Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip

by Joanna Maitland

  She was seeing things, and feeling things, and, most outrageous of all, smelling things that could not possibly be real.

  She lurched to her feet, toppling her chair in her haste. She had to put the gown away safely in the storeroom. But first, she would put a little distance between them. To catch her breath. She would go and change into her travelling clothes. A splash of cold water on her face and neck might help, too. Anything to bring her back to reality.

  A few minutes later, Emma was smoothing her navy pencil skirt onto its hanger. That suit had been a good buy, in spite of the high cost. Creases fell out of the material when it was hung up and the cut flattered her figure, even though the suit was now a little loose. She had lost a lot of weight during the long months of her hellish divorce, but she had resolved to fix that. From now on, she would eat regularly, and properly. She had a new career and a bold new life, and she was going to make a success of both. There was no one trying to control her any more and she would never, never let it happen again.

  She took a step back and gazed at her reflection in the long mirror. Much too thin, but otherwise not bad. Her dark red hair, definitely her best feature, was piled on top of her head in loose curls, in vague imitation of the Regency styles she had always admired. Her new gold underwear looked classy and flattering.

  A strange coincidence that she had chosen to wear gold today, the same colour as that amazing Regency gown. Almost as if she had been meant to try it on…

  Barely a minute later, Emma found herself back in the research room with the damaged gown in her hands. It would do no harm to try it on, just for a moment or two, just to see how it looked. And then she would return it reverently to the store room and never be tempted again.

  The bell of St Mary's began to toll. It was almost seven. Where on earth had the time gone?

  All the same, it was not too late just to… With infinite care, Emma started to push an arm into the undamaged sleeve.

  Blue lightning shot along her arm. It should have burned, but instead it was freezing cold. A moment later, Emma felt a whoosh of icy air howling through the room, like the bitterest Arctic gale. The noise was even worse than the cold. It sounded as if some hideous giant was sucking the life out of everything, swallowing it down into consuming darkness. Emma cried out in terror. At least, she tried to. But her voice was sucked into the void along with everything else.

  She was in the dark. She was falling.

  And she was alone.

  Chapter Two

  It was much too dark to see where she was. But it smelt small, enclosed… and wrong. What was so different?

  Emma took a deep breath and tried to conquer her fears. She had no idea where she was but, as with that mysterious cupboard filled with racks of clothes and disappearing sandy beaches, it was somewhere other-worldly.

  Candles. That was what she could smell. Burning candles. Had there been a power cut, maybe?

  As her eyes began to adjust to the pervasive gloom, she took a tiny step forward. Something hushed against her ankles. A long, full skirt.

  But I wasn't wearing a skirt. Just underwear. How can I have—?

  Automatically she touched her hands to it. And realised at once what she was wearing. She could feel the undulating textures of lace. She was dressed in that golden gown and somehow, impossibly, it was whole again.

  She was having a nightmare. This wasn't possible.

  She swallowed hard. What on earth was she going to do?

  Her eyes were finally adjusting to the gloom. She made out a curtained window and a wooden door, ever so slightly ajar. A glimmer of light flickering through the crack suggested there was someone in the room beyond.

  Emma gulped. Her heart began to race. Now what?

  She heard a rumble of voices from beyond the door. Male voices. Or one male voice, at least. Did she dare?

  It was a dream. Only a dream. Whatever might appear to happen in a dream, you were always fine again when you woke up. So it wouldn't matter if she went in there. Nothing could actually happen to her.

  She wasn't brave enough to throw the door wide open, though. Instead, she eased it open a fraction more. Enough to hear what was going on. And, if she put her eye to the crack, enough to see.

  She had to choke back her gasp of astonishment. She closed her eyes, trying to stop her dream in its ridiculous tracks. But when she opened them again, it was all still there. And still real.

