Lord Chance carefully maneuvered something onto Eliza’s plate, some sort of meat in a sauce. She poked at it delicately with her fork.
“Not a fan of turtle?”
Eliza’s fingers flew to her mouth. Why couldn’t it have been chicken? She’d never been particularly good at trying new foods, and though she’d read turtle was a Regency delicacy, she was loath to try it.
Lady Parcine broke in. “I do love turtle. It’s so ... succulent in the mouth. Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”
My God, why don’t you just strip off your dress and lie down on the table naked, offering yourself up as Deveric’s next course?
Deveric’s lips flattened into a line. Good. Perhaps he didn’t care for Witchy’s innuendos, either. Taking a quick sip of wine, he answered, “It is quite fine. What do you think, Mrs. James?”
“Um,” Eliza hedged. “It’s not a dish with which I’m familiar from where I come.” She gave Deveric a pointed look.
“Fear not,” Chance said. “If you don’t care for the turtle, we have pigeon, as well.”
Good Lord, what she wouldn’t give for a good old-fashioned pizza. One with ham and pineapple on it. Not ... turtle. Not ... pigeon.
She sighed. At least she might slim down here.
“Is there something, in particular, you would like?” Deveric asked in a soft voice. “I could see if our chef could—”
“—No, no, I’m fine. Really. Please don’t go to any trouble for me.”
Lady Parcine looked from Deveric to her, a slight frown marring the woman’s otherwise beautiful features. Evidently disappointed by whatever she saw, the Witch turned the full force of her grin on Chance, who, upon noticing her sudden attention, dropped a piece of turtle onto his cravat.
Eliza stifled a grin as he attempted to surreptitiously clean himself, all while flashing Lady Parcine his pearly whites. That boy would be a heartbreaker someday. All charm and good looks.
Deveric could use some of his brother’s easy-going nature. He looked far too serious far too often. Of course, it was the intensity of his face that set those butterflies aflutter in her stomach ... and elsewhere.
After several more removes, mostly of foods and meats Eliza didn’t recognize or didn’t care for, her mouth watered when a custard appeared on the table. She dug in with relish, closing her eyes at the smooth feel of the lemon cream on her tongue. Opening her eyes for a second bite, she caught Deveric watching her, his gaze smoldering. He dropped his eyes to her lips for a moment before looking down at his own plate, a muscle ticcing in his jaw.
She looked away, her own cheeks on fire. Did the man have any idea what those emerald eyes did to her?
“Ladies,” Deveric’s mother said, rising from the other end of the table, her voice sharp. “Let us leave the men to their port and cigars.” She shot Eliza a dark glance, pursing her lips.
Great. Just what Eliza needed—a trip to the Dragon’s lair. She’d never return if the dowager had her way, Eliza was sure. “Gentlemen, please join us shortly in the music room for a few pieces before our evening’s entertainment, The Sailor’s Daughter.”
The other women stood up and dutifully followed after Deveric’s mother. Eliza wished she could stay. How was she to get to know Deveric better if the men and women were always separating from each other? She hadn’t even had the chance to show him her phone yet, to prove her claims, and share with him about things to come.
On the other hand, leaving took the pressure off of trying to attract Deveric’s attention while holding off Chance’s. Not that that seemed much of an issue anymore; Chance was staring at Lady Parcine, who was batting her eyelashes right back at him. Lady, my ass. But hey, if that’s what a young buck wanted to chase, at least he knew he had a good chance of catching it.
Entering a room off the dining room, Eliza moved to a corner as Grace proceeded to the small piano in the front. Amara came to stand with Eliza, and together they listened to Grace play a wistful-sounding tune before she turned to a more upbeat number Eliza recognized as a Mozart composition.
“She’s quite good!” Eliza said.
“Yes, she is. Grace has always enjoyed playing more than the rest of us. Not that Mother would let any of us forgo the requisite lessons.”
