The Magic of Love Series

by Margaret Locke

  If one could fly through the sky, if people could travel into space, was it possible, remotely possible, a person could move through time itself?

  He shook his head, which still ached from last night’s overindulgence. Or perhaps from everything he’d heard.

  She’d told him so many things, so much that sounded impossibly fantastical, and yet she had spoken with confidence, no doubt or subterfuge evident in her demeanor. Either she was telling the truth, or she was a master liar worthy of the Regent’s special service.

  Either way, she aroused something in him he didn’t want to acknowledge. Curiosity. Fascination. Desire. Fear.

  “The dogs are ready, Your Grace,” broke in the Master of the Hunt from his right. Deveric forced himself back to the task at hand. He had duties here in the nineteenth century. Eliza James, and her magical ‘phone,’ would have to wait.

  After a delightful snooze snuggled under as many blankets as she could find in the room, Eliza rose, glad to be alone and able to explore without eyes upon her. She picked up items—a book, quill pen, comb—and inspected them closely, marveling at the workmanship. One couldn’t find items of that quality at a Walmart, for sure. She ran her fingers along the wooden posts of the bed, admiring the intricate carvings and solid feel of the thing. Every piece of furniture in here was of top quality: no pasteboard or partial veneers in this era.

  Spying herself in the dressing table mirror, she attempted to adjust her hair, which her nap had mussed, before crossing to the armoire. She might as well secure away the rest of her jewelry.

  From outside the room, she heard a giggle, then the pattering of feet running down the hallway. The door to the chamber flew open, and a small, reddish-haired boy ran in, breathless and laughing, as a large dog almost the same size as the boy followed him, bouncing up and trying to lick his face.

  “Lord Harrington!” cried an exasperated voice. “What would your father say? You should be abed. The fever has only been gone a day. Such exertion is not good for your lungs.”

  Ah. So this is Deveric’s son.

  Eliza studied the boy, whose face paled as a whale of a woman pushed her way into the room. Clad entirely in black, with buttons that strained across her front, she regarded the child with an expression so stern, Eliza felt as if she herself should bow her head and apologize.

  The boy, however, straightened his shoulders and answered her calmly. “I’m tired of being in bed, and Racer wanted to play.”

  The dog, a big, funny-looking brown thing with curly hair, turned and looked at the grouchy servant, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, his ears up as if he wanted to make amends.

  The nurse’s face purpled. “I’ll box that dog’s ears if I catch you behaving in such a fashion again, I will! He ought not to be in the house as it is, the dirty creature.”

  The boy threw his arms around the dog and squeezed it. “He will behave, Nurse Pritchett. I promise he will. I will, too.”

  “See that you do. You know His Grace doesn’t like disturbances, and a boy and a dog are prone to creating just that.” She shook her head as she turned, catching a glimpse of Eliza, who stood in the corner, observing these events with amusement. Kids weren’t so different in this century, apparently.

  The nurse flushed and her face slackened. “I’m sorry we bothered you, my lady. I had no idea ... no one has been in this chamber for so long.” She ran over to the dog and pushed on it to move. Her efforts didn’t seem to faze the canine; he stood up and slowly padded his way out of the room. “Come, my lord,” the nurse said. “We oughtn’t to be disturbing this lady.”

  “Who are you?” the boy demanded, eyeing Eliza with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval etched across his small, handsome face.

  “Lord Harrington!” exclaimed the nurse, visibly more frazzled by the second. “That is no way to address an adult, much less a lady.”

  “But I want to know who she is!” He plopped his hands on his hips and jutted out his chin. “And I want to know why she is in Mother’s chamber!”

  Sympathy flooded through Eliza for such a small child willing to face down that hulk of a nursemaid to know who was in his mother’s place.

  As he lifted an eyebrow and growled, “I demand to know who you are and by what right you are in the duchess’s chamber,” the sympathy dissipated.

