Forgotten Time (Ravenhurst Series, #1) A New Adult Time Travel Romance

by Lorraine Beaumont

  Devlin let his mind stray to another time… the tightening in him growing worse with the memories….

  Hawthorne Manor, the past…

  “Devlin put those bags down. You are the Lord of Hawthorne now, not a servant,” Isabelle berated him as she pulled her gloves off and handed them to Charles.

  Devlin tensed. “Sorry, love. I have not gotten used to my new station in life as of yet,” Devlin gushed apologetically.

  “Oh Devlin, give it time, you’ll come around soon enough,” Isabelle purred sweetly, using her index finger to beckon him to her.

  Devlin smiled. They had just come back from their honeymoon; it was a long one. Isabelle wanted to visit so many places and see so many things. She often told him she needed to show him off. He found out quickly enough that his role was only to be seen, not heard. He had become Isabelle’s young show pony to parade in front of society and her so-called haggish friends with doddering husbands. He wondered if everyone could see the invisible lead rope tethered to his neck as she dragged him around, making him prance. He certainly could feel it, squeezing the life from him as each day passed… until the day, he saw her, Marguerite.

  He sighed aloud and took another drink. Loosening his cravat, he closed his eyes.

  “Isabelle, where did you say we were going this evening?” Devlin asked, rushing into the study. It was Isabelle’s favorite place to be, besides the bedchamber. He pulled up short in his progression. A young woman stood in the middle of the room, her spine rigid. She was speaking in hushed, angry tones to Isabelle. He saw Isabelle cut her a silencing glare.

  Then she turned around, looking over her shoulder at him. His breath caught in his throat. He felt like he had just been thrown from his prized stallion, all wind knocked from his lungs. Ironically, Isabelle bought him the stallion for a wedding gift. He found it fitting, especially after he was the one that turned out to be the actual show pony.

  Her violet eyes ignited with anger, her face flushed, her cheeks glistened with tears she had recently shed, and yet, she still smiled at him, sweetly. That simple gesture was his undoing. Devlin saw the light at the end of a very, long, dark, tunnel that day. He smiled back with all the emotion he was feeling. They had a connection.

  “Close your mouth, Devlin, you’re salivating,” Isabelle warned, her green eyes sparking with anger.

  She, Marguerite, quickly turned away, covering her face before dashing from the room.

  Devlin shut his mouth obediently and smoothed his features. Yes, that was the day when Isabelle became nothing more to him than a means to an end.

  Ravenhurst

  Sebastian dragged his hand through his hair, making it stand on end while one of the servants helped Milford to the kitchen. The man almost gave Sebastian heart failure. When he went to the foyer to see what the commotion was about, he saw Milford lying amongst broken glass and greenery. His leg was twisted awkwardly, and his face was ashen. Sebastian immediately thought the worst.

  Luckily, Milford had only taken a small spill. Apparently, some of the water spilled from the vase he carried and he slipped in it. Sebastian wasn’t sure what he was doing carrying the vase in the first place. The maids usually did all the floral arrangements.

  But it was the end to the moment he shared with Marguerite. Now he lifted heavily-lidded eyes to her as she braced herself in the library doorway. Her face was still flushed, her gown rumpled, and her hair was completely undone. She looked well loved, even though they had yet to finish what they started with one another.

  Just looking at her, he could feel himself hardening again. Her blue eyes glittered with a hint of a sweet, shy smile, pulling on the corners of her swollen lips.

  He suddenly wondered if she looked like that with the rakehell she left him for. Did she let him touch her body the same way? Did she make his pulse race by playing her coy, little games? Did she make the rogue wait to be touched as well? He did not think so.

  Lifting his eyes to hers once more, he felt sicker as each moment passed. He could not take it; he gave her a cutting look and watched her face fall. She wrapped her arms around herself, a look of hurt and confusion crossing her face. A pang of guilt assailed him, which he dashed away, quickly. He had to hand it to her… she was good. He almost believed her, almost. He would not be taken in again. He was a complete and utter fool. He gave her one last, harsh look, then turned on his heel and walked deliberately away, wishing she never came back.

