The Magic of Love Series

by Margaret Locke

  “No!” Eliza’s face sizzled, her thoughts on the passionate kiss she’d shared with Deveric in the garden. Make that kisses. “I will only follow my heart, and if it doesn’t lead to true, reciprocal love, then, well, I don’t know. But I assure you, I am not after your family’s money.”

  “But you are penniless, correct?”

  Eliza’s eyes stung with tears, though she was glad Amara was so protective of her brother, of the Mattersley family; loyalty was a quality she admired. She couldn’t fault Amara her accusations, either. Wouldn’t Eliza think the same thing of a strange woman showing up in a rich man’s household?

  “Not exactly,” she said. “I have a few jewels and gold I managed to bring with me in my dress. But you’re right; it’s probably not enough to live on long-term. That’s why I offered to serve as Fred—Harrington’s governess—to earn my keep here.”

  Amara’s shoulders relaxed. After a moment, her eyes softened. “I must apologize, Mrs. James. I tend to expect the worst in people.”

  Eliza didn’t respond, her emotions awhirl from Amara’s accusations and her uncertainty over her own future.

  “I have seen how you look at him, though,” Amara said. “There is something you must know. Even if my brother were to remarry, he would never marry a governess. Nor an American cousin, for that matter. It’s not fitting for a man of his station.” She tapped her fingers to her lips. “But in truth, none of those things matter. Deveric has sworn never to marry again.”

  Chapter 17

  Amara’s words knocked the wind out of Eliza. Never marry again? Never consider her? Was this too big a social gulf to bridge?

  She hadn’t fully taken that into account, though she should have, of course. Cinderella went from rags to riches, but that story was notable exactly because it rarely, if ever, happened. Just like the multiple tales of marquesses with maids, earls with vicars’ daughters, and dukes with governesses in Eliza’s romance novels. They were fantasy. Fiction. Fiction that allowed Average Janes like her to believe, if only for a few hundred pages, they, too, could land a man of wealth, power ... and impossibly good looks. Like Deveric.

  Perhaps she should have asked Cat to write in a title for her, make her a duchess in her own right, or something. Except that wouldn’t have worked—through trial and error, they’d deduced Cat could only bring fictional people to life; changing existing people wasn’t possible. Curse me and my impulsive nature, leaping from frying pan after frying pan into the fire.

  Despair settled on her shoulders like an unwelcome yoke. She swallowed, hard.

  Empathy shone in Amara’s eyes. “Believe me, as you now know, I understand what it is like to be in an impossible situation. To have feelings, even in such a short time, for someone that can never be.”

  Tears pricked Eliza’s eyelids, but she refused to let them fall. Amara was not the master of her fate. She was. Just because Amara said Deveric would never remarry did not necessarily mean it was true. She squared her shoulders, willing her confidence back. Besides, Amara did not know of Eliza’s secret, of Cat’s story, of the power of Deveric’s and her connection.

  And I will never tell her. Or Deveric. He may perhaps accept my time-travel tale, but to reveal he himself was a fictional creation? Not in a million years. Besides, he was one hundred percent real now. As was the rest of his family. It is no different than if we had met in some regular way.

  She fought back a painful snort. Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, girlie. Still, there was hope. Cat’s story brought her hope—as did its promise that anything that did develop between Deveric and Eliza would be by choice.

  “May I ask you something?” Amara’s voice was gentle.

  Eliza nodded, optimistic determination warring with misery.

  “You said you’ve been a widow for ten years. May I ask what happened?”

  The last thing Eliza wanted to do was talk about Greg, not with Deveric so heavy on her mind. But Amara had been honest with her; Dev’s sister deserved the same in return. “He was my childhood sweetheart; our parents were friends. We were married only a few months before I lost him.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Trying to save others during an attack.” Her mind raced unwillingly to that day and the horror of the Twin Towers.

  “Commendable. A military man?”

  “Yes,” Eliza whispered. She didn’t like to think of it, of the what-ifs. What if he hadn’t been visiting his brother? What if he’d gotten out, instead of staying to help others? What if?

