Addressing his mother again, he said, “Her family’s solicitor sent a letter asking that we provide for Mrs. James. She has no other relations left in the world.”
At his words, tears welled up in Eliza’s eyes again. That was certainly the truth. And had long been. The euphoria over the success of Cat’s and her wild time-traveling plan, as well as the final dregs of her champagne buzz, deserted her. She was all alone, suddenly dependent on this man and his family, none of whom seemed exactly accepting at the moment.
Not that she could blame them. What had she been thinking? This whole thing, her whole plan, was nuts. She patted her side, the one with the pocket containing her jewelry and phone. She wasn’t completely out of options if this all went south. She hoped. Her stomach flipped. What I wouldn’t give for a piece of cheesecake about now. Or some Tums.
“Why is this the first I’m hearing of this? When did she arrive?” The dowager popped an eyebrow at her son. Eliza could see from where Deveric got that.
“You were busy with your preparations for the ball. It wasn’t worth disturbing you over. She is, after all, my concern, not yours.”
“Nonsense. If a young woman comes to stay under our roof, of course, it is my concern. Propriety must be maintained. We do not need any more tarnished reputations in this family.” At the last, her gaze darted to Amara, who stiffened visibly.
Pangs of sympathy hit Eliza. What had happened to Dev’s sister to earn such reproof from her own mother?
“Mother,” broke in the blonde. “Would it be possible for Becca and I to return to the ballroom? I do not wish to miss the opportunity to dance with Lord Derbourne; he’s signed to my card for the next cotillion.”
The older woman nodded in assent.
“But I don’t need to go back,” cried Rebecca. “I don’t give a fig for dancing, and I find Mrs. James much more interesting!”
The duchess pinched her lips, her nose arching even higher if that were possible. “We shall continue this discussion later. We need to return to the ballroom and our guests. Perhaps you wish to dress first?” She waved a hand toward Deveric’s boots.
“Not now. Our guests shall have to forgive me,” Deveric said. “And because I am their gracious—and generous—host, they shall. I am not the first to wear Hessians to a country ball, Mother, I am sure.”
His mother tsk-tsked but held out her elbow to Deveric, who took it automatically. “Lady Amara,” she said, “you may walk with our honored guest.”
Amara grimaced but fell in line behind Deveric and her mother. Leaning over to Eliza, she whispered, “Welcome to the family. Whoever you really are.”
Deveric peered over his shoulder, giving Eliza a look that said, This isn’t over yet.
Eyeing the way his coattails moved over his firm backside, Eliza grinned, in spite of her inner turmoil. No, it’s not. It’s only just beginning.
Chapter 5
Walking alongside Amara through a long corridor, Eliza did her best not to gawk at everything. It was as if she were on one of those old mansion tours she’d taken while in London a few years ago. Wooden floors gleamed under thick carpet runners. Were these carpets Aubusson? She’d read the term in countless romances. The walls featured numerous portraits spanning several historical periods—of Claremont ancestors, she presumed. She briefly fingered a doorknob, wondering what lay beyond it, but removed her fingers at Amara’s sharp look. She probably thinks I’m going to steal something. The silver, perhaps?
And then there was no more time for thought, as Deveric threw open the doors to the ballroom and strode through, his family following behind. Deveric’s mother headed toward two older women beckoning her with their fans, and Emmeline and Rebecca joined a group of young women at the edge of the room.
Eliza froze at the ballroom’s entrance. I’ve walked into a Hollywood production. This can’t be real. Is this real? The room was packed with people of all ages; young women tittering with each other behind fans, older matrons observing the figures on the dance floor. Men, young and old, a number of them looking as if they’d prefer to be elsewhere, stood aimlessly around the perimeter of the room. A few watched several of the younger ladies with hungry eyes. Well, no change there from modern times.
A small group of musicians in the corner was playing a lively tune. How different the music sounded—how much richer—than any speaker system she’d ever heard. She watched the violinist’s fingers fly over the strings, marveling at his skill.
