  She closed her eyes. If the furnishings were any indication, she was in Regency England. For real. It’d worked. It had actually worked.

  The man shifted beneath her but didn’t relax his grip. Eliza’s eyes flew open again as the enormity of the situation hit her. She was trapped in the arms of a duke. A duke her friend Cat created for her. An authentic Regency duke.

  She whimpered, panic rising in her throat. Her stomach flopped and her head swam, as much from the weirdness of the situation as from the champagne she’d imbibed earlier.

  Searching for calm, she focused on the man in whose arms she lay. He was handsome, all right—no surprise, considering she’d described to Cat exactly what she wanted when they’d concocted this crazy scheme. Dark brown hair cropped closely at the sides, though a bit longer at the nape, accentuated his high cheekbones, while a longer lock fell over his forehead, drawing her attention to the small scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His eyes were closed, but she knew they were a brilliant green, a vibrant shade she’d thought only achievable with colored contacts. Clearly, she was wrong. Well, not really; Cat had added that in on purpose, knowing Eliza’s weakness for green-eyed men.

  She couldn’t believe it. She was here. It was happening, exactly as Cat had written.

  Eliza sucked in a deep breath. She’d read the story Cat had written for her so many times, she didn’t need to see the paper anymore; she’d committed it to heart.

  It was fairly short, more a rough sketch of things to come than a true story, but Eliza had wanted it so, had wanted it vague enough to not guarantee the ending, to have a chance at everything feeling natural, real, rather than predestined.

  The words her friend had drafted warmed Eliza’s heart like nothing else, a testament to Cat’s love for her, as well as a blueprint for Eliza’s grand romance to come:

  Deveric Samuel Alexander Mattersley, seventh Duke of Claremont, Marquess of Harrington, Earl Thomas, born to Samuel Mattersley, sixth Duke of Claremont, and his wife Matilda Mattersley, nee Lady Matilda Evenston, will absolutely, irrevocably, intensely, and forever be attracted to one Eliza Anne James, for her vivacious spirit and energy, her incredible intelligence, her generous heart. He will not be able to resist Eliza’s stunning face and glorious figure, despite the fact that said Eliza believes she overindulges in sweets.

  Deveric needs Eliza to help him, to heal him, to love him, for like Mrs. James herself, Deveric has suffered loss. He is a widower, as she a widow. Though surrounded by family, he often feels alone, remote, separate. He needs to learn to love again, and Mrs. James is the best teacher he shall ever have.

  Likewise, Eliza needs to be loved, to be the center of someone’s existence, to have an outlet for all the passion and devotion she harbors in her heart.

  It shall be as if from a Jane Austen novel, with Eliza as Elizabeth and Deveric, her Darcy. Or, as I prefer to imagine, a Disney movie, and Eliza the fair Cinderella. Deveric and Eliza shall find each other at a ball, with a kiss at midnight leading them magically back in time, into each other’s arms. Eliza shall pull said duke to the Treasure Trove’s storage room before completing this kiss, lest she freak out everyone around her by suddenly vaporizing.

  I shall be crossing my fingers that this works, that my powers extend to time-travel, that love trumps scientific reality and launches my real friend back with her once-fictional, now real duke to his estate in Regency England.

  Deveric shall not care that Eliza is an American of allegedly no standing (the author does not agree with the social distinctions of said period in England, but acknowledges and includes them, per Eliza’s request for authenticity); all that matters to him is her character, her soul, who she is as a person. Well, and her boobs. Ha ha ha.

  Deveric’s many sisters shall also, I hope, come to view Eliza as a sister, as well, for she deserves that, to be surrounded by love on all sides.

  Deveric Mattersley, Duke of Claremont, shall be tall, muscular, heavily masculine, garbed in Regency attire far exceeding anything Colin Firth has worn in terms of attractiveness—with Hessians, of course, and breeches that shall make Eliza salivate whenever she sees him in them. His eyes shall be a vivid green, his face shall have a hint of Hugh Jackman to him. Because who doesn’t think Hugh Jackman is wildly sexy? At least without the Wolverine hair.

  While I, Catherine Abigail Schreiber, do declare Eliza and Deveric shall fall for each other, any relationship shall evolve through choice. Should obstacles appear, Eliza and Deveric must resolve them themselves—I am no fairy godmother weaving together something no one but God can tear apart. That is for marriage vows, and Eliza and Deveric must find their way to love on their own, commit to each other on their own. The attraction I decree, the outcome I do not.

  Should Eliza Anne James ever wish to return to her best friend, in the present time, she need only find the monolith on Deveric’s estate (because I can’t resist a good mini-Stonehenge, or the chance to pay homage to one of Eliza’s favorite romances, Outlander), need only sit on the stone at the center and wish with all her might, all her heart, all the love in her body, to be back in 2012, back with the fictional man on whom I told her to fix her attention (for I fear this Escape Clause shall not work without a man I’ve created as its focus, given the limitations we’ve discovered regarding my weird powers). Then, I do declare (and seriously hope) she will return, but only if she truly wishes to do so.

  Also, I decree that Eliza James shall have at some point the opportunity to meet Miss Jane Austen in person. (Not that I have any power to guarantee that, as Eliza well knows, but I figured it would amuse her.) God bless and Godspeed, Eliza Anne James. You are and will always be my best friend. I shall miss you more than you can possibly imagine. Thank you for bringing zest back into my life when I thought all was lost, and for showing me now, in the midst of all the bizarre happenings of the last several months—yeah, creating people, anyone?—that I do actually know who I am, and what I want. And whom. I owe it to you, Eliza. And so I give you this gift.

  Go forth, and fall in love with your Regency duke, the stuff of your beloved romance novels. As Shakespeare said, “The course of true love never did run smooth,” but I hope for you, the waters never cease flowing between you and the ones you love.

  You deserve that happy-ever-after, dearest friend. I wish you the greatest luck in pursuing it.

  As it is written, so let it be.

  Catherine Schreiber, signed this December 25th, 2011.

  Her friend’s words echoing in
her head, Eliza studied Deveric’s lips—those rich, full, sensuous lips. The memory of them moving over hers, surprisingly gently, given his rather rugged demeanor and large size, sent tingles racing through her. She nearly kissed him again but reached up instead to rub her fingers over the faint hint of stubble on his cheek. Before she could touch his face, a hand flew up and grabbed her wrist.

  His eyes were wide open now and firmly fixed on her. They pulsated, those magnificent emerald orbs, pulling her like a magnet.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why am I lying down? What happened? What was that place?”

  His body tensed before he pushed her off of him and stood up. He grasped the edge of the settee, as if fighting dizziness, and cast his gaze around the room. After a second, his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Thank God. This is my study. I’m in my own study. It was a dream. An extraordinary dream.”

  Study? Not a library, then. Eliza wasn’t sure what to say or do, her own nerves having her clutch at the edge of the sofa, herself. What was the protocol for time-traveling situations? Besides absolute bewilderment it’d worked in the first place.

  “But you’re here. You’re here,” he continued, whirling back toward her. “So it couldn’t have been a dream.” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Who are you? Who put you up to this? Was it Arthington? I’ll kill him.”

  “Ow!”