Timeless (A Time Travel Romance)

by Jasmine Cresswell

  For a moment—a wild, passionate moment—Robyn felt herself respond to the powerful physical demand of his embrace. Blood pounded in her ears and she swayed toward him, giving a tiny sigh of pleasure when he pushed aside the sleeve of her gown. His fingers slipped inside her bodice, seeking her nipples at the same moment as his tongue thrust against her lips. His touch was tantalizing, expert—and totally lacking in any trace of emotion. As soon as she realized how empty his manipulations were, Robyn’s passion died.

  “William, stop!” She recoiled, tearing herself out of his arms and scrubbing her mouth with the back of her hand. “How can you demean both of us with a kiss so utterly lacking in emotion?”

  “I am your husband,” he said, his eyes glittering with icy blue fire. “I have the right to kiss you, if I so desire.”

  “That’s debatable. And marriage certainly doesn’t confer the right to kiss me without a shred of feeling except animal lust!”

  “Ah!” he said. “I see that some things in our relationship have not changed, despite the supposedly new Arabella.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “Why would they, since you still persist in treating me like a whore!”

  He smiled coldly. “Would you prefer that I treat you like a virgin, my lady? Come, tell me your wish. In our ongoing bedroom farce, one role is as good as another, and I pride myself on being infinitely adaptable.”

  “I have no desire to pretend anything,” she said quietly, regaining control of her temper. “Why should we assume roles, when we can be ourselves? If you want to kiss me, I’d like you to do it as if I were your good friend, which I hope I am.”

  His hands fell from her shoulders and he gave an odd, frustrated little laugh as he stepped away from her. “You win, my lady. You have set me the one challenge I cannot meet. To kiss you as a friend oversteps the limit of my skills.”

  “It wouldn’t be nearly as difficult as you think,” she said. Seconds earlier, she would have sworn she wasn’t ready for any sort of sexual relationship with William. Now she realized how badly she wanted him to kiss her. Not with cold lust, but with the sort of warm, tender passion she instinctively knew he was capable of showing.

  She put her hands on his shoulders and moved closer, until her breasts touched the velvet braiding of his jacket. She swallowed nervously. “I could show you how it’s done, if you like.”

  “How generous of you.” William’s smile was sharp enough to cut flesh. “You know, I had never before considered the many benefits of being a cuckold. Now it seems I am to profit from the lessons you have learned in your lovers’ arms. You will teach me how to kiss. A la Zachary? I wonder. Or is it to be A la Captain Bretton? How truly fortunate I am to benefit from their instruction!”

  She flinched. “No,” she said. “For God’s sake, William, it’s not like that.”

  “Then pray, my lady, do tell me precisely what it is like.”

  She knew there was no verbal answer that would satisfy him, so Robyn reached up and linked her hands behind his head, pulling his mouth down toward her own. He offered her no resistance, but neither did he cooperate. He simply stood, rigid and unbending, his mouth twisted into an ironic smile. The barricades he had erected against any offer of emotional warmth were so high that for a moment Robyn paused, with her body curved against William’s, but her mouth still a fraction away from his.

  He spoke into the silence, his voice sounding terminally bored. “So far, my lady, the embrace of the whore and the embrace of a friend seem to have much in common.”

  Robyn blanched at his deliberate cruelty. She was on the point of moving away from him when she glanced up and made a momentous discovery.

  William was afraid. But what did he fear? She cast her mind over the picture she had built up of Arabella, and suddenly understood. William had no doubt offered friendship and affection to Arabella on dozens of occasions—and each time, his offer had been rejected, probably with vicious, cutting disdain. He had been wounded by Arabella so many times that he now felt an obligation to protect himself from the risk of further pain.

  “William, you don’t need to worry,” she said, resting her cheek against the unyielding wall of his chest. “I promise that I will never knowingly hurt you.”

  “I quite fail to understand your meaning, my lad—”

  “Then I will make it clear,” she said, standing on tiptoe so that she could wind her fingers in the long, thick queue of his hair. “Open your mouth for me,” she whispered against his lips.

