by Gina Lamm
Except my stupid heart, Jamie thought as she closed her eyes against the tears.
***
She’d planned to spend Sunday in Mike’s company. After all, it was one of the last times she’d be near him. But instead, Jamie spent the day in the garden with Baron. She’d taken both breakfast and lunch alone in her room, unwilling to run into Mike again. It would be too damn painful. But by the time Muriel had collected the tray with her mostly uneaten lunch still on it, Jamie was going stir crazy.
Baron was more than willing to keep her company as she paced the length of the gravel path down and back again. Eventually, he collapsed in a beam of sunshine, watching her walk. Then he fell asleep, and she was completely alone with her thoughts.
It was simple. She had failed in her attempt to convince Mike to marry for love, whether to her or someone else. Mrs. K would be disappointed, to say the least. There was no reason to even think about going to that stupid ball tomorrow night. She’d probably make a giant ass of herself anyway.
She snorted and kicked a rock across the path. Baron’s ears flicked at the sound.
Why had she ever thought that she could pull off something like a huge society ball, anyway? From what Mrs. Knightsbridge had told her, these things were like breeding grounds for the best gossip. If Lady Such-and-such danced too close to someone that wasn’t her husband, then the titters would begin. Would she be able to remember all the stupid rules like that? Hardly. She could barely remember not to say “fuck” in front of anyone here.
The sun was setting before she was done with her pacing. Baron eventually tired of her, and she couldn’t blame him. She let him in the house when he stood on the back steps and stared at her pitifully. Honestly, other than Mike, Jamie thought she’d miss Baron most of all.
After the door swung shut behind the hound, Jamie sat on the damp brick and held her head in her hands. Mrs. K had promised to have Wilhelmina open the portal in only thirty-six hours or so. She’d go back to her little house. Back to the summer heat. Back to the lonely episode of Hoarders that was her life.
The creaking of the door at her back startled Jamie, and she whirled. Fortunately, it was only Muriel.
“Miss Marten, Mrs. Knightsbridge wanted me to fetch you. It’s time for your fitting.”
Jamie looked up at the thin-faced girl. “Fitting?”
Muriel beamed and nodded, white mobcap flopping. “For your ball gown, miss. She’s told me how you’re going to the masquerade.”
Jamie looked back down to where her knuckles where white against the rusty-colored brick. “Yeah.”
“Come, Miss Marten.” Muriel reached down and grabbed her hand, pulling Jamie after her. “You must see the beautiful gown she has made for you! You shall be the toast of the ball.”
Jamie couldn’t break the maid’s heart by telling her she wouldn’t be going, so she allowed the maid to drag her through the house and up the stairs to the Lemon Room, where Mrs. Knightsbridge was placing the finishing touches on a gown that would never see the ball at all.
When Jamie walked into the room, Mrs. K immediately hustled her out of her green muslin gown. “Come, Muriel, help me. Miss Jamie, lift your arms.”
They snatched the gown over her head and immediately replaced it with what looked like silk lifted straight from a fairy tale. It was silver, light as gossamer, and it hugged her curves like a BMW 645 on a mountain road.
“Wow,” Jamie breathed, staring at herself in the mirror. She was…beautiful. She looked like a princess. The wide neckline showed off the curve of her collarbone, making it look delicate. Mrs. K brought her a mask and placed it gently over her eyes. It only covered half her face, the wide eye-slits making it easy to see through.
“There,” Mrs. K breathed. “You are lovely.”
Jamie couldn’t drag her stare away from that woman in the mirror. The silver made the highlights in her hair look brighter, her skin glow with health and life, and her eyes shine with possibilities.
A deep sigh broke her gaze, and she looked at the two people staring into the mirror beside her.
Muriel’s face was bright, her smile so big Jamie thought her face would break. Mrs. K stood on her other side, tears brimming in the woman’s clear gray eyes. She swallowed, a watery smile breaking across her face.
“You shall be the most beautiful lady at the ball.” Muriel sighed happily. “You will have your pick of any gentleman you could wish for!”
Except for one, Jamie thought, her heart breaking as she turned away from the mirror. The only one I want.