The people on the dance floor worked their way through an intricate set of steps. Oh Lord, she was completely out of her element. She’d watched Pride and Prejudice—the Colin Firth version, of course—a million times, studied Regency dances on YouTube, even gone to one of the Regency Society of Virginia’s balls, but always found the great variety of dances and dance steps confusing. There’s no way she could learn to dance like that, was there?
A panicked giggle finally escaped. How could she not be out of her element? She’d walked through history. She was a foreigner in a foreign land in a foreign time. Duh.
Amara gave her a sideways glance, suspicion in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Eliza said. “I’ve never seen anything so grand.” That was the truth. The “ball” she and Cat had thrown was an embarrassment compared to everything and everyone before her.
Amara smiled at that, a brittle, close-lipped smile. “I suppose not ... in America.”
Eliza bristled at her tone. It’s only natural, that dig. It hadn’t been that long since the Revolution, after all, as weird a thought as that was. And it being 1812, the two countries would soon be at war again. Not that she remembered many details of that conflict. Military history had never been her thing. Gosh, she hoped people wouldn’t be hostile to her because she was from across the pond.
As she followed Deveric and Amara farther into the room, she chided herself. I should’ve paid more attention to the actual events of this period, not just its literature. She closed her eyes briefly, willing calm to come. She could do this. She could do—She bumped into Deveric, who’d stopped ahead of her.
“Oh, uh, sorry,” she stammered, as he turned to her. He said nothing, but his eyes, those green drops of heaven, didn’t leave hers. She fought the urge to leap at him, to cling to him, as if he were a port in this storm of her own creation.
His eyes darkened and his hand touched her elbow briefly. “Are you all right?”
She merely nodded, unable to form words with those emerald orbs consuming her. So far from it. And yet so very close.
A gaggle of young women startled her as they threw themselves at Deveric. “Your Grace,” one of them gushed, “I thought you had forgotten our promised dance.”
Deveric’s shoulders tensed, but he bowed politely. “Never, Lady Harriet. I shall be pleased to partner with you. We were to dance the cotillion, were we not?”
“Oh,” pouted the woman. “I was hoping for a waltz. I have promised the cotillion to Lord Mackleston.” Several of her companions tittered, their cheeks coloring, but the woman stood her ground, actually moving a few inches closer to Deveric.
She can’t be more than, what, twenty? Practically jailbait. Eliza nearly stepped in front of Deveric to claim him as her own. Ridiculous, Lizzie. He’s not yours. Yet.
“The waltz is not a dance of which my mother approves. There shall be no waltzing here tonight.” He took a step back.
Good for you. Let her go play with the boys. Leave the man to me.
Lady Harriet—Harlot, now, in Eliza’s mind—tipped her head down. “Shame. Perhaps a different dance, then?”
Deveric gave her a tight smile. “I shall have to refuse. I am promised the rest of the evening to my cousin, Mrs. James, newly arrived from America.”
“What?” Eliza and Amara gasped simultaneously.
The young woman scrunched her nose as if she smelled something rotten. She said nothing but turned away from Eliza in an obvious fashion.
Eliza’s hackles rose. Reading about
the cut was quite different from experiencing it.
If Deveric noticed Harlot’s rude behavior, he didn’t acknowledge it. “Mrs. James, this is Lady Harriet Templeton.”
The group of girls around Lady Harriet watched their leader to gauge her reaction. Harriet gave Eliza a stiff nod, her lips pinching into the semblance of a smile. As she turned back to Deveric, an innocuous, pleasant expression covered her face. Her eyes flashed, though, betraying her anger. “I understand your obligation to family. I look forward to our next encounter, however, Your Grace.” She curtsied to Deveric, using the pose to push her bosom forward.
Eliza narrowed her eyes. If the girl dipped any lower, her boobs might just spill out of that dress. Two can play at this game. Grateful for her own ample proportions, Eliza threw her shoulders back in order to emphasize her assets, but quickly adjusted her posture as Amara coughed at her side.
Harriet and her minions sidled away, for which Eliza was thankful. A moment later, Emmeline approached, her eyes sparkling and her face open and friendly. Perhaps here was a potential friend.
