The Magic of Love Series

by Margaret Locke

  “I’m a duke,” Arthington grumbled, but after bowing to both Amara and Eliza, he wandered off with his friend.

  Amara straightened her shoulders. “Excuse me, dear brother and dearest cousin, but I believe I shall find Aunt Josephina and engage her in a rubber of piquet. No better way to make up for having to attend a ball than by trouncing persons at cards.” With that, she turned and pushed her way through the crowd toward a doorway off to the left.

  “She doesn’t enjoy dancing?” Eliza said to Deveric.

  There was a small, stilted silence. “She is not often asked.”

  “Why not?”

  Deveric’s jaw clenched. “I understand Americans are quite forward, but seeing as we have just met, and you are not truly family, I do believe I’ve said quite enough.”

  Eliza wasn’t sure what to say after such a reprimand, so she simply stood next to him. Curious glances flew her way often, but no one approached them. Looking at Deveric out of the corner of her eye, she could see why; his face was tight, closed, his eyebrows dark over his eyes. Downright formidable, in fact, as he shot a heated glance in her direction. Was that anger? Or something else?

  “I’m sorry,” she offered.

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. “For what?”

  “For ... I don’t know—for being too direct? Causing problems in your family? For all the confusion? For kissing you?”

  His pupils flared as his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. “I can’t exactly say I’m sorry for the kiss. It was magnificent.”

  He cleared his throat as if embarrassed by that admission.

  The orchestra struck up a new tune.

  “Are you sure you do not wish to dance?”

  Eliza snickered. After all the crazy events of the evening, this duke was asking her to dance? “You needn’t be so polite. I promise you, I don’t know the steps. Even if I did, I’d likely trod on your feet and crush you.”

  “You’d hardly crush me,” he answered. “You are quite small.”

  Small? He thinks I’m small? Glancing down at her dress, in which she felt a bit like a stuffed sausage, she murmured, “I disagree, Your Grace. I think there’s rather too much of me.”

  “Oh, no,” he said. Why did it sound as if he were choking? “You are perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  As her gaze flew to his face, he cleared his throat again, looking away. Was that red on his cheeks? This is a good sign, Cat. The physical attraction between us is real, if nothing else yet. It was a start, right?

  She nearly grinned, until he whipped his head back around, his green eyes piercing her blue ones. “Who are you, in truth?” All signs of flirtation had fled from his voice—if, indeed, they were there to begin with.

  “I told you. I’m Eliza James. I’m from Charlottesville, Virginia. I truly am a widow.” Might as well get it out in the open now. She sighed, glancing around quickly to ensure no one was within earshot. “And ... I’m from the year 2011.”

  Deveric jerked, the muscles in his jaw ticcing. “I beg your pardon,” he demanded, incredulity written across his face as he leaned closer to her, fixing her with that intense gaze.

  Eliza shrank back, longing for a chair in which to sit. Exhaustion and nervousness were setting in with a vengeance. She didn’t blame him for his reaction; it was hard enough for her to believe it, and she was the time-traveler, from an era in which time-travel, while not possible—at least not until now—was routinely discussed and depicted in books and movies.

  She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stand tall. Start as you mean to go on, girl. Sure, he’s wigging out, but don’t let him intimidate you. “I’m from 2011. Or I guess 2012, now, since today is New Year’s Day. At least it was, for me. I, um, traveled back in time to get to you. Well, except that first you came forward to me.” She wasn’t about to tell him her friend had created him. No-sir-ree, Bob.

  Deveric ran his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes for a moment. “You’re telling me that earlier this evening, I was in 2012? Two hundred years from now? With you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should escort you to the door right now. You’re a madwoman. Or someone put you up to this. Either way, this is insane. Yes, I should remove you from my presence at once.”

  Frissons of fear snaked up Eliza’s spine. If he kicks me out, what will I do? Where will I go? She forced herself to breathe, struggling to present a calm demeanor. She and Cat had prepped for such an emergency, after all. She patted the pocket holding her jewelry. Surely she had enough to survive for a while, at least until she could use the escape plan Cat had written for her.

