Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  Her unhappiness tore him apart. He’d put her in this position. Allowed her to strip off her very being for the sake of her family, and he’d pushed her to do it just so he could see her again. Be sure of her. Every night since they’d arrived in Doncaster, he’d listened to her soft breathing as she slept in the bed across the room. Having her so near, yet being forced to keep his distance, had been physical and mental torture. He studied her lithe body as she stood beside Manifesto, stroking the horse’s muzzle and talking with Toby. Taking a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his brow and thought, Do I really need more proof?

  • • •

  The day before the St. Leger, they brought Manifesto to the track at Doncaster, registering the horse as Whisker, under Dixon Boyce’s name. Lank wouldn’t suspect a thing. Dixon was one of the top trainers in England.

  Ellie fussed over Manifesto, giving him a bath, rubbing his legs with linseed oil, and filling his bucket with hand-selected oats.

  “You’ve got to relax,” Toby said, shaking her gently by the shoulders. “Your horse is going to be fine.”

  “How can I relax? Everything is hanging on this — the family’s future, everything.”

  “You’re dangerous to be around today,” Toby scolded. “You’re making me and Manifesto nervous. Go take a nap.”

  “That, sir, is literally impossible.”

  “Then put your hair in papers and get ready for the ball,” Hugh said, coming up behind her and giving her a little push away from the stallion. “You’re of no use here. You’re fidgety as a cat, and driving us all to Bedlam. Go away! Be off! I don’t want to see you ’til your tresses bounce in circles.”

  She yanked down her waistcoat. “What are you blabbering about?”

  Hugh pulled a thick card from a jacket pocket, flipped it open, and read, “The granddaughter of Lieutenant Colonel Anthony St. Leger, the founder of the St. Leger horse race in 1776, requests the pleasure of your presence at the annual St. Leger ball. The affair is to be held in the ballroom of Brigham Hill, the home of Mr. Lane Turbot Armstrong Gordon and Mrs. Millicent St. Leger Armstrong Gordon.

  “It seems we oughtn’t to turn her down,” he concluded.

  Ellie stepped back. “Are you mad? Dancing — how can you think of such a thing at a time like this?”

  “It’s a jolly nice thing to think about, and I suggest you set your mind on it, because I’m booting you from the barn.”

  She planted herself in the straw. “In the rush to save my family from imminent ruin, I forgot to pack a ball gown.”

  “Then get your breech-bottomed arse into town and find a dress,” Toby snapped.

  “My word!” she cried. “You know nothing of women’s clothing. An appropriate dress has to be made. You can’t just meander in from the street and expect one to be hanging there.”

  “Ah, but you can,” said Hugh, raising his eyebrows mysteriously. “Go to the little shop marked ‘Rita Beard’s Dress Wear,’ ask for the green gown. It’s bought and paid for.”

  Ellie blinked. She put her finger to her lips and studied Hugh, unable to think of anything to say. Going to a ball was ridiculous, yet she couldn’t think of a reason why she shouldn’t go — especially if she was upsetting Manifesto.

  “Off with you.” Toby pointed a finger toward the door.

  “This is a sneak attack, an ambush,” she said.

  Hugh nodded, a smug curl to his lips. “Yes.”

  Frowning, she left the stall. Manifesto put his head over the door, and whinnied, anxious to see where his mistress was going.

  “Oh, poor horse.” She ran back to him and gave his neck a good scratch. But he didn’t rub his face on her shoulder as he normally would. Instead he threw his head up and stepped away. “You’re right. I am a bundle of nerves.” She patted the stallion’s gleaming coat. “Take good care of my pony,” she told the conspirators. “I’ll be ‘indisposed’ for the afternoon.”

  • • •

  Standing between the carved double doors of Mrs. Millicent St. Leger Armstrong Gordon’s ballroom, Ellie felt a fresh surge of nerves. It seemed that everyone was looking at her, especially the young men whose open admiration caused heat to rise in her cheeks. How strange it felt to be a woman again. What would Hugh think? Would he even recognize her? She scanned the room for him, but met only avaricious looks from tail-coated strangers.

