Mrs. Eliza James.
Chapter 7
Eliza rolled over in the bed, burrowing deeper beneath the covers, refusing to open her eyes. Ugh. I bet the alarm is going to go off any minute. This is going to be a three cups of coffee day, at least. Especially given the excruciating headache pounding through her temples. Yuck. She hated hangovers.
“Good morning, my lady,” a voice called.
“Cat? Is that you?” she slurred, trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes. She heard a scraping noise, and then light suddenly flooded the room.
“I’m Betsy. I’ve come to help you dress.”
Eliza sat straight up, her eyes rounding at the sight of a young woman standing at the foot of the bed. She clutched the blanket to her chest as she took in her surroundings. She was in a sumptuously outfitted chamber, lying in a plush canopied bed with curtains tied back on all sides. A tall, sturdy oak table stood to the side against the wall between two windows, which were flanked by velvet-looking drapes.
The drapes. The woman—Betsy—must have opened the drapes.
Across from the bed was a fireplace, with a fire crackling brightly. On the right side of the bed against the interior wall sat a gorgeous, intricately ornamented desk-like piece of furniture. Eliza stared at the lion’s heads brass drawer pulls. Oh my God. It isn’t a dream. It isn’t a dream. I’m here. I’m really here! Wherever here is ...
Hearing soft splashing, Eliza looked back over to see Betsy pouring water out of a large pitcher into a basin. “You may perform your toilette here, my lady, and then please let me know when you’re ready to dress.”
She curtsied to Eliza, and then walked to the desk and lifted its lid, revealing a mirror on the underside. A chair to the side of the desk looked remarkably like an antique chair her grandfather had had in his study, complete with the green velvet seat cover.
“Thank you very much. I appreciate all of your help. I’m Eliza, by the way.”
Betsy’s eyes widened. “Yes, my lady. It is no trouble.”
“Please, call me Eliza.”
Betsy looked down, twisting her thumbs around each other. “I don’t think that would be appropriate, my lady.”
Eliza blinked. It was one thing to read about servants always Yes, My Grace, no miladying everyone in this time period, but quite another to hear a person insist they couldn’t address her as an equal. She didn’t particularly care for it.
Shifting in the bed, Eliza suddenly realized she was clad only in the slip—chemise, it’s called here—she’d worn under her dress the night before. At least it covered her modern bra and undies; she didn’t want to see what kind of reaction those would get.
Betsy walked over to an armoire next to the fireplace and pulled out a long-sleeved, high-necked white gown. “Lady Amara has lent you this morning dress until suitable clothing can be found for you. She said you lost all your possessions at sea, my lady.”
Eliza nodded. Fighting the small panic in her throat, she said, “May I ask, Betsy, where my gown from last night has gone?” She vaguely remembered a maid helping her out of the dress, but not what happened to it afterward.
“It’s here in the cupboard, my lady.”
Eliza breathed a huge sigh of relief, ecstatic her safeguard remained hidden. Heaven forbid someone found her phone. That could only bring more trouble down on her head, having to answer questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. To anyone except Deveric, at least.
“I, um, have a little jewelry. Is there a safe place to store it?” She hoped Betsy wouldn’t assume Eliza was accusing her of potentially stealing, but she had to ask, had to protect what little she’d brought with her.
Betsy nodded. “Her Grace had a small lockbox. Let me see.” Betsy bent down and rummaged in the armoire before pulling out a beautifully carved cherrywood box. “Yes, here it is.” The maid set the box on the table to the side of the bed.
Eliza was grateful her request didn’t seem particularly out of the ordinary. Standing up, she walked to the washbasin, accepting a cloth Betsy dampened for her. As she washed her face, her arms shook. She couldn’t believe she was here in a nineteenth-century bedchamber, a maid waiting upon her next command. She wished Cat were here to see it.