  <>*LB*<>

  Hawthorne Manor, paybacks are a bitch

  Judith balanced the tray she was holding on her hip as she peered into the gloom of the cellar through the bars in the door. “Oh, Isabelle, do rouse your sorry self. I brought food for you, and if you’re nice, I won’t throw it on the floor this time,” Judith giggled like a naughty child.

  Isabelle lay perfectly still, forcing herself not to rebuff the little trollop.

  Judith stopped laughing; irritated Isabelle was not playing fair. That old bat was taking all the fun out of her little game. She was having such a good time tormenting Isabelle she even came earlier than usual this day. She called out again.

  “Isabelle,” she sang out, her voice filling the air. “I have to say, Devlin and I have been having such a grand time making use of your chamber since you have been indisposed.” She snickered again, shifting the tray on her side.

  “You know, it still boggles my mind how you ever thought a man such as Devlin would be interested in an old, dried-up crone like you.” Judith laughed harder, emitting a snorting sound.

  “I swear, you must have been desperate to actually believe he enjoyed having his way with you,” she jeered again. There was no response.

  Judith was getting angry. This was no fun.

  She watched for any signs of movement, but there were still none. She began to know fear. If she accidentally starved the old bat, Devlin would certainly notice. Of course, he would blame her, as he always did whenever their plans went awry. Moreover, Judith knew she would end up as dead as their captive if that occurred. She lay down the tray and unbarred the door.

  She tentatively entered the room, a vile smell assaulted her. She covered her face, thinking it smelled just as she imagined an old crone would smell, disgusting. She kicked Isabelle’s leg with her booted foot but she did not budge. Suppressing a gag, she reached down with one hand while the other covered her face, and tried to turn her over.

  Isabelle stayed as limp as possible, letting Judith roll her over. She gripped the cup in her hand. When Judith was close enough, she smashed the cup with all her force into the side of Judith’s head.

  Judith stumbled backward. She touched the side of her head; pulling her fingers away, they were full of warm, wet blood. She looked at them in confused shock.

  Isabelle struggled to stand, then hit Judith again with everything she had.

  Judith’s eyes rolled back into her head, and she fell forward onto the floor, right into Isabelle’s vomit.

  Isabelle threw her cup, which clanked loudly on the floor. Wiping her shaking hands on the front of her filthy skirt, she said, “That’s what you get for sleeping with my husband.” She gathered what little saliva she still had in her mouth and spat directly onto the side of Judith’s face.

  “And that is for throwing my food on the floor.” She laughed a bit; it was a dry, harsh sound. “Who’s paying now, Judith?” she asked her still form. Brushing her hair from her face with a filthy hand, she staggered out the door of her prison.

  <>*LB*<>

  …Ravenhurst, later that night

  A clock rang loudly in the distance, marking the hour. It was eight o’clock and still Sebastian had not made an appearance. Katherine stared bleakly out the window. A fresh, white blanket of snow covered the ground. She cradled a glass of wine in her hand, hugging her midsection, remembering their earlier encounter. She tingled from head to toe every time she thought of his body pressed against hers. She touched her lips with the glass, taking another sip where his kisses ravage
d them; leaving them swollen and tender.

  She had no idea what to do. After sending Milford on his way, he made her insides twist, glaring at her like she was the worst person on Earth. She had no idea where all his venom could have come from; she thought they were… well… almost going to be together.

  But no, after the mishap with Milford, he gave her such an awful expression, she wanted to run and hide. She was so embarrassed. Then he left her standing there with nothing more than a look of pure distaste.

  Katherine guessed the sampling of her savory meal left him with a sour stomach. She laughed a little; but her voice sounded empty and hollow, just like her insides. What could she do? She finished off the rest of the wine and lifted the glass in the air. A footman appeared from the shadows and refilled her glass. Rejection sucked worse in the past than in the future.