  He was his father’s child, all right, already used to high-handed ways of behaving. Could she blame him? He’d been raised since birth to believe himself deserving of all sorts of things, given that he was the heir to a dukedom. Modern kids, who often annoyed her with their senses of entitlement, could learn a thing or two from this one.

  Crouching down in front of him, she looked him directly in the eyes, eyes a lighter shade of green than his father’s. His reflected doubt mingled with angry curiosity.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you by being here. I’m your cousin Eliza, from America.” She stuck her hand out so that he could shake it. He crossed his arms, giving her an uncertain glance. “And you are?”

  The nurse looked back and forth between the two of them, seemingly unsure of what to do. “Lord Harrington, His Grace’s son,” she said to Eliza.

  “Ah. A pleasure to meet you. Your daddy put me in this room.” Eliza moved her hand back to her side, curbing the impulse to hug him. She wanted to reassure the boy, such a mix of haughty arrogance and uncertainty. She knew what it was like to put on a brave face; she’d been doing it since she arrived.

  “My father never puts people in this room,” he insisted. How was it he was managing to look down his nose at her when he was shorter than she was? “It’s Mother’s room.”

  He looked to the nursemaid for assistance, once more the unsure child.

  The nurse’s face softened. Maybe she loved the boy, for all her chastisements a few moments before.

  “I’m sure the chamber is only being used because all other rooms are full,” Nurse Pritchett said. “And it’s not for you to question the decisions of your father.” She crossed the room, taking the boy by the hand. “My apologies again, my lady,” she said to Eliza as she led him toward the door.

  “It’s quite all right,” Eliza said. “It was a pleasure meeting you and Racer. I love dogs.”

  He gave her a crisp nod before marching proudly out, his nurse behind him.

  Eliza crossed to the doorway, watching his small form disappear down the hall. “A regular little prince. Great. Now I have two men to win over.”

  She lay back down on the bed, reluctant to face the people below. Had it really been such a short time ago that she was standing in the Treasure Trove, talking with Cat about this impossible dream? Now here she was, and yet she was less sure than ever. Deveric had responded better than she’d anticipated to her discussions of the future—meaning he hadn’t immediately tossed her out on her ear—but he still wanted answers, still wanted to know why she was here, at Clarehaven, with him, as opposed to somewhere else. She’d have to think up an answer. Nobody wanted to hear they were a figment of someone else’s imagination, a fictional hero brought to life. He didn’t need to know that, either.

  If only it were as easy as waltzing one time at a ball, and falling instantly in love. Cinderella didn’t know how good she’d had it. She’d won over her prince with one look. The tale said nothing about Prince Charming having a suspicious mother or a handful of sisters. Much less a recalcitrant son.

  Cinderella may have occupied the bottom rung in the world in which she lived, but at least she’d been familiar with all the rules, had known the ins and outs way better than Eliza did, no matter how much she’d thought she’d known before coming here.

  Eliza sighed. She’d always liked Belle better, anyway. Belle hadn’t given a fig for what society thought, and ended up with that amazing library of books. After taming the Beast, of course. Ah, the Beast. He hadn’t really been a beast at all, just a wounded man looking for love ... and acceptance. Okay, maybe he had been beastly, at first, in human form; but it was Belle’s l
ove that had transformed him, had healed him, had accepted him, and allowed him to open his heart again.

  Cat had known Beauty and the Beast was Eliza’s favorite story; had she been thinking of that when she’d drafted Deveric’s tale? Was Eliza Belle, Deveric her wounded Beast? And Regency society the mob of angry townspeople she needed to appease?

  Eliza touched her lips, relishing the memory of Deveric’s mouth on hers. Prince Charming, a Beast, or just plain old human, she liked him. She liked how he interacted with his sisters, the obvious affection he showed them. She liked how he treated his mother respectfully, but was no mama’s boy. She liked his intelligence, readily on display as he’d drilled her about the machines she’d described to him in the garden. Yes, she liked Deveric Mattersley.