It had taken Cat a while to come to terms with her turning-fantasy-into-reality power. Not Eliza. She’d known instantly what she wanted. She’d dreamt for years about finding a hero, about experiencing a grand romance like those in her beloved novels, despite the fact that few people she knew had found a love like that.
It was what had sustained her through her lonely childhood as an only child, especially when both her parents worked long hours. It was what had sustained her through losing her husband, Greg—because he’d made her promise if he should die in the line of duty, she’d find someone else. She deserved that kind of love, he’d said.
And as long as she was creating a fantasy, why not add a duke? It was the obvious choice, given Eliza’s obsession with Jane Austen and all things Regency. Might as well aim for the top of the top, if one were going to give this insanity a whirl.
She handed the cloth she was still holding to Betsy, and then sat down on the edge of the bed, staring into the fire. If the maid thought her actions odd, she kept quiet about it.
It was what Eliza’d held on to after her parents died, too— this idea that something big, something better, something life-long was waiting. What else was there to live for? Sure, she’d enrolled in grad school under the pretense of becoming a professor, but deep down she knew she studied Jane Austen not for her literary merits—which were immense—but because of her promises of second chances in love. Even if Jane had never had a second chance herself, her characters did. Elizabeth got her Darcy. Anne her Wentworth. Surely someone was out there for Eliza?
Cat teased her constantly over her unfailing romanticism, but Eliza never doubted she’d find her prince, in spite of the fact she kept ending up in pools of frogs, all looking to be kissed—and more.
She wasn’t about to make love with just anyone, though. Not because she didn’t enjoy it—Lord knows she did and missed those intimate moments with her husband. But that was exactly why she wasn’t into casual sex. For her, those moments were intimate, meant to be shared with someone with whom you could entrust your soul, not Joe Schmo from some bar.
She sighed. Surely there were still people in the world who wanted only one other person, who wanted a true, deep, passionate, lasting love.
Was Deveric one such person? Cat had written he’d always be attracted to Eliza. But she hadn’t said only Eliza. Eliza blew her hair out of her eyes. She rather wished Cat had decreed he’d be forever faithful, knowing how important that was to her.
Then again, had she known this would actually happen, that she’d be sitting here now, on the end of a nineteenth-century bed, staring into a nineteenth-century fire, with a nineteenth-century maid ready to wait on her, maybe she would have asked for a longer, more detailed story, one which told her exactly what to do, and exactly what would happen.
No. That’s not what she wanted. Not in her heart. She wanted any relationship to evolve naturally, to be a choice on both their parts. Otherwise, how could she ever trust it?
Her eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. Contemplating a real relationship, one that could be permanent, could lead to marriage, admittedly frightened her, as much as she longed for it.
What if she lost a husband again? Deveric’s green eyes flashed before her. She didn’t think she could bear it, losing love a second time. She hadn’t truly considered remarrying, despite her numerous dates and indulgences in flights of fancy over a forever love. In many ways, it was too scary, too painful, to think of having to endure such pain again. It was why she’d only had one true boyfriend since Greg.
Hearing Cat admit she’d walled herself off too long to avoid hurt had jolted Eliza from her comfort zone, though. As much as she’d thought she’d been living her life, she hadn’t—not when she wasn’t opening up her heart, op
ening it truly, to what could be. That was what had motivated her to ask for it all, to reach for the highest brass ring she could, to launch this crazy scheme.
And here she was. Trying to get a Regency duke to fall in love with her. Insane.
She flopped back on the bed, the motion sending her head pounding again. Lord, how much champagne had she had last night? What she wouldn’t give for some ibuprofen. And a regular toilet. Chamber pots were much better when only seen in a museum, not used, as she’d discovered in the middle of the night.
A snicker escaped her lips. It was all too much to believe, like a cheesy Hollywood rom-com. Except that it was happening to me. It is happening to me. If only she knew whether this would have the “and they lived happily ever after” ending she craved, the kind people went to the movies for.
“My lady?” Betsy’s voice was hesitant.
