“Perhaps you are a witch,” he muttered. “I can’t think straight around you. You make me feel, you make me want.” He looked off into the distance, not meeting her eyes. “I don’t understand. I’ve been in complete control since ...”
Her insides warmed as she watched this man, a powerful duke used to commanding every situation, fumble with his words. He may not believe me yet, he may not trust me—heck, he certainly doesn’t know me, but I’ll take desire. Better than nothing!
It was hard to believe a man as immensely attractive as Deveric could desire her. To be fair, she’d had her share of male attention, in spite of her penchant for brownies and cheesecake. But she’d known she wasn’t the ideal woman by twenty-first century standards. She was too soft, too curvy. “Too much junk in the trunk and too much boob in the bosom,” she’d joked to Cat.
“You were just born in the wrong century, Lizzie,” Cat always asserted. “Look at the paintings of the masters and you’ll see. As Sir Mix-A-Lot said, ‘Baby Got Back!’”
“It’s okay, Dev,” she whispered. “It’s all very confusing. I get it. Believe me, I’m confused, too.” She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. He closed his eyes at her touch.
After a moment, he stepped back, gesturing around them. “We’re still here. In my gardens.” He eyed her. “But you maintain you’re from two hundred years in the future?”
“Yes,” she said calmly, her eyes not leaving his. Start as you mean to go on. Honesty was the best policy, even in a situation as bizarre as this one.
He watched her a long while. “Some part of me must believe it, too. I’ve considered every option I can think of— that I hit my head and this is all a dream; that something otherworldly is going on, that you’re an actress hired by my brother, or perhaps Stoneleigh. Or his scamp of a brother, Dawes.”
“Dawes?” Eliza’s voice cracked. Cat had created a man of the same last name: William Dawes. What was going on? Dawes couldn’t be here—could he?
Deveric’s eyes grew cold. “You know him? Did he put you up to this? He did, by God, didn’t he, as retribution for me outbidding him for that horse last month.” He stalked back and forth along the garden path.
“No!” she exclaimed. “I only reacted because that was the name of one of the men Cat created. He did say he had ancestors in England. But the William Dawes I know is from 2011, and he’s an American. I swear!”
Deveric continued pacing. “William is Stoneleigh’s younger brother,” he muttered. “Stoneleigh—Everett—is an earl. His estate borders mine—Pierfield.” He stopped and looked at her again, his eyes boring into hers as if looking for some sign of recognition.
Eliza returned his gaze, taking a step closer.
“A moment,” he said, holding his hand out as if to ward her off. “You said men that this Cat created?”
Chapter 11
He made the sign of the cross over his chest, his face deathly white. “You are a witch, with a cat as your familiar.” He backed up several steps.
Crap. No, no, no. Eliza rushed toward him, setting her hand gently on his chest. “Of course not. There are no such things as witches. Well, at least not how we picture them, with their pointy hats and wicked spells.” She pulled the pelisse more tightly around her midsection. “Why don’t you let me tell the story from the beginning? But can we walk a little? I’m freezing.”
Deveric offered her his arm, no doubt on account of the courtesy bred into him. His rigid muscle tone testified to his suspicion and nervousness. “I would escort you inside,” he said, “but I cannot guarantee privacy in conversation there.”
“It’s all right. I didn’t need my toes, anyway,” Eliza teased. As they strolled, she gave him the gist of Cat’s experiences with the men she’d dated, and answered his questions as best she could about the things he’d seen. She tiptoed around the issue of Cat creating Deveric for her, talking more generally about her love for this time in English history, and how her desire to experience England in the Regency period prompted her to ask Cat to write her here. Nothing would send him running faster than her assertion that he was her soul mate—her first fictional, now real soul mate—she was sure.
He didn’t ask about the kissing requirement again, and she didn’t volunteer.