***
In the end, Jamie couldn’t crush Mrs. K and Muriel by refusing to go to the ball. They’d worked so hard to make her ready for it. Mrs. K on the gown, which she’d apparently been working on every spare second for the past week, and Muriel when it came to dressing Jamie for the event itself. When they were done with her, she barely recognized herself. The hairdo, which Muriel had proudly informed Jamie was “a la Grecque” or something, was an intricate twist of curls and braids. It made her look a foot and a half taller, slender, and so willowy that she thought runway models would envy her back home. Well, if runway models had nearly C-cup breasts. And hips that were curvier. And carried a healthy body weight. So maybe not so much like a runway model. Still, more beautiful than she’d ever been in her life.
Mike, fortunately, had already departed by the time Jamie made her way down the staircase, feeling like the world’s fakest Cinderella.
She was bundled into a carriage and waved off with nothing but Mrs. K, a wink, and a prayer.
Mrs. K smiled at her from across the carriage. Even though it was a masked ball, no lady of quality would be there without a chaperone, she’d told Jamie. Once they arrived at the ball, Mrs. K would disappear, leaving Jamie and Mike to have the most awkward public good-bye ever. Jamie sighed. She wished, as the carriage bounced its way along the dark streets of London, that someone would reassure her that this wasn’t the stupidest idea in the world.
If she was Cinderella, then she could have her prince, or earl in this case, and it wouldn’t matter that she was a servant in her wicked stepmother’s house. But since she wasn’t, and Jamie Marten was in this carriage watching the moonlit streets go by, then this was another chance for Mike to understand how completely wrong she was for his world.
As they descended the carriage to the brick walkway in front of the huge home, Jamie made a decision.
“Mrs. K?”
“Yes, dear?” The older woman was almost pretty in a simple gown made of dark-blue fabric. Her silvery mask obscured most of her face. No one would recognize her as a servant, Jamie was fairly certain. She must have conjured up the gowns for the both of them because no way could she have purchased them on a servant’s wages.
“Can you have Wilhelmina send me home as soon as we get back?” Jamie’s voice came out a little shaky. She wouldn’t even tell Mike she was going. She’d find him in this crowd somehow and grab a memory that would have to last her for the rest of her life.
Mrs. K shook her head. “Let’s not worry about that right now, dearie. Come. You’ve a ball to attend.”
The music and laughter was carried on the night air through the open doorways. Jamie’s nerves sped her heart, and she contemplated running straight back the way she’d come. But when she turned, the carriage had already rounded the corner to make way for more arriving guests. Mrs. K grabbed Jamie firmly by the elbow and steered her down the walk. Jamie sighed. The sooner she went into this ballroom filled with the cream of the English crop, the sooner she could beat feet for 2012.
“Now.” Mrs. K dug through her tiny purse—she’d called it a reticule—and produced a thick sheet of paper with gilt edging. “We’ll need this to gain entry.”
Jamie gulped and took the sheet of paper. She hadn’t really thought about getting into the damn party. She’d figured it would be like a frat party back in her days as a college student. Show up, grab a beer, and find someone she could hold a conversation wi
th. Usually, it was some lonely looking smart boy in the corner. Lucky her, the last time she’d done that the lonely guy had been Logan.
This shindig, however, was nothing like that. A puffy-looking guy in a powdered wig with a warm brown coat and tails stood guard at the doorway. Mrs. K pulled Jamie aside, and they watched the couple that had gotten out of the carriage behind them. The gentleman handed an invitation to the servant, and he waved them in with a bow.
“Go,” the housekeeper whispered, nudging Jamie on.
Swallowing hard, Jamie approached the man.
“Good evening,” he said with a bow.
Jamie nodded, graciously she hoped, and handed the invitation over. Mrs. K was nearly bouncing with excitement.
“My apologies, miss, but this invitation is for the Granfield ball, two weeks hence.” The servant’s tone was condescending. “Are you known to the Baroness Wentworth?”
Frantically looking over at Mrs. K, Jamie gulped.