  “I am sorry. Truly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Amara walked back to Eliza. “Come,” she said.

  Eliza stood up, unsure what Dev’s sister wanted, but Amara merely hooked her arm through Eliza’s, pulling her into a stroll about the room. “As a widow, you have more freedom. If you want to dally with my brother—”

  “—I don’t want to ‘dally’ with anyone.” Eliza’s voice was sharp.

  “Forgive me. I did not mean to disparage your character. Whereas you came to my defense upon learning of my indiscretion, I did not give you the same benefit of the doubt, and now I stand guilty of assuming you would commit improprieties. Not all are like me, I suppose.” Amara gave a self-deprecating snort. “Let us begin again if you are willing. I should also like a friend. Few people beyond my family have kept up connections with me.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous.” She patted Amara’s arm, the one hooked through her own. “I firmly believe you committed no improprieties, Lady Amara. You were with the man you loved. There is nothing wrong with that. It is he who committed improprieties, and worse, against you.”

  Amara’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “In truth,” she said, “I would like to see my brother happy. He has closed himself off for so long, though at least his retreat was his own choice.” She broke off. “What is it about you, Mrs. Eliza James? It’s as if I’ve known you forever, as if we were destined to be friends, and it’s only been two days. If I’m not careful, I will have spilled all of the family secrets to you within the space of an hour.”

  Warmth flooded Eliza’s veins. “I feel the same way. I’m glad you can talk to me. I’ve been lonely.” She may only have been gone from 2012 and her friend Cat for a few days, but it felt much, much longer than that. Two hundred years longer.

  “Come, let’s retire to our rooms,” Amara said, formal demeanor back as she released Eliza’s arm. “It’s time to dress for dinner.”

  “Um, okay.” Eliza had been hoping for another nap—the events of the last few hours, the last few days, of switching centuries—were getting to her. “But I’m not sure I know how to find my room again.”

  Amara led her down a corridor. “It is rather a maze, is it not? Clarehaven is not my favorite of the family homes for that reason; too many past dukes have added on too many rooms over the centuries. I myself have got lost many a time.”

  “Homes?” Eliza gulped.

  “Yes, of course. We have an estate in Yorkshire, as well as here. Claremont owns a townhouse on St James’s Square for when he’s in London. The family has a separate space near Grosvenor—a place for the women to stay while in Town. Deveric does not care for the social chaos when we are all in residence at once.”

  “Good Lord,” was all Eliza could think to say. Her parents had proudly bought a house when she was a child, but it’d been a small one, perhaps the size of the ballroom and her chamber here combined. Cat had shared her small apartment above the bookstore. Eliza loved it and was grateful to call it home, but she didn’t own it.

  It was one thing to wander through this majestic house as if a tourist. It was quite another to imagine it as a regular home. Was there a room somewhere where the family could let their hair down and relax? Everything to this point was exceedingly formal. It exhausted her.

  As she watched a maid exit a room and skitter down the hallway, a thought hit her again. A duchess was expected to competently run a household of this size—or several househol
ds, as Amara had just said. How could she ever hope to do so? How could she ever learn all the rules, the ins and— No! Stop that! Whatever comes your way, you can handle it, Eliza Anne James. Doubt and fear never helped anything, and neither would succumbing to them now. Start as you mean to go on. And she meant to go on with confidence.

  “I expect we’ll journey back to London in the next week or so for the Season,” Amara commented as they strolled down yet another hallway. Did this house never end? “Although I suppose you will remain here if you are to tutor Frederick.”

  Freddy got left behind? Eliza shouldn’t be surprised; she knew many a wealthy, noble family sent their children elsewhere for education in this era. Still, sadness swept through her at the thought of the little boy alone in this huge house. Servants were no substitute for family.

  Where did he play? Did he get to play? Were there other children around for him to associate with? If there weren’t, he must be dreadfully lonely. Perhaps he and I do have something in common. Eliza knew what it was like to be the only child of busy parents.