“I’d love for you to call me Eliza. Or Mrs. James, if you insist.”
“As you say, my lady. Are you ready to dress?”
So much for that. My lady did feel better than ma’am, at least.
Betsy aided her into a set of stays—a half-bra, half-corset deal Eliza would rather have avoided. She still had her bra on underneath her full slip, but she’d keep that information to herself. Besides, maybe all the support would rein in her breasts better.
After Betsy helped her into the morning gown, Eliza examined it with interest. She was rather surprised it wasn’t exceedingly tight on her, given that Amara, while curvy, wasn’t as padded as Eliza was. Perhaps the few inches difference in height helped—or had Amara once been heavier?
More solidly made than the gown Eliza’d worn the previous evening, the dress was pure white in color, with ruffles at the wrists, and a long ruffle down the whole front of the dress. More ruffles adorned the bodice and capped the shoulders. It reminded her a bit of Seinfeld’s puffy shirt. She stifled the snicker threatening to emerge.
Given the gown’s warmth, she assumed it was made of wool, for which she was grateful. Even with the fire, there was a noticeable chill in the air. Oh Lord, I miss central heat already. I wonder if my toes will ever feel warm again.
“I’m afraid we only have your ball slippers, my lady. I will see if I can find walking boots for you.”
“It’s fine, Betsy,” Eliza answered, grateful the ballet flats she’d worn had passed muster. “I’m sure they will do.”
“But surely you will want to walk the grounds, my lady? There may also be lawn games for the ladies this afternoon. You would not want to muddy your slippers.”
Eliza nodded. She should have thought of that, though the idea of going outside, where it was undoubtedly colder, wasn’t exactly appealing.
“Here is a cap, my lady.”
Eliza took the knitted cap; perhaps it would help against the chill. Her mother had always said ninety percent of body heat escaped through the head. Spying herself in the dressing table mirror, she grimaced. “I can’t say I find this particularly flattering, Betsy.” She pulled the cap back off and set it down.
Betsy’s face reddened. “I can see if I can find something else, my lady, but this cap came from Lady Amara.”
Eliza could have kicked herself. “I’m sorry, I meant no offense. It’s just ... different from the American fashions I’m accustomed to. I think I’d rather leave it off.”
Betsy nodded quickly, ducking her head. She’s probably expecting me to wear it. Women of a certain age or marital status wore caps constantly. But Eliza couldn’t relegate herself to being a wallflower widow yet—not when there was a duke to entice.
She studied herself in the mirror, dressed in this foreign garb. The high-throated, long-sleeved dress made her feel downright dowdy. She glanced at the various powders and items Betsy had laid out on the dressing table. What I wouldn’t give for a bit of mascara and some lip-gloss. She smoothed her tongue over her teeth. And a toothbrush.
“The tooth powder is there on your right, my lady.”
Seriously? Mind reader. How strange to have someone shadowing her, especially someone anticipating her needs. It was kind of fun this morning, but would it get old soon?
She wished she had time alone to sit and absorb her surroundings. And think.
“Let me fetch the boots. I shall return shortly.” Betsy ducked out the door.
Eliza took advantage while the maid was away to empty the contents of her dress pocket into the lockbox. For a moment, she held on to the pocket watch Cat had gifted her last Christmas. It’d looked Regency-esque to Cat, in spite of the more modern numbers on its face, and she’d decided Eliza needed it. The watch wasn’t particularly valuable, but Eliza had wanted it with her, anyway. She rubbed her fingers over the inscription on the back: Friends for all time. Indeed. Setting the watch in the box, she closed the lid before her watery eyes spilled over. No need for Betsy to catch her crying.
She could move the remaining jewelry hidden in the dress’s hem later; the bulk of her fortune, if one could call it that, as well as her phone, had been her greatest priority. She was grateful the lockbox’s key was on a chain that fit easily around her neck. There. Safe.