The housekeeper sputtered. “Oh dear, I must have brought the wrong invitation. How silly of me.” She went into titters, thwapping the man on the arm with her fan. He winced.
Jamie rolled her eyes.
“Please, don’t let my poor daughter miss the event because of a silly mistake.”
The servant started to shake his head. Just then, lighted lanterns over to the east side of the ballroom caught Jamie’s eye.
“Pardon us, sir. I need a word with my mother.” Pulling Mrs. K aside, Jamie whispered, “There’s a path to a garden. There has to be a back door into this place. Come on, let’s use it.”
They waited for a gentleman with a pointy-nosed mask to make his way to the entrance before slipping off into the cover of night. The night air had deposited early dew on the lawn, and Jamie hoisted her skirt high to keep the hem from dragging. She and Mrs. K tiptoed as quick as they could through the darkness, making a beeline for the lighted path.
They made it without incident. Smoothing her skirt, Jamie took stock of her appearance. Hem still mud free, white gloves still bright and clean, mask on straight, hair still “Greek” to her. Mrs. K placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “Miss Jamie, we must go inside.”
Ascending the steps to the balcony, her housekeeper chaperone behind her, Jamie kept her senses on alert. As she drew closer to the open doors to the ballroom, a problem occurred to her that she hadn’t even considered before. A problem that would quite possibly mean that she couldn’t even say good-bye to Mike tonight. Disappointment gripped her, and she wondered if it was worth it to even try.
“What is wrong, my dear?”
Jamie swallowed the knot in her throat. “There are masks everywhere. On everybody.”
Mrs. K laughed. “Of course, my dear. This is a masked ball.”
“But how will I ever find Mike?” She leaned against the marble railing of the balcony, halfway hidden behind a potted tree, dejection soaking her thoroughly.
There were tons of men there. They were dressed in all shades, ranging from severe black and white to the color of regurgitated Skittles. Masks covered whole faces on some, three-quarters on others.
Mrs. K snapped her fan open. “I shall locate him. Wait here.” Sailing off like the mother ship, Mrs. K marched determinedly into the ballroom, long skirt swishing. Jamie couldn’t help but shake her head at the housekeeper’s fancy dress and unfailing faith. Better Mrs. K than her, though. From what Jamie had heard, tabloid reporters were kittens when it came to gossip compared to the women of the British ton.
She stood there, chewing her lip, digging the toe of her slipper into the ground, when the nervous, high laughter of a woman interrupted her internal soliloquy.
“Sir, you should not beg me so. It’s unbecoming, and I’ve no need for new company.”
“But, Marilyn, you must know how I feel for you. How I long to bask in the sunshine of your love…”
Blecch.
Jamie peeked around her tree to see a couple walking briskly up the garden path toward the house. Well, the woman was walking briskly anyway. What Jamie assumed was a besotted swain trotted after her, not stopping his stream of ridiculously bad poetry. Jamie had written better love-struck crap than that when she was only seven years old. J. T. Keibler never knew what he’d missed.
As they came closer, Jamie examined the woman as unobtrusively as she could. The beauty was dressed all in white, gold braids and borders edging the skirt of her gown. Her honey-brown hair was done up in more gold, chains, and braids decorating the mass of curls. Her heart-shaped face was covered by a small mask over her eyes, the slits edged in gold paint.
Wait a minute. That guy said Marilyn, didn’t he?
Before they could reach the steps of the balcony, the guy, who apparently was as stupid and cruel as he was bad at poetry, decided he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Grabbing her arm, he twisted it high behind her back, eliciting a cry of pain from her.
“You bedamned tease, you’ll deny me no further.” He started to drag her back into the garden, away from the lantern-lit path. His hand clapped across her mouth, muffling her terrified cries.
Oh the hell you will, Jamie thought, and yanked up her skirt for a full-on run. She didn’t give a shit what year it was; she wasn’t going to stand by while a woman got attacked.
Sixteen
Ignoring the bushes that grabbed at her silver skirt, Jamie followed the sounds of the struggle. He couldn’t go very fast with Marilyn fighting like she was, brave woman. Jamie tried to be as quick and quiet as possible, realizing that surprise was the best way for her to overcome this quite possibly inebriated dumbass. He had a height and weight advantage against Marilyn and Jamie, but if she could get the jump on him, they’d get her away safe. She hoped.