Another young woman approached the front after Grace had finished her second song, taking a seat at the harp near the piano. She was a brunette with a slightly over-sized nose, but with a pleasing voice. Too bad Eliza had always found the harp a dull instrument, too reminiscent of funeral parlor music to her.
She covered a yawn just as Deveric’s mother made her way over to her, mouth downturned.
Men began filing into the room. As Deveric came through the door, followed by Arthington and Emerlin, the dowager asked, “Do you play, Mrs. James?”
Eliza heard the challenge in her voice. “No, I’m sorry. We did not have a piano in my home.” That was true—her parents never had been very musical. They’d preferred television to radio, which was one reason Eliza had spent lots of time in her room. She’d loved belting out her favorite songs in private, without the TV to distract her.
“I see. Do you play any instrument? The harp, perhaps?”
“Mother, leave her alone. I’ll play if you’d like,” interjected Amara. “Or Emmeline.” She gestured to her sister, who’d joined them.
“Actually,” Eliza found herself saying, desperate to prove she had some sort of the musical ability expected of any Regency lady, “I can sing.”
Emmeline clapped her hands. “Wonderful! I do so love singing.”
“As long as you’re not the one doing it, sister dear,” Amara said. A wry smile from Emmeline affirmed that perhaps that particular ability was not among her talents.
The dowager regarded her. Was that a glimmer of respect in her eyes, because I hadn’t backed down? “Please,” Deveric’s mother said, gesturing toward the front of the room. “Would you like Grace to accompany you?”
“Um, no. I don’t think she’d know this song.” As Eliza made her way forward, she frantically tried to think of something she knew well enough to sing that wouldn’t sound completely out of place and time. She had the sneaking suspicion that Moves Like Jagger or Super Bass wouldn’t cut it. Nor would the ’80s songs she loved, though she longed to break out in some Wham!
Turning around to face the crowd, she took a deep breath. All eyes were on her. Her head swam under the scrutiny, so she closed her own, shutting out everything and everyone. After a small pause, she started to sing Michael Bublé’s Home, the song she and Cat had sung together often the summer Eliza’s parents had died, when both she and Cat were longing for the time before heartache.
The room hushed of all noise as her clear soprano rang out. Eliza hardly noticed—she was lost in the words, lost in the song. Thinking of Cat, a tear slipped down her cheek as she sang.
She’d always loved this Michael Bublé song, loved the beautiful plaintiveness of his voice. She’d sung it who knew how many times, but never had she felt it as much as she did right now, on the spot in front of people two hundred years and a whole culture removed from her.
As the last words drifted away, she opened her eyes to thunderous applause. At some point, Deveric had moved to the front of the room. His eyes locked with hers now, an inscrutable look on his face. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Had he liked it?
“Bravo!” a male voice cried from the back. Several young ladies pleaded with her to sing another. The room fell silent again, however, as Deveric’s mother approached her. After a moment, the Dowager Duchess of Claremont nodded. “Well done, Mrs. James. Well done.”
Eliza smiled broadly. She had a way to go in her battle to win over Deveric’s mother, but at least she’d won this skirmish.
Lady Parcine came forward and settled herself at the piano with a flourish, obviously not pleased at the amount of attention Eliza was receiving. As pleasant notes spread through the room, Amara linked her arm in Eliza’s and pulled her off to
the side, where Grace was standing with that shy, endearing smile.
“Grace wants to compliment you,” Amara whispered. “And it’s always good to leave a gentleman wanting more.” She inclined her head briefly toward her brother.
Eliza peeked at him. Deveric was still staring at her, his mouth tipping down. He gave her one crisp nod before walking back to his friends. What was that about? He seemed upset with her, but Eliza didn’t know why.
After warm congratulations from Grace, Eliza held a hand to her forehead, pleading a headache. Really, she was just hungry and ready for a break. The emotionality of that song had wrung every last bit of energy from her. She slipped out of the room before any of the sisters could stop her. I want to dream of Dunkin’ Donuts and Facebook and ... and Deveric’s lips on mine.