  A hint of guilt nibbled at her conscience. She still felt a little as if she were betraying Greg any time she showed interest in another man, even ten years later, even now, after she’d wished for exactly that. Eliza had pledged her love and fidelity to Greg. They’d only been married three months, and they’d been so young, but she’d taken her vows seriously.

  Not that she’d lost interest in men; far from it. It’d just become easier to admire them from afar, to make them fantasies, to make them like the heroes in her romance novels—unreal. Unattainable. It was safer emotionally, safer physically, safer all the way around.

  Yet here she was. In like with a man she could see herself in love with, a man she wanted to fall in love with. But love brought complications. Love brought intimacy—physical and emotional. Love brought the possibility of hurt, of loss.

  Eliza thought she was ready, but was she? It was one thing to moon over someone like Deveric on a surface level. It was quite another to actively build a relationship with him, to open herself to him, to reveal to him who she was, flaws and all—and to be willing to accept him for who he was, as well.

  “Good Lord, girl. Cart before the horse, much?” she muttered as she pushed herself up off the bed and paced the room. Liking him was a solid start. The rest, if it came, would take time.

  She walked to the closet and pulled out the lockbox. Retrieving her phone, she cradled it in her hand. She turned it on, needing to see Cat’s face. At the selfie of them in their Regency garb, laughing as they tried to fit themselves and their dresses into the picture, tears slipped down Eliza’s face. She touched her finger to the screen, to Cat, then turned the phone off again. She was grateful she’d sprung for the backup battery case, but even so, the phone would eventually run out of power. She needed to conserve it as much as possible so that she could show everything to Dev, but more than that, she wanted to be able to look back at her past every once in a while, to see her friend.

  Once the phone was completely dead, she guessed she’d have to destroy it—too risky to keep it around forever. Or—could she hide it? Maybe take a few pictures here, and somehow get it back to Cat in 2012? Would the phone even make it that long? Perhaps its innards would corrode over the two-hundred-year span separating her from Cat.

  With a sigh, she tucked the treasured phone back into the lockbox and stashed the box away before collapsing on the bed again.

  She’d been kidding herself into thinking this wouldn’t be so bad. Cat had warned her, but Eliza hadn’t wanted to listen. Cat was right. Traveling to a foreign country was often disorienting enough, traveling to a foreign time was another thing entirely. She thought she’d read enough to know what life was like here, but she was wrong. For one thing, romances never mentioned bathroom issues, or how deucedly uncomfortable wool could be. Romances didn’t focus on feeling cold, or weird foods, or servant-ducal relationships. Even in Jane Austen’s novels, Eliza had read for the romance, not for the reality.

  And what she wouldn’t give for a good old-fashioned Coke. Old-fashioned, Lizzie? The stuff hasn’t even been invented yet!

  She dropped her arm across her forehead, closing her eyes. She’d been insane. She’d been deluded. How was she ever going to blend in here, much less make a duke fall in love with her?

  Why had she assumed it’d be easier to create a soulmate than to find one in real life? This was real life, and she still had to go through all the effort, all the beginnings, without the promise of the happy-ever-after.

  And she was doing it at a severe disadvantage, considering how much a stranger in a strange land she was. She fingered her dress with her free hand. She was drowning in it, this heavy garment full of nips and tucks and ruffles, layers on layers of fabric, a far cry from her favorite T-shirt and jeans. She understood why the woolen layers were necessary, for although embers glowed in the fireplace from that morning’s fire, the room had taken on a noticeable chill.

  With a sigh, she stood up, smoothing down her dress. Eliza James, you asked for this. This is what you wanted, and you’re not going to find love by hiding in this room. Because that’s what she was doing. Hiding.

  How was she going to pull this off? Even if Deveric eventually accepted her for who she was, how was she going to move in this society with any degree of finesse? Manners, social grace, and social status were crucial in this era, taught from birth, ingrained on one’s consciousness. If she blew it, she faced serious ostracism and loss of social position. Not that she had a position right now. God, she prayed Cat was right that she could return home if she needed to, for she faced a very uncertain future were things not to work out with Deveric, and the escape clause failed.

