Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip

by Joanna Maitland

  "So she was making it all up? Emma? But why on earth would she do that?"

  "No." He shook his head sadly. "That's the really awful part. They don't think she lied. She reported what she thought was happening to her, they said. She would have believed it. Totally. She was probably having delusions of some kind. Related to bad things from her past life. It was the brain tumour, they said."

  "Oh, poor, poor Emma. And what a terrible way to die, believing you were being pursued by someone who hated you. She'd have been so frightened…" Melanie shivered. "And so alone, too, poor woman. There was no one who loved her."

  "Uh-huh." He sighed deeply. "It's incredibly sad. Still, she's at peace now. That's our only consolation. And hers." Straightening his shoulders, he raised his mug, and said, "If there's a heaven for you, Emma Stanley, I hope you found your precious Lady Emma there to welcome you. Wherever you are now, your agonies are over. Rest in peace."

  ~ ~ ~

  Emma made the last cut with especial venom and stood back to admire her handiwork. She'd decided there would be no going back. No second thoughts. And now she'd taken her fate into her own hands. The shredded dress might have worked its magic in the twenty-first century, but in the Regency it had to be whole to work, she was sure.

  Wasn't she?

  Well, there's one way to find out for certain. I'm alone. I can test it right now.

  She put down Bailey's scissors and caressed the mutilated lace. The gown was a wreck now. Such a shame. But it had been necessary. As long as she had an escape route back to the future, she could never be fully committed to her life here with Will. There would always be that little frisson of what if I just…? Love needed trust and commitment. Full on, one-hundred-percent commitment. That was what she had promised at the altar. And that was precisely what she was going to give him.

  She pinned her hair up, out of the way, and turned back to the magic lace. In fact, the gown was easier to put on that she'd expected, given the state of it, though she didn't bother trying to do up the ties. She was going to take it off again immediately, after all, so there was no point.

  She turned to look at herself in the pier glass. Even to her own critical gaze, she looked like a real Regency lady. The hairstyle and the absence of make-up helped, but there was more to it than that. Was it the way she held herself these days? That aristocratic hauteur?

  She looked the part; there was no doubt of that. Except that it wasn’t going to be a part any longer. This was going to be her life. For good.

  Stop havering, Emma, and just DO IT. The moment of truth is now.

  With her eyes fixed on her own reflection, she took a deep breath and held it. Then she raised her fingers to the top of her sleeve and began to ease it down her arm.

  A second later, she tensed and closed her eyes, suddenly afraid of what she was doing. What if she'd got it wrong? What if she heard St Mary's clock again?

  A single chime echoed in the silence.

  Cursing, Emma squeezed her eyes even tighter shut. She wanted to scream, to block it all out. She didn't want to see the museum, ever again. She didn't want to hear that blasted church clock either. She'd screwed up, big time. How could she have got it so wrong? What if she couldn’t get back to Will? What if—?

  Another chime.

  And this time, she really heard it. Not a church clock at all. No, it was the musical chime of a sweet little carriage clock, a present from Will, sitting on her own dressing table. Balm to her shredded nerves.

  She opened her eyes. And saw. She was still standing in front of the mirror, though the lace now lay in a golden pool at her ankles. She was still in the Regency. She was still safe with her beloved Will.

  And she'd put paid to the magic of the golden gown. For good. Or perhaps not? Perhaps it was like a Sleeping Beauty? Perhaps one day, a couple of centuries in the future, another Emma would find the shredded lace and try it on, so that the circle could begin all over again?

  She laughed softly to herself. It didn't matter. Not now she had Will.

  She laid the lace in its lavender-scented new home and started back towards the green bedchamber. Their bedchamber. Where she belonged.

  For this Emma, at least, the fairytale had run its course. She had found her prince. And her happy ever after.

  THE END

  Dear Reader – from Joanna Maitland

  I hope you have enjoyed reading about how Emma and Will finally reached their happy ending, in spite of the two centuries that divided them. This was my first venture into timeslip, so if you did enjoy it, I'd be really grateful if you could please leave a review at your usual online store or on your favourite reader website. Your review can help other readers to find books they might like, too. Thank you!

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  About the Author

  Joanna Maitland has published 13 Regency historicals with Harlequin Mills & Boon since 2000 and has sold nearly one and a half million copies around the world, with readers in countries as diverse as Japan and Brazil. She is now an independently published author. She is continuing to write Regencies, but also hopping over the hedge into lush new pastures, like medieval and timeslip. If there’s history involved, Joanna is up for it!

  Joanna is one of the founding partners of Libertà Books, a multi-author website where readers and authors share their love of books, reading, and fun. She is also a proud and long-standing member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association which recently honoured her by making her a Vice President of the Association.