Chapter 21
The knock at her door came late, so quiet Eliza barely heard it. She froze under the blankets. It had to be after midnight. Who could it be?
Stumbling out of bed, she pulled on the heavy robe Betsy had left on a nearby chair, grateful the glowing coals of the fire illuminated the room enough so that she didn’t bonk into anything. Halfway to the door, she realized she probably could have just called, “Come in,” and not had to leave the warmth of the covers. Oh well. Better safe than sorry, since she had no clue who was out there. She cracked the door open a few inches.
Deveric stood before her in his shirtsleeves, his cravat off, hair rumpled, a lit candlestick in one hand.
What on earth? He shouldn’t be there. As he’d said earlier, no man or woman should be in each other’s chambers, especially at night, unless they were man and wife.
“May I come in?” he finally said, his voice slightly slurred.
Eliza stared at him. Was he drunk? “Are you drunk?” Her words echoed her thoughts.
“A gentleman does not get drunk. Mildly foxed, perhaps. But no, I am not.” His gaze danced up and down the hallway. “Please? I should not be here.”
Eliza opened the door wider, and he walked through, steadier on his feet than she expected. “Why are you here?”
“I...” He scanned the room, looking everywhere but toward her. “I don’t know. You. That song. The pain in your voice.”
Eliza swallowed.
“It hurt me to hear it, ‘Liza. I can’t stand the thought of you in pain. And that scares me.”
“Scares you?” Her heart sped up at his words.
“All I bring is pain. To anyone I’ve ever let close. I can’t. I can’t bring pain to you.” He closed his eyes.
“Come here, sit down.” She walked over to the bed and plopped down on the mattress.
Dev’s eyes widened, his pupils flaring.
“No, I’m not trying to seduce you,” Eliza said. Though Lord knows she wanted to. But not now, not like this. This felt all wrong. She just wanted to console him. Whatever she hoped for between them, driving him to drink was not one of them.
“More’s the pity,” he muttered as he crossed the short distance, setting the candle on a bedside table before sitting down mere inches away from her. The smell of brandy and male tickled her nose—a not-altogether unpleasant sensation.
“I want to know,” he said. “Know more. I want to see this tele-phone, as you call it. I want proof.”
So that’s what this was about. Disappointment flooded through her, even though moments before she’d said her goal wasn’t seduction. Well, his could have been, damn it.
But maybe this was better. She stood up and walked to the armoire, seeking out the lockbox. She’d wanted to show him, to prove her story, to share her twenty-first-century life with him. Now was her chance.
As she pulled the phone out of the box and pressed the power button, anxiety swept through her. What would he think of what she was about to show him? Would it send him running away? Would he accuse her of witchcraft again?
She knew what was in the phone, had experienced it all. But the things he was about to see were things he likely couldn’t fathom. How would she react, if the situation were reversed, if someone had appeared to her in 2012, claiming to be from 2212? Not well, most likely.
She closed her eyes, sending a little prayer heavenward, before settling back down at his side. His eyes widened as the phone made its intro noise, and the screen illuminated, but he didn’t freak out, didn’t even move. Icons appeared, and Eliza pressed the one marked Photos.
The screen filled with the last picture Eliza had taken—the selfie with Cat of the two of them in their Regency finery. Eliza’s eyes teared up at seeing her friend.
“I—I saw that woman,” Deveric said, his body rigidly still.
“Yeah, that’s Cat. My best friend.”
“The one who sent you back.”
“Yes.” She looked up at Deveric. His eyes were fixed on the screen, soaking in the photograph.
“The detail is amazing. An exact reproduction.”
“Yup. May I show you?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
She held the phone up and snapped a picture. The flash caught Deveric by surprise, given his startled expression, but to his credit, he merely blinked a few times to clear his vision. Flipping it around, she showed Deveric his photo. He reached for the phone, and she gave it up.
He studied the photograph for a minute, and then said, “So that’s what that woman was doing. Show me how to do it.”