“Do you enjoy dancing, Mrs. James? The music is so lovely.” The way Emmeline’s eyes were scanning the crowd, Eliza wasn’t sure if she wanted an answer, or had just searched for something polite to say.
“I, um, do not know these dances.”
Emmeline’s head whipped around. “No?” She looked at Deveric. “You are in the right hands, then. You could have no better teacher than my brother, cousin. He’s quite good. All the women want to dance with him.”
Eliza thought she heard Amara cough again, but Emmeline’s face reflected only innocence.
Yeah, that’s why they want to dance with him, girlfriend. Because he’s a good instructor. It had nothing to do with the way he looks in that dark blue tailcoat. Or that waistcoat, elaborately embroidered with blue and green flowers. A bit like the purple and green blooms decorating Eliza’s own gown. Good thinking there, Cat. We already match. We belong together.
Her eyes trailed over him. An immaculately tied cravat encircled his high-collared, perfectly starched shirt. Snug, buff-colored breeches encased firmly muscled thighs that Eliza itched to touch. Scandalous, Mrs. James! But he was so utterly scrumptious, like a fashion model come to life. In period clothing. She moved her gaze back up, lest he catch her ogling certain parts of him.
The mussed hairstyles of the day certainly suited him—she loved the longer pieces threatening to spill down into his eyes. And then there was that face. He did look a bit like Hugh Jackman—kudos to Cat for that—but perhaps a dash more rugged, that aquiline nose well suited to his noble breeding.
No, all the ladies wanting to dance with him had nothing to do with those fierce eyebrows framing those hypnotizing green eyes. Nor did his title play into anything. A duke. A real duke. Nothing at all, right?
Deveric had the grace to look mildly embarrassed at his sister’s compliment. He straightened as something caught his attention from across the room. He turned to Eliza, his green eyes boring into hers. “I shall return to you, as promised,” he said. “I have some matters to discuss with my brother. It shall not take long. I beg your pardon.”
Eliza’s cheeks tingled under the intensity of his gaze. At least he doesn’t seem interested in that Harriet chit ... I’d be so disappointed if he were, what with her practically still in the cradle. And because he’s mine. At that thought, her face burned even hotter. Not mine yet, she reminded herself. And there was no guarantee he would be, no matter what Cat wrote.
“Y-yes, Your Grace.” She reached up, twirling one of the tendrils hanging near her face until Amara gave her a look. Drat. It was an old habit, one she used to comfort herself, but a ball was apparently not the place for that. Or perhaps the nineteenth century wasn’t the place.
Deveric swallowed. “Amara, will you stay? Chance needs me, whether he knows it or not.”
Concern creased Amara’s face. “Of course.”
As Deveric strode away, Emmeline also took her leave, announcing she was in need of refreshment, though she trailed after a handsome young man who’d wandered by seconds ago.
Left in silence with Deveric’s sister, Eliza’s mind reeled. Since when did Deveric have a brother? Cat hadn’t written anything about a brother, she was sure of it. Unease snaked through her veins. What other surprises awaited her?
Half of her wanted to go home. Maybe this was too much. Maybe one’s ultimate fantasy coming true wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. How ironic; that’s exactly what Cat told her after they’d figured out Cat’s new magical abilities. Eliza figured there could be nothing better than being able to create one’s Perfect Man, but Cat had insisted there were side effects one needed to consider, a notion Eliza had blown off.
Well, Eliza was considering those potential side effects now. For, really, how could a twenty-first century American, even one fairly well-versed in the Regency literature of the day, ever hope to blend in with the nineteenth-century ton? These people were born to the manor, raised in the intricate etiquette and manners needed to move about successfully in polite society. Eliza was just a regular old Virginia girl, raised on fried chicken, McDonald’s, and Diet Coke. Sure, she’d looked through Debrett’s and studied up on titles and forms of address in the past two weeks, but how could she have thought that was enough?