  HIS SILKEN SEDUCTION

  Wounded. Abandoned. In the enemy's bed

  He's Wellington's spy, trying to survive in war-torn France. He has a choice – duty, or desire.

  She's his beautiful silk weaver. Day after day, her hands caress his battered flesh. Her touch is driving him wild.

  But she's the enemy. She must not discover who he is. Surely she will betray him?

  Will he dare to trust her

  with his life, his mission, and his heart?

  Read on for an extract

  HIS SILKEN SEDUCTION

  Chapter One

  France, March 1815

  THEY WERE COMING FOR HIM.

  They had come out of nowhere. Five of them. And they had knives.

  Ben started to run. What choice did he have? He was alone. No…no, Jack was about somewhere. Where? Ben couldn't see him, but he must be—

  No time to think about that. It didn't matter anyway. Two against five was very poor odds, especially when the two were unarmed and the five were not. It was every man for himself.

  Run, you idiot. The voice in his head was insistent. Faster! If they catch you, you're dead meat.

  Ben put on a spurt. He could do this. He could.

  He must.

  He was almost out of the old port area. Just another few yards to the end of the quay. There must be safety up ahead. Somewhere. Somewhere less dangerous. With civilised people. If only he could—

  Pain ripped through him.

  Then – only then – he heard the report. A shot. One of those blackguards had shot him. And he was falling. Falling…

  His last thought was to wonder why the ball had hit him be
fore he had even heard the shot.

  And then he was floating. Surrounded by shifting dark mists that rolled and twisted into fantastical patterns and shapes. Bringing with them strange, sun-drenched scents.

  Am I dead? He dragged in a desperately needed breath. And discovered how much it hurt. If it hurts, I can't be dead, can I?

  He sucked in another breath. And a blinding light burst through the pain. He remembered. If he was injured, how could they continue with their mission? Their mission for Wellington was vital. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. He groaned out the precious words. "Mission. Wellington." As if, by speaking them aloud, he could make all right again. "Mission."

  Those perfumes were swirling around him once more. This time, they swept him off to a hot sunny hillside, where he found himself lying on springy grass, gazing up at the sky through yellow puffs of mimosa flowers, drinking in scents of lavender and rosemary. But with his next breath, the dark shrouds closed in again, suffocating him and swallowing the sky.

  He wanted to cry out, to fight against the blanketing mists, but he did not have the strength. Their long grey fingers stroked him into darkness, deep as a pit.

  Even in the darkness, there was pain. Piercing, unbearable pain, like daggers in his flesh. Ben tried to move, to throw them off, somehow, anyhow, but the enveloping web was looped round and under him, tying him in a tangled thicket from which it seemed he would never break free. And always the daggers. The daggers. He groaned and thrashed his body from side to side. If he was not dead, he must fight. He must.

  "Sleep now," said a soft voice. It was barely a murmur but it soothed. It must have been sent from heaven. An angel? Cool clean linen was laid on his forehead, as refreshing as joyful rain on dry earth. Ben felt the knots unravel as his bonds receded into the grey mist, defeated by the angel's hand.

  If I can sleep, I cannot be dead. If I can sleep… If I can only sleep…

  It was not sleep that came. It was torture. Suddenly, he was being tossed back and forth between giants. And they were rejoicing at his groans of pain. This was not heaven. This was hell, full of red-hot needles and tongues of fire. From this, there could be no escape. His angel had forsaken him.

  He cried out.

  And his angel returned. His fair-haired angel. Calling his name, through the whirling flames. He wanted to reach for her, but he was pinioned. He could not escape.

  "French," the angel said sternly. "You must speak only French. No English. Only French."

  He was in a French heaven. Or was it hell? But his angel spoke French and so he must do so, too. "No English," he croaked.

  Which language had he spoken? He could not tell. He could not hear his own voice. The circling shrouds were sucking it away, swallowing his words, swallowing everything. Were they trying to suck out his soul?

  He gave a great cry of anguish. But it could not save him. The pit was opening at his feet and he was falling. Down, down, down. Into blackness.

  He must climb out of the pit. He must. If he could free his arms, he could climb. He could claw his way out of this blackness. He began to struggle against the invisible bonds that held him…

  "Herr Benn."

  It was his angel's voice. No, not hers. Another's. Another angel?

  He struggled even harder to break free of the darkness. To reach her.

  "Herr Benn, no! You will injure yourself. Wake up. Oh, pray, wake up."

  A hand on his shoulder. Shaking him.

  He was out of the pit. He could open his eyes. There was light. Bright, blinding light.

  And his angel was still there, still there behind the light, still speaking to him in that sweet, urgent voice.

  "Herr Benn. Oh, Herr Benn, you are yourself again. Thank heaven. You were having such a nightmare and I could not wake you. Are you…are you well now?"

  She was speaking French to him. And the room was spinning. Had he really been dreaming? The pit was not real? Nor the giants with their red-hot needles?