  All afternoon she’d had the pleasure of gazing into Mrs. Rita Beard’s mirror. The bustling seamstress and her band of minions transformed her back into a perfectly groomed young lady. She was bathed and perfumed. Lotions were massaged into her skin, and her browned face was restored to its natural pallor with a battery of unnatural substances.

  When the gown slipped over her head, the change was complete.

  Mrs. Beard clucked her approval. “Behold,” she said, ushering Ellie to a full-length mirror.

  “I can scarcely believe my eyes,” Ellie breathed.

  The dress was white linen trimmed with an ancient Greek pattern in gold embroidery. The bodice, criss-crossed with delicate gold braid, sported puffed sleeves quilted with gold thread and trimmed in emerald satin. The hem displayed a wide swath of gold embroidery piped in emerald green with a pale green slip underneath to match.

  Ellie had never seen a more magnificent costume. As she turned before the mirror, the fabric flowed in a wave of white and green froth. Mrs. Beard bade her stand still, while the seamstress looped strings of gold and emerald beads through Ellie’s lustrous white blond hair.

  Delicate gold ear bobs, a slender pearl and emerald necklace, and white kid gloves finished the effect.

  “Did Lord Davenport mean all of this for me?” Ellie asked.

  “Bless him, he did,” Mrs. Beard responded. “Honest, I’ve never worked on a gown quite like it. He only got the fabric to me a short while ago. My heart went to beating, I’ll tell you, cutting cloth like that in such haste.”

  “I don’t look like myself.”

  “Well, you certainly don’t look like you did,” Mrs. Beard agreed.

  Ellie’s hand fluttered to her face. She’d become delicate, her expressions soft, her gestures graceful and smooth. How could the creature in the mirror be the same as the person in tweeds and trousers? Yet all trace of manly toil had disappeared, shrouded in a mist of beauty.

  “And now, the finishing touch,” Mrs. Beard said. She draped a cashmere shawl over Ellie’s arms. The white fabric fell in folds, edged with green satin and weighted by gold tassels at each corner. Soft as down, the cashmere’s warmth felt alive, like a boneless creature nestled in the crook of her arms.

  It took a gentle tug from Mrs. Beard to move Ellie’s feet toward the door. She caught a last glimpse of herself as the seamstress guided her outside with a tinkle of doorbells and a whoosh of cool air. A coach and four waited. The sleek, matched chestnuts sported harness that gleamed with brass buckles, and entering the coach’s red velvet interior was like being swallowed by a beast.

  So, as Ellie peered into the faces attending her at the threshold of Mrs. Armstrong Gordon’s ballroom, she felt for all the world like a fairy princess, too delicate to enter the pressing throng.

  And then Hugh broke through the crowd. A smile lit his face at the sight of her. He stopped in his tracks so quickly that Toby bumped into him from behind. “By God,” Hugh said admiringly. “This is a lady.”

  Ellie couldn’t help but laugh. She felt like a lady. She felt like a queen. No — she felt like an unearthly goddess.

  Hugh took her hand and led her to the dance floor. An excited tremolo of voices accompanied their promenade. The musicians struck up a Viennese waltz. “Miss Ellie Albright,” he said in a clear baritone that the deafest matrons could hear, “would you care to dance?”

  The tremolo rose to a fever pitch after someone exclaimed, “Why,
it’s Lord Hugh Davenport with Miss Ellie Albright.”

  They stepped into the music like wadding in a warm cloud. Hugh’s arm went about her waist strong and firm. His fingers caressed the curve of her ribs, and his eyes took her soul and held it like a precious bird. She couldn’t put a foot wrong, could not lose the three-quarter time of the music that caressed her every move. They floated together, whirling in the sea of dancers, and Ellie saw no one, knew nothing but the wonder of him. His face came close to hers. He nuzzled her ear and whispered, “I love you.”

  Joy bubbled so unceremoniously in her, only force of will kept her from throwing her arms about his neck and kissing him in front of everyone. A smile pulled her lips from her teeth in what she was sure was a most unladylike grin.

  “And do you love me?” he asked, his eyes merry with admiration.

  Letting decorum slip, Ellie rose on her toes and whispered into his ear. “I do love you. I always have.”