Betsy popped back in, a pair of fawn-colored boots in hand. “I’ll set these here.” After placing the boots at the base of the armoire, she looked at Eliza. “Shall I guide you to the breakfast room, my lady?”
So much for more alone time. Eliza sighed and stood up. “I’m ready, Betsy.”
I think.
Deveric lay abed far longer than he usually did, and not just because of the excess brandy he’d imbibed.
Sleep had eluded him, his mind buzzing with images: images of what he’d seen from wherever he’d been, and images of Eliza James. Eliza, the very first time he’d seen her, less than twenty-four hours ago, those sapphire eyes seducing him within ten minutes of their acquaintance. Eliza, lying atop him on the sofa settee, those same eyes wide as she’d taken in her surroundings. The memory of her soft, pliant body, so deliciously bountiful, so sumptuously curvaceous, pressed so intimately against his, had tormented him through the night, his head filled with visions of the things he’d like to do to her, with her, for her, his body rigid with desire ... and denial.
To know she slept mere steps away was almost more than he could bear. At least his late wife’s bedchamber didn’t directly connect to his, as was typical for a married couple. Mirabelle had insisted on her own room across the hall, saying she needed a space she knew was truly her own. Deveric had acquiesced, figuring he could visit whenever she wished him to. Which, of course, had been never.
At first, the hurt of knowing his wife didn’t want him had run deep. Though theirs hadn’t been a love match, he’d done everything he could to please her, in and out of the bedroom. It hadn’t been enough. She’d complained he was too much— too large, too demanding, too lustful.
Eventually, he, too, had been grateful for the distance, for the separation, his wife’s constant coldness scalding his heart. A man had needs, though, and at times he’d still requested a more intimate connection. Mirabelle always complied, had said she knew her duty, but she hadn’t enjoyed it, had said he caused her discomfort. Guilt over those furtive, rushed encounters had never fully left him.
Amara insisted it wasn’t his fault his wife didn’t love him— she was certain Mirabelle was incapable of loving anybody. Deveric, however, had seen how his wife was with their son. She’d doted on Frederick, even more than Deveric had. How sad that poor Freddy barely remembered his mother now; it was Frederick whose heart had broken when she died. Not his.
Since her death three years ago, Deveric had avoided the room in which his wife had spent far too much time, had forbidden anyone to do much with it, in fact, its mere presence a painful reminder of his failures. He’d preferred to view it as a door to nowhere, a door to a past he’d rather forget. That’s why no guests had been in it until now. Which is why his family, his friends, hell, even the servants had reacted last night to his command Eliza be given the room.
But it wasn’t Mirabelle in that chamber now, it was Eliza. He groaned, flipping over and pressing himself into the mattress, wanting to assuage the ache, ignore the desire coursing through him. He must get up, get away, put space between him and the mysterious American. He had so many questions, needed so many answers.
Bounding out of bed, he stalked to the washbasin, drenching his face in cold water as he willed the rest of his body to cool down. Normally, he ate breakfast before his morning ride, but today his hunger was not for food, and the possibility of running into the entirely too tempting Mrs. James in the breakfast room was more than he could handle. He needed time and space to comprehend yesterday’s events and decide his future actions.
Yanking on his riding clothes without bothering to call for his valet, Deveric exited the room and made his way outside, the cold morning mist the perfect companion to his miserable mood.
Eliza James—and all she brought with her—was a complication he couldn’t afford. He preferred his life orderly, predictable—or, as Arth would say, boring. Better boredom than pain, and that’s what his previous marriage, his previous investment of emotion, had brought him: pain.
“Good morning, brother.” Amara’s voice startled him out of his sorrowful reverie.
“Amara.” He tipped his hat to her. “You are out early.”
“And you, late,” she responded, giving no reason for her atypical behavior. He didn’t press her; both had had unusual evenings the night before, to say the least. Was it so surprising their mornings were off, as well?
“I was ... contemplating last night’s events.”
“Our American cousin?”
The Magic of Love Series Page 33