  Sebastian noted the time as he paced the length of his chamber. It was half past ten. He swilled the amber liquid directly from the bottle he held in his hand. It burned, but at least it numbed his emotions. He was dressed in one of his best waistcoats; severely cut with matching breeches. His shirt was pristine, and his neck cloth was tied with precision; Brummell would have been proud.

  Yet, he couldn’t go down to dine with Marguerite. He was late, but that did not seem to matter. Instead, he kept replaying his interlude with Marguerite in the library. What was he to do with her? He did not know his body would betray his mind thusly. He wanted to finish what he started, but to what end?

  They would be married in just a few short days. One would think he could wait. But really, why should he? She had not. She let another take what rightfully belonged to him. And, as much as he hated to admit it, that is where he found himself, battling a silent war within. Did he want more than just one night? Did he want a future?

  Perhaps he would have cared for her in time, but after she left him for another, how could he? His pride would not let him relent, not yet at any rate, if ever. The wounds were too new.

  No, he would wait and make her beg for what she so easily tossed aside. He needed a distraction. Hell, he needed relief.

  Perhaps he should leave. Go to London; have a savory meal… maybe that would make him forget all about a raven-haired beauty with fathomless blue eyes. Too bad, he angered Annabelle so badly. He let out an exasperated sigh, “Bloody hell.”

  Hawthorne Manor

  Devlin opened his eyes and ripped his cravat completely off, throwing it on the floor. He stood and refilled his glass, bringing the bottle back with him, and set it on the table. He sat back down in the chair, letting out an audible sigh.

  Marguerite was back. His heart pounded excitedly, remembering the connection he thought they once shared. The way her eyes followed his every move, the secret smiles she gave him behind Isabelle’s back. It all made perfect sense at the time. How could he have gotten her signals so wrong? The ones she practically threw at him every chance she got? Devlin was sure Marguerite’s shy, secretive smiles were for his eyes alone. He thought she was giving him a silent invitation. An invitation he meant to accept when the timing was right.

  He waited patiently, biding his time…

  Then one night, Isabelle drank too much wine, with his coaxing, of course. It took quite a few drinks, but finally she fell back onto the bed, drifting off to drunken slumber. He slipped out of the room and practically ran down the hall towards Marguerite’s chamber. He opened the door, noting it was unlocked. He wondered if she anticipated his arrival. He smiled and silently slipped inside her room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  The room was dark, with the exception of the moonlight coming in through a large bank of windows on the side. He walked closer to the bed. Marguerite’s raven tresses fanned across her pillow, and a blanket barely covered the front of her. Her dark lashes were in stark contrast to her creamy complexion. He ached to kiss her full lips, barely parted, breathing softly.

  He leaned forward and gave her the gentlest of kisses, waking her slowly. She moaned ever so slightly in response. He smiled sweetly down at her, undoing the belt to his robe, and shrugged it off his shoulders. The robe fell soundlessly to the floor. The cool air sent shivers across his skin. He pulled the blanket back slowly to climb under the covers.

  She opened her eyes.

  He smiled brightly at her, his spirits soaring higher than he ever felt possible. That was until she did the most horrific thing imaginable.

  She laughed.

  It was not a simple, happy-to-see-him laugh. No, no, her laugh was cruel. She intended to do the most damage and did not stop there.

  “Oh dear,” she said, trying to stifle her laughter. “Surely you have not thought to come in here to have your way with me?” she asked, her tone taking on a mean, cruel edge, as she looked him up and down.

  Devlin was in shock. He stood completely still, stupefied. He could form no coherent words in his brain. His body and mind were fully exposed to her jeers.

  “Oh dear, look at your face, Devlin. Try not to look so forlorn; what I am referring to is in no way a personal matter. Really, I simply prefer a more virile type of man, one with brawn and substance.” She looked him up and down again. “And I hate to point out, Devlin; you do not possess any of my requirements.”

  Her cruel words accompanied by her hateful laughter, froze him to his core. She was no better than Isabelle. He reached down and grabbed his dressing robe from the floor. He pulled it on, tightening the belt and strode away, listening as her laughter followed in his wake.