Plus, who was she to think she would ever have a shot with a duke? It was like believing she could get a billionaire to fall in love with her in her own day. Her chances of failure here—with Deveric, and with society as a whole—were devastatingly high.
No. Don’t think that way. You’ve been here, what, an hour? Start as you mean to go on. You can do this, Eliza James. You can.
Now if only she believed herself.
Amara remained silent, which rather surprised Eliza. She figured Deveric’s sister would grill her, now that they were alone and she had the chance. Maybe that just wasn’t done, no matter how much one might want to. Or maybe, Eliza thought, as she caught the miserable expression on Amara’s face, she’s going through something, and I don’t register on her scale right now. She almost wanted to hug the woman, but that likely wouldn’t earn anything but scorn, so she refrained, instead choosing to study the people around her.
Many were looking in Amara’s and her direction, though if Eliza tried to meet any of their eyes, they averted their gazes.
She wished Deveric would return. Being the object of everyone’s attention—everyone except the one whose attention she wanted—sucked.
After a few moments, two gentlemen—one a tall, lanky fellow with a mop of black hair, the other a bit shorter and more muscular, with sandy blonde hair and a square jawline—approached.
“Lady Amara,” the blonde one said. He nodded toward Deveric’s sister, but his sky-blue eyes fixed on Eliza.
Wow, they really knew how to grow them in the Regency.
His exquisitely carved lips parted into a snaggle-toothed smile that somehow rendered him even more appealing; men with perfectly straight, obsessively white teeth always seemed unnatural to her.
She peeked at the taller one. He was perhaps not quite as classically handsome as the blonde, but his wide-set blue eyes crinkled as he greeted Amara, his lips cracking into a grin that revealed dimples to die for. Heaven help me, Cat. Did you have to make them all so good-looking?
Then again, had Cat drafted these fellows? Eliza had no clue. It was hard to fathom, her friend’s power. Neither one of them knew exactly how it worked, beyond that Cat could write a love story and bring the hero to life. Once real, though, he had his own complete life story, back history, family ... as evidenced in the men Cat had dated, and now Deveric’s family.
Her head ached. She’d been awake for a good eighteen to twenty hours or so, and that, combined with the champagne and, well, the time-travel, had her longing for a bed to crawl into. Where would she sleep? And when would she get to go to bed? Balls often lasted into the wee hours of the morning; not exactly ideal for her morning-
person self.
“Gentlemen!” Deveric said as he approached again, addressing the blond then the dark-haired fellow. He smiled broadly at the men. His teeth were quite fine, actually. Considering some of the tooth situations she’d seen happening with other men and women here in the last few minutes alone, she should give thanks for a full set of pearly whites that actually looked clean.
The blonde gave a pointed look first to Deveric, then Eliza.
Dev gave him a nod. “Mrs. James, may I present the Duke of Arthington and Marquess of Emerlin? Arthington, Emerlin, my cousin, Mrs. James.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace and, er, Lord Emerlin,” Eliza said. She dropped a quick curtsy, hoping she’d gotten both that and the titles right.
At her words, Arthington raised his eyebrows. “An American cousin? You have family in the colonies?”
The colonies? It’s 1812, dude.
“Distant relations,” Deveric said.
“The pleasure is ours.” The Marquess of Emerlin had a pleasant lilt to his speech. Irish?
“Will you be joining us for that drink, at last, Claremont?” Arthington said.
“Oh,” Amara interjected, a smirk playing at the edges of her lips, “my brother has promised to stay at our cousin’s side all evening, seeing how she has newly arrived and all.”
When both men focused those blue eyes on her at once, Eliza wanted to melt into the floor.
“Your husband is not here?” Emerlin’s voice was soft.
“I’m a widow.”
At her response, Arthington’s lips curved up.
“Off with you,” Deveric said, his voice affectionate in spite of the harsh words. “Go mind that my scamp of a brother doesn’t spend all of the Claremont fortune, will you?”
Arthington looked as if he wanted to say something else, but Emerlin grabbed him by the arm. “Come now, you must obey a duke’s command.”
The Magic of Love Series Page 31
