Ben let out a choked chuckle, earning a glare from Matt. “Sorry. I just thought of what my students always say: ‘When in doubt, Google it!’”
“He doesn’t need to,” broke in Cat. “I already wrote it down.” She handed him a piece of paper with an address.
Matt tucked it into his wallet. “You’ve got my number. Let me know if you hear from her.” He tipped his head to them both before sprinting out the door and down the steps. He was going to do it. He was going to leave, right in the middle of the semester. He was doing it.
Because he had to.
The drive to the airport seemed endless, the flight to London an eternity. Every minute inched by when he wanted it to race. He tried to distract himself with onboard movies, settling on a broadcast of the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice, pretty sure if nothing else, Jane Austen would bore him to sleep.
“Colin Firth is so dreamy,” said a voice loud enough for him to hear over the headphones. An attractive blonde across the aisle flashed flirtatious eyes at him. Any other time, she’d have provided a pleasant diversion. But not now, not with thoughts of Amara and his—their—future consuming him.
He barely nodded in return, his eyes flitting back to his screen.
“It’s a rare man who enjoys Austen,” she said, persistent in her efforts.
“I don’t,” Matt answered, a wicked smile crossing his face. “I’m only watching it for the men in cravats. They’re so sexy, don’t you agree?”
It was something his sister always said, whereas Matt had never seen the appeal, never understood what it was about Austen that sent so many women swooning. He was glad he lived in a jeans and T-shirt era; having to dress like those poor guys in those short pants, tight jackets, and confining neckcloths would’ve driven him nuts.
The woman’s face cooled, though she kept the smile. “I get it,” she said. “Too bad my brother isn’t here. I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”
Great. In his efforts to brush her off, he’d succeeded in potentially picking up a male date. Taylor would’ve had a field day with that. Luckily, the blonde turned away, having gotten his very false hint. He was grateful. Until he looked at his own screen just in time to see Colin Firth dive into a lake. The scene switched to a shot of Elizabeth Bennet, and Matt frowned. The woman’s bonnet looked like the one Amara had worn the day they met. The dress was similar, too. He shifted in his seat, discomfort niggling at him, but he shook it off. Ludicrous. He was picturing her everywhere, even in a story set hundreds of years ago.
He switched to music. Anything to distract him from the bizarre vision of him as Darcy, strolling off in a cravat toward his own Amara—er, Elizabeth.
Claremont House was gone. In its place were modern structures designed to look older, but they didn’t fool Amara. She stood rooted to the spot, staring at the facade of buildings most definitely not her home. It was hard to believe the magnificent abode she and her family had occupied when in Town no longer existed. What had happened?
She walked the streets numbly, making her way to Hyde Park, where she settled on a bench, watching people wander by on cement paths near Rotten Row. Gone were the horses and carriages. Now there were joggers, mothers pushing child carriages, the occasional man or woman in a business suit speaking urgently into cell phones.
The late afternoon sun eased into twilight and with it came immense fatigue, as well as the realization again of what she’d done. She’d left what little was familiar—Cat, Ben, Taylor, Matthew—to flee to a place now as foreign as anywhere else. Tears threatened, but she refused to let them fall. They would solve nothing.
With the approaching dark came fear. Where was she to stay? She hadn’t thought this through. She’d just wanted something familiar, known, comfortable.
She hadn’t found it.
Standing up, she shook her hair, as if to shake off the worry, the concerns, everything plaguing her. She’d passed several hotels in Mayfair. Surely one of them had a room. Tomorrow, she’d go to Clarehaven. An Internet search on the hotel lobby’s computer that morning had told Amara the estate was still privately owned—by the current Duchess of Claremont. Maybe the duchess would ... Would what, welcome Amara with open arms because they shared the same name? Not bloody likely.
But perhaps she’d let her see the house. Amara had to ask. She had to be at Clarehaven, to see her childhood home, to make her feel she was real, that this was real.
Then, and only then, would she decide what to do next.