  She couldn’t resist asking. “Does he have anyone to play with?”

  Amara paused. “In truth, I don’t know how he spends his days. I hadn’t thought of it, really.”

  “He’s your nephew!” Oops. Way to solidify a friendship, Lizzie—by chewing someone out.

  Amara’s cheeks pinked. “Yes, but I haven’t much of an affinity for children. I don’t think I’d like to be a mother. Though I suppose if I ever were to marry, it would be expected of me.”

  “Perhaps that’s why you haven’t.”

  “What?”

  “Perhaps that’s why you haven’t married. Easier not to have children if you don’t have a husband,” Eliza said. “Though I guess that’s not a guarantee against pregnancy.”

  Amara flushed. “Are you suggesting ... ? I have never, not since Drake. People think, but ...”

  “No, no, I was not referring to you specifically. I’m sorry!”

  Amara waved a dismissive hand. “In truth, I have considered it.” She grimaced. “I cannot believe I admitted that.” A heavy sigh escaped her. “I am tired. Tired of waiting, tired of behaving. I have spent years being on my best behavior after Evers, but it doesn’t matter. I’m twenty-seven years old. Am I to have no fun in my life because of a mistake made long ago?”

  “I certainly hope not. I mean, I certainly hope you are.”

  Amara gave her a tender smile, her eyes moistening.

  She wasn’t Cat, but it was a start.

  “Here you are.” Amara stopped in front of a chamber. “I’m still surprised he put you in this room.” Her eyes swept across to the chamber door on the other side.

  “He said all other rooms were full.”

  “Perhaps. But he could have put you in with one of us—Emmeline or Becca or me.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to burden you like that.”

  Amara said nothing, looking back and forth between the two sets of doors. “Be careful,” she finally said. “I wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of you. Not even my brother.”

  “Ha, I should be so lucky,” Eliza muttered, then clapped her hand over her mouth at realizing she’d said that out loud.

  Amara burst out laughing. “Oh, I like you, Mrs. Eliza James. I like you, indeed.” She swept an errant curl away from her forehead. “Not that I should worry. As far as I know, Deveric has lived as a monk these last few years. Perhaps we are just not passionate people.”

  “Ha! I don’t think so. I saw you with Hodgins, remember? You weren’t exactly having a bad time.”

  “And I have found you alone with my brother, not once, but twice. We are not so unalike, perhaps. But do mark my words, Eliza. Be glad it was I who stumbled upon you. Widow or not, being caught in a compromising position with Deveric would not end well for you, especially if my mother heard of it.”

  “Duly noted,” Eliza said as she opened the door to her room. Heaviness and doubt struck her anew at the reminder once again of the challenge she faced. Half of her was convinced she could pull this off, that the fairytale Cat had drafted for her could come true. The other half wondered if she were insane, expecting a man of Deveric’s status to ever truly consider her as wifely material. Deveric’s responses to her attested to his attraction—thank God. But was that enough? She’d be nobody’s mistress, not even Deveric’s, as wildly attracted to him as she was. This was an all or nothing deal—his whole heart, or nothing at all.

  “Thank you,” Amara added.

  “For what?”

  “For your unexpected kindness and understanding. And for one of the most entertaining afternoons I’ve had in years.”

  Chapter 18

  Deveric was breathing hard by the time he and Lightning returned to the stables. It hadn’t been enough to race Lightning to the brink of his capabilities; at one point, when he’d realized the horse was tiring, he’d leapt down and run as hard as he could through the woods, pushing his legs almost past their endurance. It had felt exquisite to pound it out, the confusion, the anger, the desire, the yearning ...

  It was strange to feel that much at all. Over the years, he’d polished his days and his interactions to avoid emotion. Such was expected of a man of his position, but beyond that, it felt safe, it felt good, it felt necessary to keep everything contained, regimented, tucked away. Avoiding pain was so much better than experiencing it. A Claremont retains control over emotions at all times.

  Then again, as Emerlin had pointed out one evening last month over cards, locking out emotion to block out pain also meant locking out pleasure.