  A hand stroked a cooling cloth across his brow. Then it brought a cup to his lips and helped him to drink. The prickle of sharp lemon on his tongue was no dream. He was alive. This was real.

  He turned his head a fraction to search for his angel's face, hoping desperately that she, too, was real.

  Everything was blurred. The light was too bright. In desperation, he screwed up his eyes against it, struggling to focus. There was… Yes, he could just make out a halo of fair curls filled with sunlight. And then, at last, a face.

  He sighed out a long, thankful breath. His angel was still at his side. She was real.

  And she was beautiful.

  He did not know who she was, but all at once he understood the meaning of his dream. It was all true, even though it was a weird jumble of memories, interlaced with pain. He and Jack were on a spying mission for Wellington. They had been set upon by a gang of villains as they left Marseilles. And one of the assailants had had a gun.

  "Did they shoot me?" he croaked, in French, gazing pleadingly at his angel. He was hot and aching. Covered in sweat. And the pain was certainly real. It seemed to be worst on his right side. He began to reach with his left hand, to find out how badly he was wounded.

  Soft fingers caught his hand and held it. "Do not distress yourself, Herr Benn," the angel said, frowning down at him. "Yes, you were shot, but the bullet is gone and the wound is clean. Pray do not claw at your bandages. Your shoulder will heal better if you rest." She pushed him gently back on to feather pillows and laid his hand firmly on the coverlet.

  "I… Where am I?" He had not seen this girl before, had he? She looked familiar and yet she was not. He would not have forgotten such fragile beauty.

  She smiled at him. The frown melted away, leaving her skin smooth as a peach. "You are in Lyons. You were brought here by your friend, Monsieur Jacques, and my sister, Marguerite Grolier. You are safe here, in our weaving house."

  That was why she seemed familiar! The silk weaver was her sister. And he had seen the silk weaver in his dreams, had he not? Had she not admonished him to speak only French?

  He was having difficulty working out what was real and what was fantasy. "Jacques is here? I need to speak to him." Jack would be able to explain everything. Jack would set Ben's topsy-turvy memories to rights. Unless… "Jacques? Did they shoot him, too?"

  "Be easy, sir. Your friend came off with a whole skin. As did my sister. You were the only casualty."

  Ben sighed. What a relief. He said as much.

  "For a German, you speak very good French, Herr Benn," she said, smiling broadly at him now. "You have very little accent."

  Another piece of the puzzle slotted into place at her words. Of course. Since, unlike Jack, Ben could not speak French like a native, they had agreed that Ben would pretend to be a German. He had become Herr Christian Benn, while Jack had become Monsieur Louis Jacques, a bourgeois from Paris. Ben must remember to play his part. Was there anything else that he needed to remember? And beware of?

  He must speak French. Only French. No English.

  And he must find out the name of this fair-haired angel.

  She offered him the cup again and he drank greedily. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you, Miss…er… Your pardon, ma'am. I'm afraid I do not know your name."

  "It is Grolier, of course. Suzanne Grolier."

  "Suzanne." He repeated it several times, relishing the taste of the syllables on his tongue. "It is a beautiful name. It suits you."

  She was blushing. "You must not say such things," she said, flustered. She grabbed the cup and made a great show of gathering up the linen she had been using to bathe his face. Then she retreated towards the door.

  "Please don't go," Ben said.

  "I must. You need to rest."

  "But I cannot rest if I do not have your promise to return. Will you promise?"

  Her blush was even deeper now, but after a moment she bit her lip and gave a tiny nod. "I will come back later to tend your wound. Provided you promise, in your turn, Herr B
enn, to do everything I tell you to."

  He frowned, puzzled. He was missing something important here.

  She took a few steps forward so that she was standing at the end of the bed, looking gravely down at him. "You are an invalid. I am your nurse. A patient must obey his nurse or he will never get well." Suddenly, she smiled at him, a mischievous smile that lit up her delicate features. "You do want to get well, don't you, Herr Benn?"

  If getting well would lose him that wonderful smile, he was not at all sure that he did.

  HIS SILKEN SEDUCTION is available as an ebook

  from your local Amazon via this link

  Also available in paperback

  Regency Historicals

  by

  Joanna Maitland

  Unsuitable Matches Series

  A Penniless Prospect

  Marrying the Major

  Rake's Reward

  Star Crossed Lovers

  My Lady Angel

  Bride of the Solway

  Star Crossed at Twilight*

  The Aikenhead Honours

  His Cavalry Lady

  His Reluctant Mistress

  His Forbidden Liaison

  His Silken Seduction*

  Individual Stories

  A Poor Relation

  The Earl's Mistletoe Bride

  A Regency Invitation

  [with Nicola Cornick & Elizabeth Rolls]

  *published by Joanna Maitland Independent