Bleary-eyed, Matt exited the plane, shuffling along behind numerous passengers, including the blonde, who gave him an overly sweet smile, but nothing else. He was wiped out. He’d never been able to sleep on planes, and he wanted nothing more than to fall into a bed somewhere. Well, almost nothing more. He wanted to find Amara.
Shaking his head, he made his way to customs. What was he doing here? This was nuts. But what other choice did he have? It’s not as if he could leave her alone, without any support. It was his responsibility to come.
As the passport official quizzed him regarding the purpose of his visit, then stamped his passport, Matt admitted to himself he felt more than responsibility, though. He wasn’t here merely to fulfill his obligations as an unwilling father. No, he was worried about Amara.
And he missed her. Missed those glowing hazel-green eyes and her silky tresses, missed those delicious curves. Even more, he missed her. Her laughter, her strangely charming mixture of intelligence and naiveté. Her independent spirit.
She hadn’t asked a thing from him.
She’d enjoyed their time together, though; he was sure of that. They both had. Memories of them entangled on his floor, music pulsating around them, stampeded through his brain, and he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath, his body springing embarrassingly to action. He’d thought it was perfect, exactly what he wanted: a sexy, fun, interesting, smart woman whenever he wanted her. One willing to be alone when he didn’t.
But he’d started to want more. He wanted to see her often, wanted her to want to be with him. He wanted her to see him as someone who was there for her. Someone on whom she could depend. He’d failed. Instead of being that stand-up guy, he’d gotten her pregnant. And clearly, she thought so lowly of him that rather than work through this together she’d fled the frigging country.
Now here he stood on the curb of Heathrow Airport, in England, hailing a cab to search for her. Had someone told him he’d throw aside everything he’d been working towards for a woman, he’d have laughed in their face. Yet, here he was.
He crawled into the cab, not sure where he should go. He needed to get to Clarehaven, but his phone said it was an hour outside of London. It was only 6:30 in the morning now. Should he show up at Clarehaven so early? But he hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours. He needed to, to have a clear head before he talked to Amara.
He had no clue if there were hotels near this Clarehaven. “Just take me to a decent hotel,” he told the driver. “One near Piccadilly,” he added, mentioning one of the few places he’d heard of in London, lest the cabby think him nuts asking for a random hotel in a city this large. The cabby simply nodded and sped away.
Amara woke early, anxious to be off. After settling the bill, she had the desk clerk hail her a cab to take her to Clarehaven. She left the hotel to wait outside, wanting to be in the morning air, though it was chilly. It at least smelled fresh.
She clutched her bag as the cab approached, wondering again if it wouldn’t be smarter to go back to the airport, to return to Charlottesville. But what is there for me? Cat was a friend, but she wasn’t family. She didn’t owe Amara anything. And she had her own husband and child. She certainly wouldn’t want to take on Amara and her baby—not that Amara would ever burden her in such a way.
This had all gone horribly wrong. What should she do? What could she do? She’d come to this century through the circle of stones at Clarehaven. If she went there again, could she return home? Truly home, to Clarehaven in 1813?
&
nbsp; If she showed up unwed and expecting, she’d once more be at the center of scandal. Or maybe not, another part of her whispered. Amara had allegedly run off with a Royal Navy officer. Ships sank and men were lost all the time. She could easily claim widowhood. A duke’s daughter marrying a Navy captain would have raised eyebrows, but it’d be better to be known as a widow than an unmarried mother.
The cab driver opened the rear door for her, and she settled into the seat with a sigh. No, she did not want to return to her time. Not only did more opportunities abound here, but she was an independent woman of wealth now. A woman of no reputation whatsoever in this modern society. No scandal tainted her here. Except for the one growing inside her.
As the cab exited the curb, Amara’s gaze drifted absent-mindedly to another cab pulling up. A tall, lean figure alighted from the back, and for a moment Amara stopped breathing. The lithe build, the closely cropped hair; it could be Matthew. The man never turned in her direction to show his face before he entered the hotel, though, and soon they rounded the corner, heading away from the hotel, out of London, home to Clarehaven. Her pulse raced, even as she shook her head. Obviously, it wasn’t Matthew. He was in Charlottesville, not London. Her mind was playing tricks on her.