  For an instant longer he held himself aloof. Then she felt a shudder sweep through his body as he loosened the relentless hold he had been maintaining over his feelings. Heat suffused her veins, a glorious flood of warmth, and she arched against him, aching to show him a tenderness that would make up for Arabella’s years of cold indifference.

  “I want you.” He looked down at her, his gaze dark. “Dear God, how have you brought me to this?” He muttered the words against her lips, but she had no chance to reply. He caught her by the waist and drew her hard against him, thrusting his tongue into her mouth with all the fierce urgency and passionate longing he had previously refused to express.

  She had never intended to resist, but she wasn’t prepared for the swiftness with which her body melted into his embrace. He ran his hands down her spine and her skin tingled in instant response. He teased her lips with his tongue, and her breasts swelled, nipples taut and aching as they pressed against the silk of her gown. He moved against her, and even through the layers of her starched petticoats, she could feel the strength and urgency of his desire.

  His kiss went on, an endless, turbulent voyage into the heart of his desire. She kissed him back, but not with the friendship she had promised. His passion called to her with irresistible force, and she kissed him with the intensity of a hunger she had fought to keep hidden, even from herself.

  She was trembling when he finally raised his head. He drew back slightly and looked down at her. His breath came in short, sharp pants, but his blue eyes still gleamed with a trace of mockery. “You have—a—singular—idea—of what—constitutes—friendship, my lady.”

  She fought for breath. “Friendship between a husband and wife isn’t quite the same as other friendships,” she said.

  “Is it not?” He cradled her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her mouth. “You know, I would really appreciate further instruction in the art of marital friendship. May I hope that you are planning to expand upon this demonstration of how a wife kisses like a friend?”

  They were both shaking from the impact of their lovemaking, but even now he couldn’t let down his guard. He persisted in defending himself by assuming an air of ironic detachment, and Robyn realized that if she was to break through his protective shield, she would have to make most of the running.

  “I’m not giving you an abstract demonstration,” she said softly. “I’m showing you how I truly feel.”

  “I know how you feel, my lady. In need of bedding. An inconvenient state of affairs when only your husband is available.”

  “I don’t want to be bedded,” she said. “I want to make love with you, William.” She unfastened the buttons of his jacket as she spoke, reaching inside his shirt and laying her palm flat against his chest.

  “Your heart beats very fast,” she said, taking his hand and placing it beneath her breast. “As does mine. Whatever you are feeling, it seems that I’m feeling it, too.”

  “That, my lady, is a matter of considerable doubt.”

  She pressed her finger against his lips, “Hush, William, you don’t have to pretend with me, not anymore.”

  He didn’t answer. He stood, not speaking, letting the pulse of her heartbeat throb against the tips of his fingers for several seconds. Then, slowly, his hand trailed up the side of her breasts, seeking the hooks of her bodice. This time, instead of working with cool, passionless efficiency, his fingers were clumsy with need, and she had to help him with the knot of her ribbons before the hooks parted
and the bodice of her gown fell open.

  He drew in his breath on a tight, harsh sigh and she saw a dark flush of color stain his cheekbones. Slowly, reluctantly, he bent his head and trailed his tongue across the swollen mound of her breasts, his touch an exquisite mixture of hungry desire and teasing gentleness. She gasped, with surprise and delight, closing her eyes and clinging to his shoulders for support.

  He kissed her throat, the hollow of her neck, and the slope of her shoulders, while his hands worked magic on her body. His touch burned her skin, the pleasure so fierce that she writhed with the intensity of it. The layers of clothing separating the two of them seemed an unbearable irritant, and she untied the lacings of his shirt, pushing the starched linen aside so that she could feel the muscles of his chest against her breasts and the prickle of his hair tingling against her nipples.

  As soon as she started to undress him, William went utterly still. Then a small, rough sound tore from deep in his throat and he began to unhook her skirt and petticoats with frantic haste. The cumbersome layers fell at her feet in a pool of lace and satin, leaving her naked and exposed. He gave her no time to feel vulnerable. He swept her into his arms and carried her over to the bed, kicking off his buckled shoes and laying her amid the damask-covered pillows in a single, swift movement.