  She was staring into an enormous, and opulent, bedchamber. It was brightly lit. And very warm. There were candlesticks on the mantelpiece and silver candelabra on spindle-legged tables around the room. A huge log fire was crackling merrily in the grate. Heavy green velvet curtains, matching the ones around the raised tester bed, were drawn across one wall, presumably concealing floor-to-ceiling windows.

  All of that was obvious from the first quick peek. Emma's sensible self was saying that her dream had taken her back into history, by a couple of centuries or so. Her sensible self was wittering on about period furniture and priceless Georgian silverware.

  She was not listening to a word from her sensible self. Her gaze was riveted on the tableau in front of that blazing fire, where a youngish female servant stood, holding a water can of polished copper and staring longingly at the back of a man, naked from the waist up, sitting in a bath.

  He'll be naked from the waist down, too. Emma's thought came unbidden, and certainly not from her sensible self.

  The man was soaping his hair, massaging his scalp energetically, the muscles in his shoulders and arms working. From the back view, he had a very fine body – lean, lithe and strong. Young, probably. And he seemed to have a fine head of hair, though it was difficult to be sure of the colour, or the length, under all that lather.

  "Pour the water over my hair. Slowly. I need to get rid of this soap." Crisp instructions, delivered in a rich baritone. This man was used to giving orders.

  The maid raised the can a little higher – she seemed to have good muscles, too – and began to pour. A little, then a pause, then a little more as the man stroked away the soap. It took a while, but eventually the can was empty and the man's hair was clean. He ran his fingers through it, pressing out the excess water and combing through the tangles.

  The servant's task seemed to be over. She put the can on the floor beside the bath and moved away. But as soon as the man could no longer see her, she wiped her damp hands down her skirts and began to unbutton her bodice. In a trice, the buttons were all undone, and she was exposed to the waist.

  What kind of place was it? And why was a female servant attending a man in his bath, anyway? Had this absurd dream transported her into a brothel?

  Emma was shocked. But not shocked enough to stop looking. This fascinating dream was turning into something like a scene from a film, and a raunchy, X-rated one, at that. What's more, it was getting to her. Heat was beginning to flare in her gut. She had to see what would happen next. And she had to see the man. All of him.

  I don't care if it is a brothel. It's my dream. So I'm entitled to see.

  The man glanced sideways, as if looking for the missing servant, shrugged, and rose to his feet in a single athletic movement. "Fetch my towel, woman," he snapped, holding out his hands to the warmth of the fire. When the servant failed to obey – she did not move an inch towards him, but she did plaster an inviting smile on her face – he stepped out of the water and turned to look for her. He was frowning. "I said—"

  A look of total astonishment replaced his angry frown. A split second later, an even blacker frown took its place. There was something more in his eyes, too. It should have been anger, but Emma was almost certain it was not. Frustration? Resignation? But why?

  The man and the servant stared at each other for a long, long moment. The maid had thrown her shoulders back so that her ample breasts gleamed in the firelight. She intended to entice, clearly, but the man made no move towards her. Nor did he do anything to hide his nakedness. He let the girl feast her eyes on his body,
which was as beautiful as any classical statue, to Emma's mind, and waited for the servant to get the message. His body was not reacting at all to the merchandise on offer. The maid's smile, so eager at first, faltered. Her mouth fell open. Then she started to babble incoherently.

  "Enough. Cover yourself, woman."

  "Sir, I only wanted to—"

  "You don't have to tell me. I've heard it too often before. You wanted to find out what it was like to be bedded by the 'Greatest Lover in London'." He smiled sourly and gestured towards his drooping genitals. "As you can see, the so-called 'Greatest Lover in London' has no interest in women who throw themselves at him."

  Head bent, the maid had begun to fumble with her fastenings, dragging the halves of her bodice together over her nakedness. She was scarlet to the roots of her hair, Emma saw, and her fingers were trembling. But she was not totally cowed. She muttered something under her breath.

  "You spoke?" he said very softly.

  Emma had never heard anything quite so haughty. Or so menacing.