They spent the better part of an hour walking the garden— they left the maze, so as not to be caught in a private space together, alone. Eliza talked all about living in twenty-first-century Virginia. Well, not all; even if she’d had the time, she didn’t want to overwhelm him. But she picked things she thought might interest a speed-loving duke: cars, airplanes, computers, the Internet, cell phones. To his credit, Deveric didn’t bolt, but instead listened with avid interest, peppering her with questions, his eyes burning with intellectual curiosity in the midst of his doubt. She answered as best she could, certain she was getting the technological details wrong.
At one point, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, her teeth chattering. She should have accepted Amara’s blasted cap. At least her ears might not be half so frozen if she had.
He immediately apologized for not thinking of her comfort. “We should return to the house. Mother is likely fretting over where I am, as I’m to lead the men in the hunt this afternoon.”
“You could skip it.” She was loath to end her time with him, no matter how cold she was.
“Skip?” he said, a corner of his mouth turning up. “One does not skip about during a hunt. The horses would not comply.”
“That’s not what I meant. Wow, it’s hard to know which expressions are in use by now, and which yet to come.”
“You likely have much to learn about my time, as I do about yours.”
“So you believe me, then?” she asked, her heart pounding.
“I am not certain yet. However, these machines of which you speak, these jets and space-ships and cars—they fascinate me. I want to hear more.”
“Such a man.” She rolled her eyes. A second later, she stopped in her steps, unlinking her arm from his. “Wait. I can prove it to you. I can show you my phone! Why didn’t I think of that immediately?”
“Phone? Oh, the talking device you described?”
“Yes! I have pictures on it—of Cat and me and the bookstore, but also of our trip to the Air and Space Museum in D.C.! And maybe more.” She clapped her hands, hopping up and down. “I’ll go get it!”
She turned to run into the house, as they’d reached the back portico, but Deveric pulled at her arm. “As much as I’d like to see this ... phone, I’m still waiting for you to explain what I have to do with all of this.”
Eliza stumbled at his words, the ones she’d dreaded. He’d been so patient, listening quietly as she’d told her wild tale. He hadn’t fled or clapped her in chains to haul her off to the madhouse. But how on earth was she to explain that he’d been created for her? That he hadn’t existed until her friend Cat had willed him into existence for her—Eliza James.
She worried her bottom lip. Perhaps it was more complex than that. Maybe Cat just managed to match people together somehow, rather than truly creating them? When Cat had given Grayson a sister, she’d suddenly appeared—but maybe that sister had existed somewhere else? Or maybe it worked differently with the past, rather than the present—incorporating real people, rather than fantasies?
Eliza’s head throbbed, angry echoes of the stress and confusion inundating her, and she clasped her hand to her temples. Deveric remained silent, waiting for her answer. One of the portico’s doors sprung open and Becca came skipping out, her eyes sparkling and cheeks ruddy.
“You must have enjoyed your riding.” Deveric’s eyes softened as he looked at his sister. Eliza liked how much his fondness for her showed.
“Oh, yes. Thank you so much for Otto. He is simply the best horse ever!” Becca flicked an errant strand of curls back from her forehead before turning to Eliza with a wide grin. “Would you like to meet him?”
Not exactly. Horses always sounded romantic from a
distance, but up close, they terrified her. But she’d do anything at the moment to get away from Deveric’s overly inquisitive stare.
“Yes, that would be great.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “Surely you don’t mind, De—I mean, Your Grace. I’ve monopolized your attention for long enough.”
He gave her a wry smile, bowing before arching that infernal eyebrow again. Clearly, he knew her motive but was willing to let her flee for now.
Becca clapped with glee. “Oh, you’re going to love him, Eliza—I mean, Mrs. James!”
“Please, call me Eliza, if you would; Mrs. James makes me feel so old.”
“I suppose Christian names are appropriate,” said Deveric. “After all, we are family—are we not?” He gave a short bow to Eliza. “I shall be waiting to finish our ... business.” With a meaningful glance, Deveric walked into the house. He did not look back.
Twice. Twice in the space of twenty-four hours he’d kissed that woman. And it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. What was this powerful energy between them? Did she feel it as much as he? Or was he imagining her responses to be as ardent as his own, because he wished them to be?
He stalked his way to the kitchens, his stomach rumbling. He was grateful not to encounter anyone; he didn’t want to have to go through polite niceties when his mind was overloaded to the point of collapse.