  But she didn’t want to use it. She didn’t want to. This ferociously handsome man was her duke, and she wasn’t giving up that easily. No romance heroine would. That’s not how the stories worked.

  Showing him the phone would convince him, wouldn’t it? Or would that just make it worse? This was the Enlightenment, but there were still those who believed in the supernatural, in witchcraft. Had she just leapt from a twenty-first-century frying pan into a nineteenth-century fire?

  She bit her lip, hard. She wasn’t reading a novel. This wasn’t fiction, not anymore. No, she was standing right in front of a living, breathing duke, and he was a real person. One currently staring at her as if she’d grown a third eye.

  “You could,” she agreed. “I probably would want to, if I were you.” She closed her eyes, steeling her shoulders. “Go ahead.”

  Chapter 6

  Deveric made a sound under his breath, not sure what to do. That was a feeling to which he was unaccustomed, and one for which he didn’t care. He’d always been certain of the world and his place in it. He was a duke, for goodness’ sake. One step below royalty. Always in control.

  Until tonight. Until he’d heard music from a box, until he’d seen brighter lights than could possibly exist, moving at speeds faster than anything could move. Until he’d kissed this woman.

  It couldn’t be true, her wild claim. People simply could not travel through time. But something had happened. He’d been here, and then elsewhere. Could it have all been an illusion, some sort of magic trick? His mind refused to consider something otherworldly. That was as preposterous as this woman’s assertions—despite what Rebecca might say, with her penchant for indulging in Gothic novels.

  No, something had definitely happened. Something he didn’t understand, but desperately wanted to. Needed to. He needed to know what had happened this evening, needed to understand Eliza James, to comprehend this pull toward her that had his blood racing through his veins, his hands itching to touch her.

  He couldn’t dismiss her, even if he wished to. Not yet. “That would be difficult to explain, now that I’ve introduced you as our cousin.”

  “You could admit you lied. Or say I did, I guess.”

  He stiffened. “I would never impugn your honor in such a way. And I never lie.”

  Eliza laughed out loud. “You look like a scared, angry cat with your fur all ruffled up. And what do you mean, you never lie? You lied to your family not fifteen minutes ago!”

  He opened his mouth to retort. How dare she? As he was about to lay into her for comparing him to a feline—a feline!—a voice broke in from behind him.

  “Good evening, dearest brother. Once again, you have found the most beautiful woman in the room. May I beg an introduction?”

  A young man stepped into view, flashing a smile at Eliza, a wide cheeky grin with more than a hint of seductiveness to it. Eliza coughed, her own cheeks turning a rather becoming apple red.

  Deveric scowled at his brother but dutifully performed the introductions. “Mrs. James, this is my brother, Lord Chance Mattersley. Chance, this is Mrs. Eliza James,” he said, emphasizing the Mrs. It delighted him to see Chance’s grin falter. “She’s our cousin. From Virginia.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Eliza said, dropping a curtsy.

  Chance extended his hand. Eliza’s eyes flashed to Deveric, confusion in them,
but she stuck her hand straight out. His devilish brother grasped it and turned it so he could press his lips to her knuckles. Deveric wanted to strike him.

  A titter burst out from Eliza as his brother released her hand. Did she just bat her eyelashes at the scamp?

  Women had always thrown themselves at his younger brother. Emmeline said it was Chance’s devil-may-care attitude: “He’s all rake and roué.” Perhaps. He certainly lived life to its fullest—if one could consider those habits fulfilling.

  The idea of Eliza succumbing to his brother’s seductive ways sent waves of alarm—and jealousy—crashing through Deveric. It was all he could do not to wrap his arm around Eliza’s waist and pull her to him, claiming her for his own. Good God, man, what was happening? Possessiveness had never been his nature.

  Until now. It made no sense.

  “Cousin?” Chance said. “We have cousins in America?”