She leaned over. “Hold it like this, then push this button.” Deveric raised the phone in front of his face and did as instructed. Whatever appeared on the screen had him chortling.
“What?” Eliza grabbed the phone. He’d taken a picture of her breasts. Or where her breasts would be, rather; the thick robe mostly disguised them.
Men. She arched an eyebrow. “Are you going to claim that was an accident?”
He shrugged his shoulders, his face adopting an innocent expression. “I consider it luck.”
She bopped him in the shoulder. “Do you want to see this stuff, or not?”
Deveric grinned, cocking an eyebrow. “Oh, yes, but you’d better show me more of the tele-phone first.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. A slightly inebriated Deveric was adorable—in control enough not to worry her, but relaxed enough to be showing a new, fun side of his personality—a light-hearted, teasing side. He should show it more often.
She flipped through the photos. “Here. Here’s Cat’s car.”
Deveric grabbed the phone, his eyes soaking in Cat’s little Honda. “And it moves on its own power? Steam?”
“No, gasoline. Though I’m not an expert in the interior workings of the automobile. Sorry.”
“Show me more.”
For the next few hours—Eliza couldn’t say how long— she showed Deveric photographs, grateful she hadn’t erased them after downloading them to her computer. It was amazing, the things she took for granted that Dev noticed. He wanted to hear about the street lights, the paved roads, the McDonald’s in the background, the airplanes and Space Shuttle pics from the Air and Space Museum, the laptop on which a guy was typing in a pic she’d snapped in the coffee shop she and Cat frequented. Anything and everything, he wanted information on.
It pained Eliza to watch the phone battery dwindle. She knew once it was depleted, she’d never see these pictures again. And yet, what better chance to convince Deveric once and for all she was exactly who she said she was?
She’d taken a picture of one of the pages of Cat’s magical manuscript a few weeks ago, a beautifully illuminated portrait of a woman writing on parchment. At Deveric’s request, she explained again how Cat’s powers worked, dancing around the part about Deveric being created for her. He didn’t ask, so she was glad she didn’t have to answer.
As time passed, his speech grew steadier, his eyes clearer. The alcohol wore off, but his enthusiasm for talking with her didn’t. He quizzed her not only about the technological things he saw but also about Cat, about Eliza’s family, about her husband. She hadn’t wanted to talk about G
reg, wanting instead to focus on Deveric, on the here and now—or here and the future, if one thought of it that way. But she’d shared, anyway. An open and honest relationship necessitated communication both ways. If she wanted him to reveal himself to her, she had to be willing to do the same.
At some point, she’d ask him about Mirabelle. She definitely wanted to know about his first wife, but now was not the time; tonight was for showing him who she was. Hopefully tomorrow, and in the days after, he’d reciprocate.
A noise in the hall startled both of them.
“Good God, what time is it?” Deveric leapt off the bed. “I should not be here. Alone, with you.”
Eliza yawned, the lack of sleep catching up with her. It wasn’t as if they’d done anything untoward—they hadn’t. Nothing overtly sexual had happened since he snapped the picture of her boobs, and yet a startling sense of intimacy settled over Eliza. How amazing, to feel that without having had physical contact of any kind. She liked it. Liked it, indeed.
Not that she didn’t want to jump him. Seeing him there, in his shirtsleeves, dark shadows of a beard gracing his face, and his eyes, so earnest, she wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss him, to start something she now truly wanted to finish.
A second noise in the hallway dashed all thoughts of that from her brain. It really wouldn’t do, being caught in bed with the duke, even with both of them fully clothed. She didn’t want to poke the Dragon—and she didn’t want to force Deveric’s hand. Would he feel compelled to offer for her? That’s what all the romances hinted at. But she didn’t want it that way. If she and Deveric were to become something, it needed to be of their own free choice, not dictated by circumstances.
Well, circumstances beyond the ones she’d manipulated to get here.
Dev ran his fingers through his adorably bedraggled hair. “I ... I must go, Eliza.”
The Magic of Love Series Page 44