  Evidently, his tone caught the servant on the raw. "Aye, I did." She jerked her head up and stared him full in the face. Her embarrassment had faded. She looked to be livid with anger. "Think I'm not good enough for your bed, don't yer? 'Cos I'm only a servant. If I'd been one of yer high-and-mighty lady friends, you'd have thrown up my skirts quick enough. You're a—!"

  He stopped her with a contemptuous gesture. "I wouldn't touch a duchess if she threw herself at me as you have. Whatever I may be, you are no better than a harlot. Now, get out of here, before I toss you out." He took a single step towards her.

  She gasped and fled.

  The man gave a snort of mirthless laughter and padded across the carpet after her. In a second, he was lost to Emma's view.

  He couldn't walk out of the room, surely? Not stark naked. Emma eased her door open a fraction more. She had to crane her neck to see the other door. The panicking maid had left it open and Emma could make out a gloomy corridor beyond.

  The man shut the outer door quietly, pressing the flat of his free hand on the panel of the door, as if to ensure it was well and truly closed. He shook his head. At the folly of women? Then, with a sigh, he turned the key in the lock.

  Emma started to shrink back into her hiding place but he spun round with sudden decision and started for her dressing room. Had he suddenly remembered there was another door to be locked against predatory females?

  After barely a couple of steps, he stopped dead. This time, the expression of astonishment came and stayed. "Emma," he breathed. Then, with joy in his face and in his voice, "Emma. Emma, my darling, you've come back to me."

  It was impossible. How could he know her name? And what was she to do now?

  He took another step towards her door and stopped again, looking down at his unruly body. He now had a splendid erection. "It's no use pretending that I'm not pleased to see you, is it, love?" he said with a disarming smile. "But to spare your blushes, I'll cover the evidence of my, er, preferences." He strode over to the fireplace, grabbed the towel from the warming rack and wrapped it tightly round his lower body. It didn't help his modesty. Not one bit. It merely made his erection even more blatant.

  Wherever Emma was in this absurd dream, she was behaving like a gormless idiot. It was time to take charge. She pulled the dressing-room door open and stepped into the bedroom. "In terms of concealment, that towel is definitely not working."

  Not a single wobble in her voice, she was proud to note. She was being braver in her dream than she had been in real life.

  He looked down at himself again and grinned, a little ruefully. "It's your fault, you know, love. You're the one who bewitched me. You know I can't get enough of you. But now that you've come back to me…"

  There was such longing in his voice that Emma began to respond. She had no idea who this man was, but she understood yearning. She had learnt to understand it when she stood on her phantom beach, reaching for a lover who was leaving her. But this was a different man, wasn't it? Her body had not recognised this one. "I…" The words would not come.

  He wasn't interested in talking. He crossed the space between them in a couple of quick strides and drew her into his arms, nuzzling her hair and muttering her name, over and over. "Emma, darling Emma. Don't leave me again. I'm lost without you. You're the only woman that I—" He tried to shake his head but he was hugging her so close he couldn't move. He groaned instead. In frustration?

  He took a step back from her, but left his hands resting lightly on her shoulders as he examined her from head to toe. "Beautiful. And so very desirable. You are the only woman I want to take to my bed, Emma. You must know that."

  Emma managed to make a strangled noise in her throat.

  "Don't you believe me? It's the truth. I may have had the reputation as the greatest rake in England, but I've turned down every single offer since you left me. Lately, there have been more and more of them." He made a face. When Emma said nothing – she was quite unable to say a word – he went on, "Before, the ladies wanted to discover whether the experience was everything their friends had described – I do not doubt that my prowess was much exaggerated by those damsels – but now they're vying to be the one who lures me out of what they're calling my 'monkish habits'. Not a chance. It could only be you. The moment I saw you again, I wanted you."

  Emma bit her lip.

  "I want you now, Emma. And I know you want me, too. Will you take off that beautiful gown, or shall I?"