  “Surely you jest.” At Chance’s blank expression, Deveric heaved a sigh. “Too busy gallivanting about Town, gambling away your inheritance, and chasing every damsel who crosses your path to attend to family matters?” He stopped himself. What was he doing? A Claremont did not spill family secrets. No matter how irritated he was to see Eliza responding to his brother’s infernal flirting.

  A wounded expression crossed Chance’s face, but he replaced it instantly with an insolent grin. “Someone’s got to do it, brother—might as well be me.”

  “I can think of far better ways for you to be spending your time.”

  “I’m sure you can, but right now I’d like to spend my time dancing with our new cousin here,” Chance answered smoothly, offering a hand to Eliza as he made a bow.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered, “but I have a headache.”

  Deveric frowned. Did she? He should have attended her better.

  “Perhaps a lemonade would help. I’ll be happy to fetch you one.” Chance took off across the room before Eliza could say anything.

  “You certainly have my brother under your spell,” Deveric muttered as he watched Chance push his way through the crowd.

  “Please don’t say that.” Eliza twirled that adorable tendril again, her eyes troubled. “I promise I’m not supernatural.”

  “No,” he replied wryly. “Just a woman of unknown origin and unknown connections who claims to be from two hundred years in the future. And for whose sake, for reasons unknown to me, I lied to my family.”

  Deveric prided himself on his honesty above all else. It was a value he held dear, and yet he’d broken it the minute this woman had landed, literally, in his lap. It unnerved him, his willingness to lie for her, almost as much as the earlier events of the evening did. He would get to the bottom of this, get to the bottom of the mystery of Eliza James. And then he would be free of her, of this incomprehensible allure she held for him.

  Except he had publicly claimed her as a relative. Damnation.

  Chance returned almost as quickly as he’d left, proffering a drink to Eliza. “Here’s your lemonade, Mrs. James.”

  “Chance!” called a voice, as Eliza took a sip. Chance searched for the source then rolled his eyes. “It’s Emmeline. She probably wishes to introduce me to another of her cloying friends.”

  “Probably,” answered Deveric. “But it would be most rude to ignore her. Off you go.”

  Chance raised a brow at him, but Deveric ignored it. He didn’t want to examine why he felt so territorial about Eliza, even as half of him wanted to never see her—or hear her ludicrous claims—again.

  Chance flashed Eliza another grin, and then with a “Pardon me,” crossed the room to their sister. Tugging at his shirtsleeves near his wrists, Deveric studiously avoided Eliza’s gaze.

  A Claremont always knows what to do. Except when he doesn’t.

  “You must wish to be alone with me, the way you keep running everybody off,” Eliza teased, nursing the rather bland lemonade. When Deveric stiffened, holding his back perfectly erect, she winked at him.

  She didn’t know what had gotten into her. Normally, she wasn’t this forward with men. She couldn’t even figure out why she wasn’t freaking out more, considering she’d left everyone and everything she’d known and traveled back in time to be with a man. This man.

  Except that a part of her—a big part—wondered if it all weren’t a dream. A lucid dream, perhaps, in which she could control the action, but a dream just the same. For no one could actually travel through time, could they? And if they had, would they be calmly standing next to a duke, wishing to waltz with him? Wouldn’t they be in meltdown mode? Or something?

  She shrugged. If this was a dream, she might as well enjoy it. Only in her dreams would she be dancing with a duke anyway; in real life, she had two left feet.

  A yawn caught her by surprise. Did one yawn in dreams? Apparently.

  Deveric’s lips flattened into a line. “You are tired. Perhaps you’d like to be shown to a chamber, and we can discuss this further in the morning?”

  “Yes. Please.” As much as she didn’t want everything to end, she was about to fall over. If one slept in one’s dreams, is that what Poe meant by a ‘dream within a dream?’ Not that anyone here would know Poe—he was too late for this period.

  “Very well.” Waving a hand, Dev called a footman over. “Please have one of the maids escort Mrs. James to a chamber.”

  The footman scampered off to attend his command.

  “Couldn’t you just take me? I don’t want to bother anyone else.”

  “Certainly not,” Deveric replied, indignation in his eyes. “Whatever you may be, I am a gentleman. Escorting a lady to a private chamber is not done.”

  “Okay. Settle down. I wasn’t planning on jumping you,” she retorted. Not that half of her wouldn’t like to, but she was tired.

  “Oh-kay? Jumping me?”

  She wanted to laugh at the perplexed look on his face. I must be more careful in my word choices. “I guess those are American expressions. I meant I have no intention of impugning your—or my—honor.”

  “My apologies, Your Grace,” the footman said upon his return, “but I am told there are no more chambers free.” His eyes darted to Eliza.

  “Good God. Mother must have invited all of London to this house party.” He gave the footman a curt nod. “Then have someone escort Mrs. James to the duchess’s chamber. I assume you can quickly ready it for a guest?”

  The footman’s mouth fell open, but he immediately closed it. “Yes, Your Grace.” He turned to Eliza. “If you could follow me, my lady?”

  Eliza blinked. The duchess’s chamber? She had to room with that dragon? “Why am I going to your mother’s room?”

  “Not my mother’s. My wife’s.”

  “Your wife’s?” Eliza’s heart fell. It didn’t make sense. Cat said he was a widower. Had he remarried? What was going on?

  “My deceased wife,” Deveric bit out, eyeing the footman, who was watching the exchange with barely concealed interest. “We will talk more in the morning, Mrs. James. Go now,” he said, before turning and striding across the room without a backward glance.

  Brandy. He needed a drink. Make that several.

  Dev stalked out of the ballroom and back to his study, not caring whether or not his mother would approve. He was the Duke of Claremont; he could bloody well leave his own ball if he wished. It wasn’t his, anyway; it was his mother and his sisters who’d insisted on this final party before removing to London for the Season.

  Grabbing the brandy off the sideboard, he sank into his chair with gusto, uncorking the decanter and taking a drink without bothering to fetch a glass. Hardly the behavior of a gentleman, but he didn’t feel like a gentleman tonight. He was a caged beast, a tiger wanting to lash out at everything and everyone around him, not understanding how he’d got himself trapped, to begin with.

  For he felt caged. Caged by society, caged by expectation. Even caged by his inexplicable reaction to Eliza James. He wanted nothing more than to follow her up to his wife’s
chamber, to peel that dress from her shoulders, to bury himself in her lush body.

  And he didn’t like it. All it took was a few hours and one woman—granted, one incredibly beautiful, intoxicatingly sensual, intriguingly mysterious woman—and he was ready to disregard the self-control he’d worked so very hard to cultivate?

  No. Simply unacceptable. A man ought to retain control of his physical passions at all times. Especially a man like Deveric. For passion could bring tragedy, and he wouldn’t endure that again, no matter how appetizing Mrs. James appeared in that overly snug bodice.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, willing his body to calm down. What had happened tonight? It was beyond his comprehension, a frightening prospect in and of itself. This Eliza James claimed to be from the future. Claimed to have come back in time. For him.

  Why? Even if he accepted her time-travel assertion— which he most decidedly did not—why would she say she had come back for him?

  Goosebumps raced along his skin. Ridiculous. Goosebumps were for women. He took another swig of the liquor, grateful for the calming sensation the fiery liquid produced.

  What could he do? This wasn’t a situation he could discuss with Arth and Em. “Excuse me, gents, what would you do if a woman dropped into your lap, claiming to be from 2012?” No, that would never do. He must reason this out on his own.

  He stared at the sofa, the sofa on which just hours earlier he’d awoken to find the delectable Mrs. James wrapped in his arms. His body ached to hold her again. His mind demanded answers.

  Images flashed through his head, images of bright lights and flashing boxes and mechanical music.

  He shut his eyes.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would get to the bottom of this. Tomorrow he would question her and solve this mystery. Logically. Rationally.

  But for now, he would let his mind wander ... over her form. For while he’d never indulge in reality, fantasy was a perfectly fine arena in which to let his passions run free. And his passions—intellectual, emotional, physical—all centered on one maddening woman.