  “I find pleasure enough in cards, in horses, in passing time here with you fine fellows,” Deveric had said, gesturing around the room at White’s.

  “Shallow pleasures, perhaps.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “I hope so.” Emerlin’s blue eyes had locked with his over the table. “Surely this can’t be all there is.”

  “Oh, ho, ho,” Arthington chortled. “Do tell, Em. Have you figured out the meaning of life?”

  Emerlin glared at them both. “Weren’t you urging him to stop avoiding life not five minutes ago?”

  “What I meant was, he should seek out pleasure. No doubt the fine ladies at the White House could draw him out of his shell.” Arthington waggled his eyebrows in comedic fashion, wrenching a slight grin from Dev.

  Emerlin threw down his cards in disgust.

  “What? Don’t tell me you, too, have forgone the divine pleasures of the flesh?”

  Em’s cheek quirked up in a devilish grin, those dimples out in full force. “You know me too well for that, friend.” He looked over at Deveric. “I just meant, I hope there is a grander plan to life, a destiny, if you will, awaiting me. I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m getting bored.”

  “Bored?” Deveric sipped from his brandy. “Perhaps we should head to Tattersall’s tomorrow and pick out a new racer for you. A filly of that type always pleases me.”

  “Not that kind of bored. It’s as if ... as if ...”

  “Something’s missing?” Arthington’s face grew serious.

  “Yes. I just don’t know what.”

  Arth’s words had hit Dev like a blow to the gut. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, the emptiness that had overtaken him. Days felt routine, nights endless. He enjoyed Freddy, of course, but sometimes the boy reminded Dev too much of all he had lost, all the suffering he had caused, and Deveric had to shut it off. To avoid.

  Guilt ate at him for how little time he had spent with Frederick of late. He’d once sworn not to be like his father, to always openly show his love for his children, despite what anyone else might think. Before he’d realized how destructive love could be, at least. Or not love, perhaps—he hadn’t loved Mirabelle, not in the way a husband ought to love a wife.

  Connection. That’s what led to destruction. Had he not sought, had he not needed physical connection with someone, Mirabelle would still be alive. And Louisa neve
r would have died.

  Yes, better to remain with friends and avoid that kind of intimacy altogether. Love hurt. Loss was excruciating.

  And yet ... was this all there was? He’d studied his brandy, desperate to keep his friends from noticing his sudden somberness. He didn’t need more questions.

  “Me either.” Arthington had taken up his cards again, shaking off the intense moment with a toothy grin. “Unless it’s a blonde chit with big, you know, brains.” They all knew of Arthington’s fondness for well-endowed, flaxen-haired women.

  “You wait,” said Deveric, grateful as always for Arthington’s light-heartedness. “’Twill be a brunette, a flat-chested one, who’ll snare you someday.”

  “The horror!”

  The men had chortled and continued on with the game. Several rounds of brandy ensured no other maudlin conversation made an appearance that night.

  Thinking of big-bosomed blondes brought one in particular to mind now. As he removed the bit and bridle from Lightning’s mouth and handed the reins to a stable hand, his mind roamed freely over one American widow’s body. If only his hands were roaming, too. Cool down, Dev, or walking is going to become quite difficult.

  After the stable hand removed the saddle, Deveric checked Lightning’s hooves for stones, and then took up the grooming brush, pulling it in long, even strokes over Lightning’s sweaty sides. The stable hand could have done it, of course, but Deveric always enjoyed the task. It was only fitting he give back to his faithful horse, Lightning, who always gave his best for Deveric.

  If only his wife had done the same. Mirabelle had preferred to leave him alone so as not to disturb him, she’d said. He’d known, however, what she hoped was that he not disturb her. Connection was not something she had needed—at least not with him.

  Some had urged him to take on a mistress, find love elsewhere. Many men of his station did, of course. But he’d seen how his mother had suffered over Samuel Mattersley’s public indiscretions, had heard her weeping and railing at his father’s portrait in his absence. Deveric had sworn never to do that to a woman.