  He reached for her and, without a second's hesitation, she melted into his arms. This was meant. Even though it was only a dream.

  His kiss was like nothing she had ever experienced before, awake or dreaming. At the first touch of his lips, the warmth in her belly exploded into searing flames. Her body had recognised its soulmate again. How had she failed to see that from the first?

  He wanted her. Urgently. But her urgency was as great as his. She returned his kisses with equal passion, their tongues dancing together as each demanded and then willingly gave. Without breaking that fervent kiss for even a second, he propelled her across the floor and lifted her on to the great bed. He pushed up her skirts, groaning her name into her mouth.

  It was what she wanted. With this unnamed, but beloved man. Here. Now! She dragged off his skimpy towel and opened herself to him.

  His body still had drops of water on his chest and in his hair. They fell onto her bare shoulders, sizzling like water on a hotplate, as the lovers came together in a frenzy of mutual need and desire.

  And then it was over. Complete. Perfect.

  He rolled off her with a great sigh of content and closed his eyes. "My darling. Oh, my darling Emma," he breathed, carrying her hand to his lips to kiss each fingertip in turn. For a moment, his sharp teeth nibbled at her little finger. Soon he drifted into sleep and their joined hands slid back to the coverlet.

  Emma relaxed back onto the pillows and smiled up into the canopy. Later, she decided, they would make love again and next time, it would be a more leisurely affair. They had both needed that first, urgent, joining and it had been glorious, but she wanted more time to enjoy their lovemaking. Perhaps she might even find out his name? He knew her, clearly, but she had not the foggiest idea who he was.

  Her damp hair was tickling her temple. She lifted her hand to push it away and saw, to her horror, that she was wearing a wedding ring. She couldn't be. She had taken her ring off for good, months before her divorce.

  But this was a dream – and in her dream she seemed to be married. Who was she? Who was her husband? Was it this man? Could she be married to this man, the greatest stud in London? Or was she an adulterous wife, another of this man's many conquests?

  What do I do now? I can't very well ask him, can I? "By the way, sir, are we married? Or am I just your mistress?"

  She had to get away. She couldn't possibly think clearly while he was lying there next to her, naked and so very desirable.

  But he was holding her hand. If
she pulled away, he might wake up. She swore silently. There must be something she could do? A practised courtesan would know ways of extracting herself from such a situation. But Emma was no courtesan, and not so very practised, either.

  Desperation gave her an idea. She leaned across and put her lips close to his ear, gently huffing aside his damp hair. "Forgive me, dearest," she breathed, trying to sound as sexy as she could, "but I need to clean myself."

  He seemed to hear though he did not wake up. However, his grip relaxed a little and slowly, carefully, she pulled her fingers free. "Thank you, my darling," she said softly, automatically leaning across and kissing him, full on the mouth.

  It was a mad thing to do. He'd wake up. He was bound to.

  But he didn't. He moaned a little in his throat – a purr of pleasure, Emma fancied – and then he turned onto his side, still asleep.

  She had to go. Immediately. But how was she to escape?

  First things first. She would go back to the dressing room where this incredible dream had begun. Once there, she would think of something. She had to.

  Seconds later, she was back in the dressing room and the door was shut and locked behind her. The outer door was locked too. She had seen to that. She'd even removed the key, to be doubly safe. So, now what?

  There was a long pier glass in the dressing room, for the use of the master, Emma supposed. It showed her a Regency woman in a crumpled golden gown, with her hair falling down onto her shoulders and a mouth swollen from a hundred passionate kisses. She looked exactly what she was – a woman who had been thoroughly bedded. And who had definitely enjoyed the experience, too.

  Emma started to pin up her hair again but, with her arms raised, the edging of her tight bodice was cutting into her flesh. It hurt. "Damn this dress," she spat. "None of this would have happened without it. I can't even redo my hair without taking it off. And I certainly can't leave here looking as if I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards."