At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  She nodded.

  He paused, scanned her body, and left her sizzling on the little wooden bench.

  No one came to the boathouse while he was gone. Angela’s head ached, her lungs felt like they’d been through a Cuisinart, and the humidity in the tiny building was oppressive. She removed her sweater, boots, and the thick winter tights she always wore with skirts, then finger-combed her hair and tied it in a knot.

  She studied the contents of the boathouse. Not one object had a product name emblazoned on it. There were no life jackets to be seen, and the oars and boats were wooden, not synthetic materials.

  When her rescuer returned, he was wearing boots and a coat over the rest of his wet clothing.

  “You didn’t change your clothes,” she said, standing up.

  He scanned her anew, his gaze lingering on her bare feet, then rising swiftly to her face. “No,” he said a little hoarsely, and set a pile of clothing on the bench. “My sister was absent. I was making a hash of searching her belongings when her maid entered and assisted me. I do hope they suit.” He moved to the door.

  “The maid gave you a change of your sister’s clothes just like that?”

  “I told her my sister had fallen into a puddle.”

  “And she believed you?”

  “It was that or the truth.” He ran a hand through his hair, tousling the dark gold locks in an incredibly sexy gesture of discomfort. “Secluded boat house. Lone woman in need of clothing ...”

  “Oh. Right.” Her heartbeats sped. “Good thinking.”

  “I will await you without.”

  The gown was of exquisite white muslin with tiny rosebuds embroidered all over the skirt. The silk petticoat and linen chemise were each as light as feathers. He’d also brought a set of simple stays and a pair of pink satin slippers.

  Angela closed her eyes.

  Stays. He’d brought stays. And enough clothes to dress three women in the twenty-first century. Even in England.

  It was real. But it couldn’t be.

  She was trembling hard as she slipped the shift over her head. She’d been to every museum exhibit of British imperial culture she could and she’d read dozens of books about the English cloth trade and garment industry and even Regency-era fashion. She had a pretty good idea of how to dress in these clothes. She also knew that the stays were essential for the proper fitting of the gown, but try as she might she couldn’t fasten them. The hooks were too small and her hands were too shaky. She was probably in shock. Physical shock. Mental shock. Spatial shock. Temporal shock.

  She went to the door and peeked out. “My lord?” The words sounded funny. She’d never spoken with an actual nobleman before. Or an actor pretending to be a nobleman.

  He stood with his back to the boathouse. He looked over his shoulder, and Angela’s heart turned over. Just like in the comic book.

  “I need help,” she managed to say.

  She half expected him to refuse, but he came toward her.

  “Do the garments—”

  “They’re great.” She stepped out of hiding behind the doorframe. “It’s just that I ...”

  His attention dropped to her hands pressing the stays against her ribs, then shifted up to her breasts. They were entirely concealed by the shift, but his gaze made her feel like he could see right though cloth, like Superman.

  “I can’t fasten the stays on my own,” she croaked.

  A dark flush rose in his chiseled cheeks. Standing in the thin chemise and unfastened corset beneath his gaze, she felt hotter than her mother on that Caribbean beach, and just as sexy.

  Sexy.

  She hadn’t felt sexy in ... ever.

  It felt good. It felt really good.

  She didn’t even care if he was an actor.

  She turned her back to him and looked over her shoulder like he had in the comic book. Like he had in the comic book when he’d told her to come back.

  Chapter Three

  He stepped forward and put his hands on her. Not on her, exactly. But close enough. She could hear his uneven breathing at her shoulder, and tension stretched in the warm air surrounding them. By the time his arms dropped to his sides she was quivering again, her mind spinning.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “My pleas—” He paused. “Pleasure.”

  “Could you help with the gown, too?”

  “As you wish.” This time he didn’t turn his back. He watched her pull the petticoat over her head and tie the ribbons with trembling hands, then the gown.

  “Have you taken a chill after all?” he said, the melty chocolate voice back again but deeper now.

  “No. I’m fine.” She turned her back to him.

  He fastened the gown. He took his time. The caress of his fingertips against her spine couldn’t possibly be accidental.

  “You’re very good at this.” She tried to sound relaxed. “I suppose you’ve had some practice.”

  “Are all Americans like you?” he said, his voice close.

  Like her? The Oldest Virgin in America?

  “No.”

  He stepped back. “Pity.”

  She slipped the shoes onto her feet. “I’m—”

  “Trent!” A young woman fell into the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed and her gray eyes were frantic. “I found you! My maid told me you had been to my chamber and I had to chase you all the way down here. Our beast of a brother is positively plaguing my friends! He spread marbles in the bedchamber corridor this morning, and yesterday it was face powder on the tea biscuits. Papa berates him but it only makes him worse, of course. I beg of you to take him in hand. My friends and I cannot possibly enjoy all the young bachelors here if Henry is forever playing pranks on us.” Her attention shifted to Angela and her face broke into a smile. “But whatever are you doing?”

  “Charlotte, may I introduce you to Miss ...” He glanced at her left hand again.

  Angela’s tongue stuck. The seventh Earl of Ware’s daughter had been named Charlotte.

  “Miss ...?” repeated Lord Everett, who was, in fact, an early-nineteenth-century man.

  “Cowdrey,” Angela whispered.

  “Miss Cowdrey,” he said. “Please allow me to make you known to my sister, Lady Charlotte Ascot.”

  “It’s such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Cowdrey. I’m terribly sorry to bother you with my brother Henry’s nastiness,” Lady Charlotte said, coming into the boathouse and glancing around before taking in Angela again in a cheerful sweep. “But you do look pretty in my gown! Doesn’t she, Trent?”

  He smiled.

  “Thank you for the loan of it,” Angela said.

  “Oh, I have dozens, I daresay.” She laughed gaily. “That isn’t even one of my favorites.”

  “Charlotte,” her brother said quietly.

  “Oh.” Charlotte’s fingertips leaped to her lips and she seemed to finally notice Angela’s bedraggled state. “I am an awful peagoose, Miss Cowdrey. I pray you, don’t mind me at all. If you are a friend of Trenton’s, then you are a friend of mine, too.”

  If they were actors, they were doing a spectacular job of keeping in character. Obviously his was to be the responsible older brother. He was good at it; his sister responded to him with affection and trust, even when he was gently reprimanding her, and even when he was stealing her clothes for a strange woman in a boathouse.

  “But what on earth are these?” Charlotte picked up her tights. “What marvelous stockings! But why are they wet? Is it a swimming costume, Miss Cowdrey?” Her other hand snatched up Angela’s white lace bra. “And this? It cannot possibly be useful for swimming.” She giggled.

  “Charlotte,” the viscount said, “would you be so kind as to walk with us to the house? Miss Cowdrey is awaiting the arrival of her family, and I suspect she would be glad for a cup of tea in the meantime.”

  “How wretched they were to send you along without them.” Charlotte linked her arm. “I shan’t leave you alone until they claim you. Who are they? I
don’t know of any Cowdreys attending the duke’s wedding.”

  “Miss Cowdrey is American. Her family may not be known to your friends.”

  He was suspicious; his eyes were now hesitant. He didn’t recognize her. But he was the man from the comic book. And she was here. She could no longer deny it.

  “Oh!” Charlotte exclaimed gaily. “Well, I am so pleased to know you. You are my first American. Is she yours too, Trent?”

  His gaze dipped to her mouth. “Yes. My first.”

  He gestured them out of the boathouse. Angela tucked her tights and bra inside the pile of soggy clothes on the bench and looked up at him. He nodded silently and went out.

  He understood her wish to keep her dip in the lake a secret. As she walked arm-in-arm with Charlotte and he followed, she felt him watching her. It was a good thing Charlotte Ascot was a big chatterbox, because Angela couldn’t manage a single word.

  By the time they neared the house she’d recovered a little. “I’m going to head off this way now,” she said, slipping out of Charlotte’s hold. “To the ... um ... stables.”

  The viscount’s brow went up. “The stables?”

  “Yes. To check on ... my horse.”

  He didn’t believe her.

  “Thank you so much for the gown, Lady Charlotte,” she said. “I’ll return it as soon as my luggage arrives. And thank you, my lord, for— Thank you.” She tried to curtsy and mucked it up.

  She escaped. He didn’t follow her. She was equal parts relieved and disappointed.

  Set at a distance from the sprawling house was a quadrangle of long, one-story buildings: the carriage house and stables. She tried opening a door. It was locked from the inside. But she could hear voices inside. Lots of male voices, and laughter. Maybe the stable hands were playing craps or something.

  On the path between the house and stables, a humungous oak tree looked like it’d been split by lightning and seemed to be in the process of being dismantled. For a while she hid in the shadows of one of its large branches that hadn’t yet been chopped up, trying to catch her breath and think and watching a good-looking couple strolling back and forth over the same stretch of pathway again and again. They kept looking at the ground as if they were searching for something. She considered asking them to search for the secret passage back to the twenty-first century while they were at it.

  Her rational mind couldn’t accept it. The evidence pointed to time and space travel: winter had become summer and Michigan had become Dorset. The other evidence—the gorgeous man in the comic book with her name on it—wasn’t in any way interpretable.

  She stared at the strolling couple. They just had to be reenactors. Who else but actors would walk up and down the same uninteresting path over and over and look like they were enjoying themselves?

  It was all for the tourists. It had to be. Then where were those tourists? Everybody she saw was wearing period costume.

  Finally she headed toward the house and went inside. It was spectacular, just as fantastically elegant as it had been when she’d visited last summer. The principal differences were the absence of brass posts and velvet ropes cordoning off the private areas from the public, and also of electric lights. Unlit candles in gold candelabra adorned the tables on either side of the foyer, and oil-lamp sconces ascended the wall of the grand stairway. The air even smelled different, with a hint of flowery herbs, maybe lemon oil, and candle wax.

  Passing footmen in livery, who stayed poker straight and proper, she went up the sprawling stairs and wandered through the corridors—also lacking electric lights and switches—until she found an unlocked door to an empty bedchamber. She slipped inside, locked the door behind her, and sat down on the bed.

  She’d nearly drowned. She was exhausted and confused and overwhelmed. Leaning her shoulder against the bolster, she rested her head. She’d just sit for a few minutes, think, gather her thoughts. Figure ... things ... out ...

  o0o

  “Wake up, silly girl! Even I don’t sleep in the middle of the day, and if I do it’s certainly not in a bed.”

  Not a day under eighty, small like a bird, with bright red hair piled atop her head, the woman staring down at Angela pursed her lips.

  “Dreadful,” the woman muttered.

  Angela sucked in breath, coughed on a remnant of lake water, and remembered everything—drowning, being rescued, Lord Melting Chocolate, and his hands on her as he fastened her into his sister’s gown.

  She had to find out why she was here. He didn’t recognize her. He couldn’t help. She was in a foreign place. She needed allies. No time like the present to start gathering them.

  But first she really had to pee.

  She sat up on the bed. “I’m so sorry. Is this your room?”

  “It is. And who are you, missy?”

  “Angela Cowdrey.” She slid off the bed and shook out her skirt. It was totally wrinkled and her hair smelled like a lake. “Who are you?”

  “Ha! I like the spirit on this one.”

  Angela looked around the room. No one else was present.

  “I’m glad you do,” she said to the crazy old lady, “because I have some strange questions to ask and I’d really like straight answers.”

  “Ha again!” the woman cackled, the feather sticking up out of her impossibly red hair wiggling as she spoke. “Impertinent girl.”

  “Could you tell me what year it is?”

  “Eighteen thirteen.” Her eyes narrowed. “You think my mind’s gone, don’t you? So does Henrietta. And the duchess. Everybody does.”

  “No. I don’t think that at all. I think mine is.”

  “Ha! You’re an American. I can hear it.”

  “I am. May I ask you another question?”

  “Lady Sophronia Cavendish.”

  “Thank you. But actually that wasn’t my question. Is this all an elaborately staged reenactment?”

  “Eh?”

  “Are you all actors dressed up to look like early-nineteenth-century people, pretending to be living in 1813 and doing a fabulous job of it?” There, she’d asked.

  “Sadly, I am not an actress, although I did a turn or two on the boards in my youth,” Lady Sophronia said wistfully. Her eyes sharpened again. “Are you, missy?”

  “An actress? No. I’m ...” Confused. And as suspicious as Lord Melting Chocolate. And a little frightened, because even if it wasn’t 1813, it really was summertime, not January, and she really was at the estate of the Duke of Wessex, not in Ann Arbor. “I’m lost.”

  “Well, aren’t we all, child?” Lady Sophronia exclaimed. She took Angela’s arm. “Come now. We’ll have a nice set and become acquainted. My Henrietta is off chasing that delicious rogue, Jack Willoughby—and it’s about time!—so we shan’t be bothered for a while, I suspect.”

  Angela went with her into an adjoining room, where they sat down in gilt-edged chairs and a maid in perfect period costume set out a gorgeous high tea with little sandwiches and perfect cakes and cookies.

  Angela stood. “I’m so sorry, but could you tell me where the bathroom is?”

  Lady Sophronia’s skinny brows flew up.

  “The loo?” Angela tried. “The WC?”

  The old lady cracked a laugh. “The nearest water closet is too far away, so I don’t bother with it. I hear Gareth plans all sorts of improvements for his new duchess. Responsible young man. Far too stiff-necked for my tastes, of course. But someday a girl of wit and spirit will knock him off his polished boots. Mark my words!”

  Angela fidgeted in discomfort.

  Lady Sophronia pointed to a silk screen in the corner. “Make yourself at home. Henrietta says I’m half-deaf, so I won’t hear a thing.” She laughed again.

  Behind the screen was a chair fitted with a porcelain chamber pot set into the seat and a pile of small linen cloths. For wiping?

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  “See? I didn’t hear that!” Lady Sophronia shouted and laughed merrily. For the first time in the two ho
urs since she’d been in nineteenth-century England, Angela smiled.

  They took tea, and everything Lady Sophronia told her was historically accurate. She spoke about the guests at the Duke of Wessex’s wedding celebration in detail. Angela didn’t recognize some of the names, but she could tell that this woman wasn’t acting. By the time Sophronia mentioned the Earl of Ware’s family, her heart was beating hard.

  “Trenton was his mother’s family name, of course. Elizabeth Trenton. Beautiful woman. Her eldest son got her looks and his father’s athletic figure. And good heavens, what a figure!” Lady Sophronia fanned herself with a lace kerchief.

  Angela needed a fan too. She hadn’t been touched by a man in a long time. The caress of his fingertips on her back lingered.

  “Aha!” Lady Sophronia exclaimed. “I see you’ve encountered Crash Ascot already. I would be blushing too if I were your age. I’m blushing anyway! Devilishly appealing.”

  “Crash?”

  “Dreadful accident. Recovered marvelously, though. Took the fox at Beaufort’s Hunt eight months later.”

  Angela nodded and wished she had her laptop to take notes. Even her phone.

  Her phone! It was in her coat pocket. It wasn’t waterproof, but if it worked ... Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  Because she’d been in shock. And apparently she couldn’t think straight with Trenton “Crash” Ascot staring at her bare feet.

  She needed to find him, get her phone, and have a chat with him about a comic book and his appearance in her apartment building’s foyer two hundred years in the future.

  o0o

  Trent didn’t consider himself a blindingly brilliant man. But he had a reasonably good mind and he hadn’t ever wondered about his sanity. Before.

  She was thoroughly brazen.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  At dawn he’d walked out into the park, trying to find peace and sanity in his usual way. It hadn’t sufficed. He’d returned to his bedchamber equally bemused.

  She had requested his assistance dressing with mild composure and only the lightest dusting of pink upon her cheeks.

  He had, in fact, small experience dressing a woman. When his friends were all taking mistresses in town, he’d tried it too. It hadn’t suited him. He would certainly welcome a sweet-smelling, willing woman in his bed every night, but not if he had to pay her to be there.