She closed her eyes, letting the miles sail by. It wasn’t him.
Was it?
Chapter 35
After securing a room, Matt fell face first into the bed, wishing it’d occurred to him before they were halfway to this hotel that there were undoubtedly hotels right there at the airport. Especially since they’d driven miles east to get here, and his ultimate destination was to the west.
He didn’t stir for hours. At a bang in the hallway, he awoke, blinking his eyes as he tried to find the clock. 11:02, the red digits said. No light peeked in around the edges of the closed curtains. 11:02 p.m., then. Crap. He hadn’t meant to sleep the day away, but he couldn’t leave for Clarehaven at this time of night.
He heaved a sigh as he pushed himself up. Might as well shower and shave, then order something to eat. He’d plan for tomorrow, research Clarehaven, figure out how to get there. Figure out what he’d say to Amara if he found her there.
An hour later, he was ensconced back in the bed, laptop on his lap, and a beer to his side, courtesy of room service. He’d Googled the Mattersley family and had found a website delineating the family lineage. It included photos of Clarehaven and several 360-degree views inside the huge home.
This had been Amara’s home? This lavish monstrosity, with its numerous rooms?
According to the site, the current owner, Sophie, an umpteenth generation Mattersley and Duchess of Claremont, had recently restored the home to its Regency grandeur. From what the family tree showed, this Sophie Mattersley was the last of the Claremont line.
Matt twisted his mouth into a puzzled frown. Sophie was the last of her family? But Amara was a Mattersley. What was going on?
He clicked on a photo of a long hall, the walls of which were packed with portraits of Mattersley ancestors. Clicking on a portrait brought up a larger version of the painting. This was quite the thorough site.
He snickered at the serious expression of a man wearing a starched, pleated collar and a shell-shaped decoration over his groin. Codpiece? Was that the right word? How could the man look so utterly arrogant, so utterly in control, when he was dressed in such ridiculous clothing?
As Matt scrolled through the portraits, the fashion habits changed, though the men bore marked resemblances to each other. Strong genetics, evidently.
The portrait of one Samuel Mattersley showed a tallish gent, back arched proudly, a white wig upon his head, a striking young woman at his side. Around them stood three kids, a boy of perhaps seven or eight, with dark hair and unusually green eyes, and two young girls of similar age to each other. One had dark hair that matched her brother’s. The other had hair of honeyed blonde, her face young and innocent as her hazel-green eyes stared out at him.
Something about her caught his attention, something eerily familiar in the curve of her lips, the pert little nose, and those clear eyes. He shook his head. Good Lord, get a grip. He was seeing Amara everywhere, even in a painting over two hundred years old. Moving the mouse, he scanned to the label underneath the painting, zooming in as much as he could. Though the words remained blurry, he made out His Grace Samuel Mattersley, sixth Duke of Claremont, with his wife, Matilda, and children, Deveric, Cecilia, and Amara.
He shoved the laptop off of his lap, his face draining of blood. What the hell? An Amara Mattersley in the late eighteenth century? With a brother named Deveric? Cold sweat pearled on his forehead. Isn’t that what Amara said her brother’s name was?
Then again, in bigwig families like this one, names were often used over and over again. His shoulders relaxed, the tension easing out. Yes, that was it. It was just a family name.
He ran his hands over his face, pulling at his cheeks. Clearly, fifteen hours of sleep wasn’t enough; he needed more. Because nothing else except sheer exhaustion made it excusable that for a few minutes he’d convinced himself the girl in the painting and the woman in his life were one and the same.
As the cab wound its way up the long, familiar road to Clarehaven, Amara pressed her face against the window, taking in every inch of the landscape in the afternoon light. Much was the same. A familiar row of trees lined the northern edge, trees which led to the pond and ancient circle of stones. Majestic oaks still dotted the landscape, and the house rose, as magnificent as ever, before her.