He dragged Marilyn behind a large old oak tree, the secluded area lit only by the soft glow of the moon overhead. Throwing her against the trunk, he pressed his lips roughly against hers.
She thrashed against him, kicking and scratching wildly. He spread his legs, using one of his to pry hers apart. Bingo. My chance.
Jamie darted behind him, not daring to breathe. In a move worthy of a professional wrestling low blow, she dropped to her knees and punched upward as hard as she could. He barely made a squeak before dropping to the ground, coughing painfully.
Marilyn kicked at his face, but he caught the heel of her golden slipper with the hand not cupping his privates. She screamed, falling back against the tree as he pulled her off-balance.
“You bitch,” he rasped in a thin voice, rising into an awkwardly off-center crouch. “For that you shall suffer.”
“Leave her alone,” Jamie shrieked as she belted him in the ear as hard as she could. Her blow upset his already precarious balance, and he fell sideways onto an exposed root, head cracking loudly against the wood. Marilyn yanked up her skirts and ran back toward the house. After kicking the douchebag in the kidneys to make sure he wouldn’t give chase, Jamie followed.
Once they were back on the lantern-lit path, Marilyn turned to Jamie with a sob. She threw her arms around Jamie.
“Oh, thank you, thank you so much. I don’t know who you are or how you knew I needed help, but without you, Mr. Collins surely would have…”
“Shh, Marilyn, it’s okay,” Jamie murmured as she rubbed her back with a still-tingling palm. Jamie was shaking too, if she was being honest with herself. Her own encounter with attackers hadn’t been all that long ago, after all, and she wasn’t sure that the sick feeling of terror would ever leave her fully.
“How did you know my name?” Marilyn pulled back, lifting her delicate mask enough to wipe her tears away.
Jamie glanced over her shoulder. She sure as hell didn’t want to wait around for the drunken asshole, but she might miss Mrs. K if she went inside. Opting to take her chances with the rabid ton instead of the wannabe rapist, she hoped the woman wouldn’t mind lending her a hand.
Jamie left out the part about being from two hundred years in the future. She didn’t figure Ma
rilyn would buy the truth. Jamie told her that she’d fallen in love with the wrong man and that there was no working it out. She needed to find him to say good-bye. Marilyn agreed to help her immediately, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It seemed that love was something that a mistress could understand better than a titled and landed gentleman. Men. Go figure.
Apparently, as Marilyn told Jamie, masquerade balls were sort of the free-for-all of the ton. Normally rigid rules were relaxed, braver members of the less-than-virtuous frequently found their way there, and it was sort of a game to figure out who was who. Mrs. Knightsbridge had certainly brought Jamie to the only society event that she could make it out of unscathed—if she was careful enough.
After Marilyn helped Jamie brush the dirt from her skirt and Jamie knocked the stray bits of bark from Marilyn’s, they were ready to navigate the ballroom. Marilyn had spied a few men earlier that might be the earl and was going to take Jamie along in order to find out for sure. Once she’d made a positive ID, Jamie would lure him out to the balcony and share one last conversation with the most maddening, bright, and wonderful man she’d ever met. It would have to be enough because there was no hope for more between them.
The noise inside was more than Jamie had been prepared for. Parties in her day were loud, crazy, screaming things full of throbbing bass and repressed cube-dwellers. She’d been expecting some nice string music and quiet chitchat. Boy, was she wrong.
She was almost there on the music, but the orchestra was having to saw hell bent for leather on their violins and cellos to be heard above the myriad conversations and gales of laughter from the raucous attendees. It was almost like home, but without the beer kegs and the strung-out stoners in the corner.
“Close to me now,” Marilyn reminded Jamie, as she skirted the edge of the dance floor. Jamie walked as close to Marilyn as her full skirt would allow. Jamie smiled at those who smiled at her, ignored the interested looks and downright ogles, and kept her heart as still as she dared. Mike was in there somewhere.