That he’d sunk to accusing her of witchcraft mortified him. He was a man of science, a man of logic. Others may believe in sorcery. He did not.
Though given all she’d told him after that second kiss, perhaps he should. Surely the tales she told couldn’t possibly be the truth. And yet, she spoke with such conviction, so matter-of-factly, it was hard to believe she could create such fiction from her head. He’d pressed for more details a number of times, asked varied questions, challenged points, all in an effort to trip her up, and yet her descriptions remained consistent, her voice confident, her attitude very nearly relaxed as she talked about satellites and a box with moving pictures—tele-vision, she’d called it—and something called a Ferrari. She’d assured him he would like one of those very much, as it could travel speeds in excess of one hundred miles per hour.
He grabbed a roll out of a basket on the sideboard, giving the cook a brisk nod as he exited, making his way back to the lawn to gather the men for the hunt.
His head ached, as much with desire as with confusion. Befuddling, maddening, and, yes, sexually bewitching—such were words to describe Eliza James. Also, intelligent, loving, loyal—he’d seen from her tone how much she loved this Cat. Yes, Eliza was a woman of great depth of feeling, emotions dancing across her face whenever she spoke.
It was refreshing, that, to see someone so open, so engaged with the world and the people around her. It was so different from most females of his acquaintance, women who modulated and modified everything they said and did until it seemed there was little left to them that wasn’t artifice. It was so different from Mirabelle, from his mother.
Was it any wonder he couldn’t resist her?
But he had to. For her sake. And for his.
As they neared the stables, Eliza’s anxiety rose. Did horses bite? She hoped not. Becca chattered at her side, talking about Otto and Charlemagne and Henry and Charles, obviously referencing horses, not medieval rulers. Eliza pasted a smile on her face as Becca pulled open the door to the stables. The stable hand inside tipped his hat to the girl in casual familiarity.
“Back again, Lady Rebecca?” he asked.
“Of course. I would stay all day if I could.”
He looked briefly at Eliza and then cast his eyes down to the ground. “My lady,” he said, pulling the hat off his head.
“Hi!” she answered brightly in an effort to put him—and herself—at ease. One of the horses in a neighboring stall nickered, and Eliza jumped.
Becca laughed. “You act as if you’ve never seen a horse before!”
“Oh, I’ve seen them.” On television, at least. “I just wasn’t expecting one to talk to me.”
“That’s Otto—once he sees me he won’t leave off until I give him a treat.” Becca fished an apple out of the small bag hanging off her right wrist and handed it to the horse, which chomped on it with glee. I swear that horse is smiling at her.
Eliza eyed Otto, her stomach dancing with nerves. Up close, a horse was quite massive. And smelly. She wrinkled her nose.
“Sorry, my lady,” the stable hand offered. He must have noted her reaction. “I was getting ready to muck out the stables again.” He grabbed a shovel and headed to the back of a neighboring stall.
“How do you stand the smell?” she asked Becca, who was petting the horse’s nose fondly.
Becca shrugged. “I’m around the horses so much I hardly notice it anymore. Besides, it’s only bad in here. Out in the meadows, all you smell is the grass and the air. There’s nothing like it, riding out on your best friend, exploring the forest and galloping across the dales.” She sighed, fingering the horse’s mane.
Eliza grinned. She liked this Becca Mattersley, liked her openness and friendliness and willingness to show her passion for horses to the world. Much better than the dowager’s uptight, closed-off demeanor ... not to mention Deveric himself.
Except his lips moving over yours were hardly reserved— they tried to suck your mouth right off, girlie.
Eliza’s cheeks flooded with heat at the memory. Becca didn’t notice, thank goodness; she was busy feeding the horse another apple. “Here, would you like to give him one?” she said, handing a small red apple to Eliza.
Eliza scrunched up her mouth. “Will he bite me?”
“No, you goose. Just hold it out flat in your hand.” She clapped her fingers over her mouth for a second. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you a goose. Mama says I often speak without thinking. It’s what I call Emmeline, and, well, it slipped out.”