  There were few options for unmarried women without family in this era, and the relatively respectable ones—milliner, seamstress, cook—Eliza held no qualifications for. She might perhaps pass as a governess or a lady’s companion if push came to shove and opportunities arose. If she really mucked up here, if she couldn’t make it work and the Dowager Dragon dispensed of her, she would be up a creek. Many women in this era had turned to prostitution to survive. Eliza shook her head. She would never—never—be one of them.

  She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, releasing a heavy sigh. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Neither was love. Patience. She needed patience. And a plan.

  And, well, hiding out until tomorrow seemed a good enough start. Facing Deveric’s dragon of a mother, kissing Deveric in the gardens, meeting Deveric’s son ... that was enough for anyone to deal with in one day, right?

  She crawled back into the large bed. Too bad there was no Do Not Disturb sign to hang on the door. Would anyone come looking for her?

  She clutched the covers up to her chin, a wave of loneliness engulfing her. A tear slipped out of her eye, and she wiped it away. No one said this would be easy. But she’d been alone before, for long periods of time. She was strong.

  And, as Scarlett O’Hara had said, tomorrow was another day.

  Chapter 13

  Eliza woke to Betsy laying the fire.

  “Good morning, my lady,” the maid said, her cheerful face warming Eliza’s heart. “I came to check on you last night, but you were fast asleep. I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

  Eliza yawned, stretching her arms. “I feel so much better, Betsy. Traveling really takes it out of a girl.” Especially time-traveling.

  Betsy nodded. “I suppose so. You overslept and missed breakfast, but I brought you a tray. I thought you’d be hungry, having missed dinner.”

  At that, Eliza’s stomach rumbled, and she gratefully took the tray, on which Betsy had piled eggs, a chunk of cheese, toast, and ... wait, was that chocolate? Hot chocolate? Eliza picked up the steaming cup and sipped. Definitely chocolate, but rather bitter. On the other hand, bitter chocolate was better than no chocolate. She sipped again. Not quite the same as the drink from The Grounds, the coffee shop she and Cat frequented, but it would do. It would do, indeed. “Thank you, Betsy. This is heavenly.”

  The maid beamed and bustled about the room, straightening items already straight while Eliza ate. When Eliza had finished, Betsy helped her into a new gown, one quite similar to the one she’d slept in. After securing Eliza’s hair in a simple but elegant-l
ooking style, she curtsied. “I must go help downstairs, my lady. The guests have gathered outside for games. Would you like me to escort you?”

  “No, no. I’d like a few more minutes here if you don’t mind. I can find my way, I’m sure.”

  Refreshed from more than a full night’s sleep, Eliza was ready to face the day—and the people—but figured this was a good time to explore the house and hopefully pick up more clues about the formidable Mr. Mattersley. Oh, excuse me— His Grace, the Duke of Claremont. She wasn’t snooping if she didn’t get into anything, right? She just needed a little time on her own to soak in this Regency experience, to gather her bearings, to ... okay, yeah, to snoop on the duke.

  She wandered from room to room, unnoticed, occasionally glancing out a window at the people gathered on the lawn. Most of the guests, as well as the Mattersley family, were outside, playing badminton. No, wait: it was battledore and shuttlecock, an earlier iteration of badminton. She stopped to watch for a moment, thankful for the time alone; it gave her space to breathe. Besides, exploring Clarehaven was a joy in and of itself. Everything was bright and vibrant, not faded from time, and, unlike in a museum, she could touch things.

  She ran her hands along the silken fabric wallpaper in another parlor, noting the rich yellow colors, the different fabrics of the papers giving the walls a striped appearance. It was higher quality than anything she’d ever seen on modern walls, for sure. Against the back wall sat a small reclining sofa with intricately carved feet. Two long windows let in a great amount of sunlight, warming the room considerably. Eliza ran her fingers over the wooden surface of a small cherry desk in the corner—a writing table, she figured, noting the inkstand at its top end.