  Devlin’s mind came back to the present. His body shuddered from the painful memory. He let out a shaky breath and took another hefty swallow of his drink. And even still, after all this time, not to mention the abysmal way she treated him, he should hate her. Instead, he found he still wanted her so badly, it made his insides churn. He let out a shaky sigh and took another drink.

  He wondered why she never mentioned that night to Isabelle. And why, when their paths did cross, he was surprised to find that she never acted unpleasantly towards him. Of course, he tried to avoid her, but he found his eyes would follow her everywhere she went, even when he didn’t think she was looking.

  Of course, that was all before she caught him taking Judith on one of the benches in the garden. She warned them both to cease or she would tell Isabelle. He simply could not let that happen.

  Judith decided to take matters into her own hands, by getting rid Marguerite, once and for all. Devlin was sure Judith sensed his feelings towards Marguerite.

  Personally, he could not bring himself to do the deed; just thinking about it made him sick to his stomach. She was mesmerizing, and it did not matter that she denied him or laughed at him. He could not, by his own hand, get rid of her.

  Instead, Judith begged him to let her do it; she was not averse to killing Marguerite in the least. Actually, she seemed almost too happy about it all. Her enthusiasm gave Devlin the chills.

  The terrible deed was not done properly and now she was back. He closed his eyes silently, thanking the Lord above for sparing her from an untimely demise while begging forgiveness for his part in it.

  Snowflakes floated absently to the ground from the black sky above as she made her escape. She wondered when the snow fell. Wasn’t it too early for snow? She stumbled. Her hands and feet were like ice. The pain that was so intense only moments before began to fade into numbness. Isabelle knew she should be worried about whether or not she would ever make it to Ravenhurst, or if Devlin would find her; but instead, her mind strayed to Clive, her deceased brother. The way he passed had always seemed a bit too tidy to her.

  Whips rent the air, cracking loudly…

  Clive was at the front of the pack, the one that chased the “Master of Hounds,” his pink coat in vibrant contrast to the scenery. There were fifteen men riding in the hunt. “The Huntsman” and at least two “whipper-ins” kept the hounds in a pack off in the distance. The hounds barked loudly, alerting the group they were about to run the fox to ground. A large
hedgerow ran through the middle of the hill. It was dangerously high on one side. Only a rider with a death wish would jump over the hedge at full speed, and the ravine was only a short distance away but you had to land perfectly.

  Clive raced ahead of the group, flying at breakneck speed, his horse eating up the ground. He turned, calling out over his shoulder, the wind whipping his light brown hair. He was quite a spectacle to behold. Dashing, handsome even, Isabelle suddenly saw what Victoria had always seen in Clive. He was so arrogant, but in that moment, he was simply beautiful.

  The jump was risky, almost impossible, and yet everyone held their breaths, hoping, watching in disbelief as his horse flew upwards over the hedge. She couldn’t believe he actually cleared the jump.

  It happened so quickly; his trusty, dapple-gray hunter stumbled forward unnaturally. Clive’s body followed, flying from his horse. The entire scene slowed in her mind. It was almost as if an invisible force reached up and waylaid Clive.

  The group took a moment to react, and by the time everyone reached the top of the ridge, it was too late. Clive’s horse was limping away, two bright red slashes on each of his front legs.

  It was obvious Clive was not as fortunate as his horse. Some of the group looked over the edge of the ravine, confirming to her that Clive was indeed gone.

  Tightness gripped her chest as a tear slipped from her eye, freezing as quickly as it fell. She spotted a tree ahead. She could make it to the tree and rest, even if only for a moment. Just to catch her breath, she told herself. She fell at the base, leaning against the rough bark, and situated herself between the thick roots, jutting out from the frozen earth.

  She tucked her feet under her and tried to rub her frozen tears away.

  She gave up; she was just too tired. She watched tiny snowflakes dancing across the horizon. So very beautiful, they were. She closed her eyes and gave her body and mind over to a wintry slumber. She let it pull her fully, into its icy grasp, even though she knew she might never awaken again.