  The rest of the dance flew by. When the orchestra ceased, young men flocked to her. With a snarl, Hugh chased them off.

  “I say!” exclaimed one terribly good looking fellow with a cravat knotted so elaborately it would make a mariner proud. “Don’t pester the lady.”

  But Hugh whirled her away from the encroaching Don Juan, and off they flew, skimming across the red marble adorning Mrs. Armstrong Gordon’s inlaid floors.

  The crowd of men thickened as the music died. They jostled one another, pressing close as they dared despite Hugh’s glower. And then the man in the cravat squeezed through to Ellie’s side. “May I have this dance?” he asked, turning his back on Hugh.

  “You certainly may not,” Hugh exclaimed.

  “Don’t be a greedy guts,” Cravat said. “Give the poor girl some air.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the kind.” Hugh held her waist in an impenetrable grip. With the first chords of the violin, he swung his elbows wide, causing the unhappy throng to step back.

  His cheeks dark with pique, Ellie saw Cravat plunge through the crowd toward Mrs. Armstrong Gordon.

  “You shall find yourself escorted out of here by our hostess’s largest footmen,” she told Hugh, trying to hide the delight in her voice.

  “Ha! They’ll have to — ”

  “My Lord Davenport,” interrupted an imperious voice. A large woman in sumptuous dress appeared in front of them — Mrs. Armstrong Gordon, no doubt. “You must relinquish the young lady.” Hugh stopped their dancing, but kept a firm grip on Ellie’s waist. “Miss Ellie is a lovely prize, my lord. But you cannot dominate her companionship at my home unless you are engaged in marriage.”

  Cravat smirked.

  “Quite so,” Hugh said.

  Holding Ellie by the hand, he battered a path through the crush to the steps of the balcony. She scarcely had time to gather her skirts before they were bounding to the top where the orchestra played.

  “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen!” Hugh shouted, interrupting the music. “Throw us a kiss and a good wish, too. I shall marry this magnificent creature before the year is out!”

  Ellie laughed with joy as the whole company burst into applause and threw kisses. “You will have me, won’t you, Ellie?” he asked, a wisp of worry darkening his brown eyes.

  Her heart aching with happiness, Ellie put the palm of her gloved hand on his cheek. Tenderly she traced the jagged path of the scar bisecting his perfect features. “Are you certain you want a trouser-wearing, astride-riding hoyden such as myself?”

  “Like no other.”

  “Then you know what my answer is,” she said. “A resounding, ‘yes.’”

  “She’ll do it, by Jove!” Hugh cried to the crowd. With an elated whoop, he turned to the orchestra, commandeered the conductor’s music, and tossed the pile of paper into the air. And on whom did most of it land? Cravat.

  • • •

  In the crush of bodies at the ball, amidst the applause and laughter, one man stood still as a rock. His eyes glowed with fear and loathing. “Get your wrap,” he hissed to his wife.

  “But Mr. Lank … ”

  “Hush, ninny. Are your eyes too weak to see who’s joined us at the ball?”

  “Why, whom?” Mrs. Lank said.

  “Our downfall.”

  Mrs. Lank strained her eyes toward the balcony. She gasped when she recognized Hugh and Ellie. In terror, she scampered from the ballroom, not wasting time to look back and see if her husband followed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alone in her room at the Blakeley Arms, an inn close by Doncaster racetrack, Ellie prayed the excitement of the ball would make her tired, but sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, alternating between worry about Manifesto’s performance in the pending race and thrilling to Hugh’s marriage proposal. Just as her patience broke, she spied a streak of pink at the edge of the horizon. Leaping from bed, she threw on a pair of grubby pants and an old smock. At last Manifesto would be awake.

  The crunch of her boots on the stony path broke the silent morning, and the stables in the distance seemed enchanted, drenched in shades of gray and softened in the pale pink light. When she was close enough for Manifesto to hear her footfalls, the stallion poked his nose over the half door and nickered low and sweet. Happiness settled in her muscles. She hummed a waltz she’d heard the night before as she fed the horse a breakfast of hand-selected oats and fragrant hay.