  Outside, the wind picked up, rattling against the window in a gust of unexpected fury. Robyn heard the harsh sough and felt the chill of an icy draft ripple over her skin. For a moment, beneath the groan of the wind, she thought she heard the sound of a door opening, but before she could turn to look, William drew the curtains around the bed, shutting out the cold and wrapping them both in a warm, crimson glow. She hadn’t realized how desperately alone she felt in this alien, long-ago world until William drew her into his arms and held her close, making her feel safe and loved.

  “Are you warm enough now?” he asked.

  “As long as you stay near me.” She smiled at him, and he shaped the outline of her mouth with slow, careful fingers.

  “I have always dreamed of seeing you so,” he said. “When you smile, you are surpassingly beautiful.”

  “Then I must certainly learn to smile often.”

  “I believe that is a lesson you have already learned.” He brushed his mouth against her lips, but his eyes were shadowed with memories that she didn’t want to share. Robyn guessed that only mutual passion would lift the shadows, and she turned to him on the pillows.

  “Hold me,” she whispered. “Make love to me. Don’t wait any longer, William.”

  The last dam of his restraint broke. He seized her mouth, thrusting his tongue deep inside, at the same moment as he parted her legs with his knee. His fingers rippled down her body, rousing her with swift, sure strokes, and Robyn arched up to meet his questing hand, already shimmering on the edge of release. Her world shrank to the crimson cocoon inside the bed curtains and the hot, ravenous taste of William’s desire.

  He pushed her full onto her back and moved over her, poised between her thighs. On the verge of entering her, he stopped, his forehead sheening with sweat. “The babe,” he demanded hoarsely. “Your lying-in. Is it too soon for me to take you?”

  It was less than six weeks since the birth of baby Zach.

  Yes, it was too soon, medically speaking. But, dear God, how could they stop now? She put her hands on his shoulders, pulling him back down to her, settling the weight of his body between her thighs.

  “No,” she said fiercely. “It will be all right.”

  His body vibrated with impatience, but still he didn’t enter her. “Help me,” he said. “Help me not to hurt you.”

  He waited above her, and she reached down to guide him. He held back for one final moment, then eased slowly into the slickness of her heated flesh.

  The split second of pain as he entered was obliterated in a spasm of pleasure, but William tensed, instantly sensitive to her discomfort.

  “I have hurt you,” he said. “Sweet Jesus, Arabella, I should not be doing this to you.”

  She shook her head, frustrated by his willful failure to understand. “You aren’t doing this to me. You are not taking anything I don’t want to give. We are making love with each other.”

  He didn’t answer her with words, but she felt sweat break out along his spine. His flesh stirred, and he thrust deep within her. Robyn caught her breath, opening herself to him, moving beneath him in fervent, rhythmic response.

  William surged within her, and her body pulsed with life. “Hold me,” she gasped. “It feels as if the world is falling.”

  “Mayhap it is,” he groaned. “My God, Arabella, I have waited so long for this.”

  He climaxed with a harsh cry, and Robyn heard the answering sob of release rise in her own throat. Their passion crested in a thundering wave, sweeping her away, casting her adrift.

  In the heaving, formless sea there was only William. William holding her safe, pulling her back from the edges of eternity.

  William—who wasn’t a dream.

  Chapter 15

  Thomas Gainsborough had finally left for his return journey to London, after spending three weeks painting a picture of Lady Arabella and her infant son, the Honorable Zachary Arthur Danville Bowleigh.

  Robyn had frozen with shock when William, beaming like a schoolboy, had ushered the young painter into the drawing room and announced that he was ready to start work immediately on Arabella’s portrait. It seemed that Master Gainsborough was a friend of Hannah Wilkes, and sorely in need of money. Unwilling to acknowledge openly the intensity of emotion developing between himself and Arabella, William pounced with alacrity on the idea of supporting Thomas Gainsborough’s talent by having him paint a picture of the wife who was fast becoming his obsession.