“I’m flattered you would address me as you do your sister,” Eliza said with a rush of feeling. “I do hope we can become friends.”
Becca gave the horse a final pat. “I hope so, too. You seem more fun than most of the women I know. Even if you are terrified of horses.” She linked her arm in Eliza’s. “We shall have to remedy that.”
“I don’t know if terrified is the right word,” Eliza protested. “More like ... unaccustomed.” She could learn to ride, right? Of all the things that could intimidate her in this century, a horse shouldn’t be one of them.
“Not for long.” Becca turned away from Otto, reluctance emanating from every part of her. “We must return to the house now. Mother has requested I help entertain our female guests this afternoon. Not that they want to do much beyond walk the rooms and talk about men. As if there weren’t things in the world infinitely more exciting.” She sighed, sounding so forlorn that Eliza nearly burst out laughing.
Together, they exited the stables.
Eliza’s mind boggled again at the grandeur of the huge house as they approached it. She could hardly believe this was a family home, rather than a fancy museum or a hotel.
Men and women milled about on the back lawn, grouped according to gender and not interacting all that much, though occasionally some of the women cast flirtatious glances toward the men. One young, fashionably dressed gentleman winked at a darling little brunette who looked all of sixteen. The girl turned away, flushing, but by the way she raised her hand to her mouth and glanced back at him, it was clear she was interested. Evidently flirting methods hadn’t changed that much in two hundred years.
“Oh good, the men are about to leave for the hunt. At least we will not have to listen to odious conversation about how many poor animals they plan to kill.” Becca’s nose wrinkled as she said the words.
Grace pulled away from a small group of women and walked over to Becca and Eliza. “Mother has been looking for you, sister. She and Amara need help setting up the scenery for the play.”
Becca’s eyebrows wrinkled. “A servant cannot aid them?”
&nbs
p; “She also wishes you to run your lines. You know how forgetful you are.”
Becca let out an exasperated harrumph. “I am not forgetful. I’m merely more interested in other things.”
Grace gave her a soft smile. “You are right in that, Becca.” She looked over at Eliza. “Would you like to come? We are practicing The Sailor’s Daughter. Our performance is tomorrow night, at the end of the house party.”
Becca crossed her arms. “I’d rather do one of your plays, Grace. They are so much better than the ones Amara chooses.”
Grace’s cheeks colored. A writer as well as a reader. Cat would like her.
“If it’s all right with you, actually, I’d like to rest for a bit,” Eliza said. “I’m quite tired from my ... travels.”
“Quite understandable, Mrs. James. I find traveling exhausting, as well,” said Grace. “I will have Sally show you to your room.”
Eliza wanted to protest she didn’t need a servant, uncomfortable with the idea of stopping someone else from what they were doing simply to help her, but in truth, she wasn’t sure how to get to the chamber in which she’d slept last night. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”
She shot a quick glance toward the men to find Deveric, to see what he was doing. He stood amidst a group of men who were talking animatedly, but he was staring at her, his face intense. Noting her look, he put his fingers to the brim of his hat and gave a crisp nod.
Shivers raced up her spine. She felt almost his prey. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
Chapter 12
Deveric pretended to listen to Arthington prattling on about an ancient sword he’d acquired, but in truth, his attention was on the woman who’d just disappeared into Clarehaven.
His mind swam. The machines she described piqued his curiosity, he had to admit. He’d long admired Watt and Boulton’s steam engines, had read with interest of Robert Fulton’s steam-powered boat, and had seen Richard Trevithick’s London Steam Carriage in person. The machines appearing with increasing frequency in the cotton factories in the north operated on steam power—inciting riots by workers angry at being replaced by machinery. “The Luddite Rebellion,” Eliza had said, nodding her head when he’d mentioned that to her. Eliza had talked of railroads, advising him to invest in those, of automobiles and even vehicles in the sky. Airplanes, she’d called them. He’d seen hot air balloons in Paris, but these were different; enclosed, capable of unheard of speeds. According to her, man had even landed on the moon. The moon.
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