But there were changes, too. Houses lined the road before the entranceway, houses that hadn’t existed in her time. They’d also had to pass through an electric gate to access the front drive. Why was a gate necessary? Did so many people attempt to approach the house?
At least they’d been allowed through and rather quickly, at that. When the cab driver announced her name, per the request from a speaker housed in a post before the gate, the gate immediately opened, much to Amara’s surprise. It must be because she shared the same last name as the family that owned the estate. No one here knew of her. No one could know of her.
Electric light posts lined the lane as they approached, another difference. The house, too, showed signs of change—not many, but the large garage was obviously new. One open bay contained a shiny, red sports car.
When the cab driver pulled up to the massive walnut front door, it opened, and a young woman clad in well-tailored trousers and a thick sweater descended the stairs, a broad smile on her face. As the woman approached, Amara gasped, taking in the woman’s honey-brown hair and hazel eyes, so similar to her own.
The cab driver opened the rear door, and Amara exited as gracefully as she could, given she was on the verge of fainting. She was here, at Clarehaven, the place she’d spent the majority of her formative years. Fumbling in her bag, she produced a handful of large bills and gave them to the man. “Thank you,” she said, holding up a hand to indicate no change.
The driver smiled broadly and tipped his head to her. “It’s been a pleasure, madam,” he said, handing her a card with his number. “Please call if you need a return ride to London.”
Amara took it automatically, her eyes sliding to the woman, who hadn’t yet said a word. She stood there, studying Amara, an indecipherable expression on her face despite her friendly smile.
Should she tell the driver to stay? Would this woman kick her out in just a few minutes? No, she wouldn’t think that way. She’d make the best of this and if the worst came to the worst, she’d determine some other way to get home.
Home? How had she suddenly thought of Charlottesville as home? This was home. Except not anymore. Blast. This was all so confusing. Amara pulled herself up tall, nodding at the driver to indicate he could go.
As the cab retreated down the lane, she turned to the woman, unsure of her next move. The woman closed the short distance between them, extending her hand. “Hello,” she said, as Amara took it and they shook. “I’m Sophie Mattersley.
It is quite the pleasure to meet you ... Amara.”
Had Amara imagined the hesitation in the woman’s voice? How had she known Amara’s name? Prickles of fear clambered up her spine. Wait. The cab driver had announced her. Of course. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Sophie laughed, a light, pleasant sound. “Please. You needn’t be so formal. I prefer Sophie. I never wished to be a duchess.” A shadow crossed her face, but she shook it off, her smile widening as if by determined effort. “And since you gave your name as Amara Mattersley, we must be related. Won’t you come in?”
Amara followed the woman up the steps to the house. Her home. Unease inched through her. Why would this woman, a duchess, welcome a complete stranger so readily? And then, as she passed through the door, there was no more time for thought. Her hand flew to her heart as she took in the entryway. It looked exactly the same, the inlaid mosaic floor shining as brightly as ever, the walls lined with the same portraits. Even the wall colors were the same. Had they changed nothing in two hundred years?
Sophie chuckled at Amara’s expression. “I take it you like it? I’ve spent the last few years restoring the house to its Regency glory.” She winked—winked—at Amara. “From the pictures and paintings I’ve seen, Clarehaven was at its finest then. What do you think?”
Amara’s head swerved sharply as she gaped at Sophie. There was something in the woman’s tone of voice, some suggestion of knowledge. Did this woman know who she was? Did she know from when she was? Surely that was impossible.
“It is ... magnificent,” she finally said, her eyes misting. Oh, how she’d missed it. When here before, in her time, she’d chafed at the restrictions placed upon her. She’d wanted to escape. But nothing felt as good as standing right here, right now.
Matthew Goodson’s eyes swam in front of her, those eyes that had pierced hers with tenderness as his body entered hers. She had to amend her previous thought. There were some things that felt as good. That felt a thousand times better.
The Magic of Love Series Page 83