  Robyn, feeling the threads of destiny pull frighteningly tight around her, had resisted at first. Only when William pointed out to her that Master Gainsborough was sorely in need of the money had she surrendered to the inevitable and agreed to be painted.

  Unfortunately, sitting on a silk sofa in the drawing room, with Zach dozing in her arms, left far too much time for contemplation. Robyn’s thoughts constantly circled back to the bizarre fact that the picture of Lady Arabella in Zach’s Manhattan apartment was actually a picture of herself.

  William’s frequent appearances in the drawing room did nothing to help calm her tumultuous spirits. His repartee made her laugh, and eased the boredom of hours of sitting, but his eyes spoke a silent and more sensual message that left her dizzy with longing and restless for the night ahead. Then she would remember the portrait in Zach’s apartment and her entire body would flush with embarrassed heat.

  Having seen the finished work, she knew Thomas Gainsborough had both seen her desire and skillfully recorded it for all posterity.

  But at last the portrait was finished, and Robyn could put aside the confusing welter of emotions that sitting for it had aroused. A mere three days remained until Christmas, and Starke Manor vibrated with the sights, sounds, and smells of the holiday season. The children weren’t expecting a visit from Santa Claus, a nineteenth-century invention, nor was there a tree to decorate, a German custom introduced into England by Queen Victoria’s husband. But William and the children, aided by an army of servants, had garlanded the staircase with boughs of fir and festooned the mantels with great bunches of scarlet-berried holly. Clemmie never walked into one of the decorated rooms without sniffing the pine-scented air and giving a little skip of pure pleasure. Robyn often found herself tempted to follow the child’s example.

  “Lady Arabella” was on the upswing in the servants’ esteem. The household had been much impressed by her creativity when she combined a swatch of cheap scarlet ribbon with strips of gold satin from a discarded ball gown and tied giant bows to all the drawing-room sconces. The servants made the flimsiest of excuses to come to the drawing room and gaze in admiration at the bright, shiny bows nestled amid the somber evergreens. Robyn discovered one of the little chambermaids surrepti
tiously fingering the gold satin, her face alight with pleasure. She realized, with a profound sense of shock, that the child had never before touched a piece of silken cloth.

  The excitement generated by her Christmas bows was a reproach to Robyn, a humiliating reminder of how few changes she had produced in the daily life of the Manor, and how trivial those changes had been. At her behest, everyone bathed more frequently, and the servants all had warmer bedding. She’d doubled the number of pot boys to four, so that she could be sure dishes got washed and not handed to the dogs to lick clean. Her first-aid advice was sometimes followed—at least when she was in sight. For the most part, however, she knew she’d had little impact on the way life was lived at Starke.

  This was not the fault of tradition-bound servants. Robyn soon realized her grasp of technology was humiliatingly superficial. Far from being able to revolutionize the way daily tasks were performed, she could offer William almost no useful advice. She knew crops needed to be rotated and fertilized, but she had only the vaguest idea how. She couldn’t rewrite history by inventing a steam engine years before James Watts because she didn’t know how a steam engine worked. As for the mysteries of more advanced technology, they were just that—mysteries. She didn’t know how light appeared when people flipped electric switches and she had no idea how computers stored information, or how antibiotics promoted healing. Like many other New Yorkers, she had been content to behave as if food grew in Chinese take-out boxes, and electronic data retrieval was a phenomenon of nature. If she had met one of the great inventors of the eighteenth century, she doubted if she would have been able to take his researches a single step further.

  The entire household’s unabashed pleasure in eating had been another surprise for her. Food was seasonal, hard to store, and precious. Sweets were a rare treat, dinner the most eagerly anticipated hour of the day. When the choristers from the parish church entertained the household with a series of Christmas rounds and carols, the singers were rewarded with mugs of apple cider and a plate of hot damson tartlets. From their ecstatic expressions as they ate the pastries, Robyn concluded that damson tartlets were something looked forward to all year, and probably talked about for weeks before and after they were consumed.