  After cleaning the stall and filling it with an extra layer of fresh straw, she stood next to the stallion and surveyed her work. Restlessness pulsed in her veins. There had to be something else that needed doing. She ran her palms down the horse’s muscled haunches. A tiny speck of dust clung to the surface of his coat. She took a brush from the tack box and ran it over the dark gray dapples on his rump. She repeated the motion over and over, allowing tranquility to trickle into her anxious mind.

  A noise made her start. Hugh had his arms on the top of the double door, his chin propped on them, his eyes fixed on her. “Hullo, wife-to-be.”

  Happiness billowed inside her. “Hullo, husband-to-be. Have you been spying on me again?”

  “Perhaps.” He let himself into the stall. “I could watch you fuss over that animal all day.”

  She laughed — a sensuous rumble that surprised and embarrassed her. “And what an exciting extravaganza that would be.”

  Hugh ran his hand under Manifesto’s thick, white mane and stepped near. “You missed a hair.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Look, right here on his shoulder — that hair curls up, while the others lie flat.”

  She leaned back to check. Hugh was so close she could feel his warmth against her cheek. Putting a hand over hers, he brought the brush to the errant hair. Together they stroked the sinuous length of the stallion’s shoulder.

  “There, all done,” Ellie said, demurely slipping her hand out from under his and moving off.

  He stopped her escape with an arm around her waist. His other hand slid to her neck, dry, warm, sending rivers of want through her body. He pressed against her bottom, so close his warm breath tickled her eyelashes. “I’ve found another hair out of place.”

  “You did?” His hand slid under the brim of her hat. A finger curled around a lock and pulled it free.

  He turned her to face him. Her body tingled as his hand worked a comb from the tangle under her hat, and another tress dropped loose. Her breath fluttered. She longed to throw the hat away and shake her locks free. Instead she leaned against his chest. His manhood jumped against her. Her breath went shallow. “I didn’t see a hair astray,” she whispered.

  With an index finger, he traced two circles around her eyes. “Then you need glasses.”

  Dizzy with wanting, she blinked and smiled. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t recognize me with them on.”

  “Oh, I’d recognize you,” he
said, chuckling. He ran his hands over the corrugation of her ribs. “Nothing will ever hide you from me again.” His thumb touched the bottom of one breast as he held her in front of him. The other traced the outline of her lips.

  Ellie breathed. Her nipples grew hard, and the core of her itched for him. He leaned toward her, so close her skin knew the heat of him before they touched. His lips found hers. She dove into the kiss, hot, wet. Their tongues licked — meetings filled with curiosity and passion. The taste of him changed from savory to copper as his excitement grew with hers.

  He led her to an adjacent stall, untied her smock, pulled off her jacket, and yanked the cloth of her shirt down to expose her breasts. He held one bosom cradled in his fingers as if it were an orb of gold. His thumb rubbed the nipple until it jutted like a spire.

  Desire flooded her core, making her wet. “I … I want you inside of me,” she breathed. “I long for you.”

  He kissed her brow. “On our wedding night, my love. I’ll not be accused of defiling the woman I love.”

  Frustration welled in her. “You didn’t hesitate to defile Hortense, the Mortimers’ maid.”

  Hugh tipped his head back and laughed. “All this time you’ve worried about Hortense?”

  “Not ‘worried’ … ”

  “I hired that poor Hortense to upset my mother. Nothing more.”

  “So when she held you?”

  “Was it like this?” Hugh asked, lifting Ellie’s arms and draping them about his neck. “And her lips, were they touching mine, like this?” He played across her mouth.

  “I couldn’t see,” Ellie murmured, enjoying the tickle of his breath against her face.

  He pressed her against the flat boards of the stall. “Would you like to know what might have happened to Hortense, had I been so inclined?”

  She inhaled his heady scent and whispered close to his ear, “Show me.”

  His hand moved down her hip, across the worn breeches, to the front flap. He knelt in the straw and kissed her belly as he unbuttoned then pulled the breeches to the floor. The palm of his hand cupped her, his fingers moving in the swamp of her sex. Wet with craving, she moaned with each stroke until his finger entered her place of darkness and salt and pleasure.