Bending Tyme

by Maria-Claire Payne

  “Well, Miss, Lord Davenport’s mother was the second Lady Davenport. I am certain you know that his Lordship married for love the second time.”

  Esme made some agreeable sound, as if she had any idea…

  Betsy continued, “Oh, the first Lady Davenport, now there was a cold one. Some say…” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Some say she refused the former Lord Davenport his conjugal rights and died a virgin, afflicted with a woman’s ailment left to fester since she let no surgeon part her knees, neither.”

  Esme choked on her mouthful of tea. Betsy patted her on the back, continuing her story.

  “Ah, the second Lady Davenport…what a beauty. Black Irish, she was. Lord Davenport’s love of riding and breeding horses came from his father, but he favours his mother in his looks, with his light eyes and those black curls and that pale skin…meaning no disrespect, Miss.” Esme smiled at the flush rising under Betsy’s fair skin, amused by the maid’s obvious crush on her employer.

  “A bit of a scandal, his Lordship marrying a young Irish miss, but his wealth and titles soon enough laid the gossip to rest. Except…” Betsy’s voice dropped to a whisper again.

  Esme put down her tea.

  “Except it was widely known she carried the gift of the second sight. She had some skill with the brush, too, often painting her visions.”

  Betsy motioned Esme to her feet. “We had better get you dressed for the ball, Miss.”

  Betsy began lacing Esme’s corset. “They say she dreamt of her son’s true love and commissioned a portrait of who she saw, not satisfied with her own skill in drawing her face.” Betsy laughed. “More than one young miss this evening will be out of sorts with you, Miss.”

  Esme’s eyes widened. “What does it have to do with me?”

  “Lord Davenport’s mother said his love would come from afar.”

  Esme started. Surely Betsy had no idea she came from…another time.

  “Why so surprised, Miss? Boston seems far enough away to the likes of me.”

  “Betsy, has anyone ever seen this picture?”

  “No—none but Lord Davenport, so they say.”

  Esme fingered the locket she still wore.

  Betsy reached to undo the clasp. “Lord Davenport has sent you others to choose from…”

  “No, thank you,” Esme said, wondering if Logan knew of his portrait around her neck.

  * * * *

  Esme fidgeted, feeling like a child caught playing dress-up in her mother’s best finery, the infernal corset under the ornate gown constricting her breath. Several seamstresses had worked all day altering a few outfits left behind by Logan’s sister, who had been married off to a lord someone-or-other of something somewhere…

  Byron rescued her from her corner, where she was endeavouring to make herself inconspicuous—an unattainable goal, given every eye in the room cast its gaze in her direction.

  Byron leaned over, whispering in her ear, “Smile, as we construct a pretence you find me handsome and witty, by far the most magnificent specimen of manhood present here.”

  Esme laughed. “I do find you handsome and witty, Lord Byron.” She sighed. She always had enjoyed his poems from this era best of all. Esme caught her breath at the energy emanating from the impassioned poet, unsettled by the fact that he would be dead in just ten short years… Catching Byron’s quizzical look at her own facial expressions—Esme made a mental note to work on a poker face since, clearly, emoting was so not de rigueur around here—she shook off her discombobulating memories, glad to feel at least somewhat at home in his presence, even if for reasons she could not share.

  Byron took her arm, for a stroll about the grand ballroom. “Then ours shall be a successful ruse.” He engaged in small talk, flirting with the young women, introducing Esme to the ladies, evading pointed questions with his poet’s grace and sly tongue.

  With Byron by her side, Esme managed to walk the length of the room without undue incident.

  I wonder if I can high-five him without anyone noticing, she thought, smiling her gratitude towards Lord Byron for helping her shed some of the tension she carried inside.

  Standing now on the other side of the room, Esme, still smiling, found herself face-to-face with Logan, an inevitable turn of events. She tensed, then blushed, angry with Logan for these feelings trumpeting her lack of self-control around him—and angry with herself for letting this man get under her skin so.

  Logan’s own countenance lit up at her smile. Then, just as fast, he appeared to grind his teeth again as he and Byron watched the emotions flitting across Esme’s face.

  Esme scowled, watching Bryon chuckle to himself while Logan’s jaw clenched. Could it be the dashing Lord Davenport had never experienced the look of frustrated annoyance Esme felt crossing her face?

  Damn the man…

  “Shall we, Miss Tyme?” Uttering a command, not a request, Logan took a firm grip on one elbow, escorting Esme to the dance floor.

  As the opening strains of a quadrille filled the ballroom, Esme breathed out, relieved—she recognised this music from Charisse’s arrangements for their party…except these people walked through the steps, rather than danced.

  OMG, Esme thought. This fucking song will never end at this speed.

  Esme watched the couples changing partners at an insufferably slow pace, forced to make awkward small-talk at every turn. Would this damnable music never stop?

  Byron moved into place next to her again, leaning down to speak in her ear. “Ah, virgins on parade. Although I know for a fact more than one nubile offering this evening cannot truly claim the prize remains intact.”

  Esme laughed, enjoying his company for a few minutes’ precious respite. She looked up to see Logan watching her over the heads of several other dancers, his eyes narrowing at Byron’s easy conversation with her. Logan’s gaze locked with her own. Esme shivered, seeing his eyes go that deep blue, her skin tingling although he danced with another, touched another.

  She looked away.

  Esme blushed, aware that Byron had intercepted her exchange with Logan. She blushed again, noting that Byron was not the only one. More than one young woman—and her mother—sent a scathing look in her direction. Esme clenched her fist, annoyed—again—at her loss of control over her emotions.

  Byron smiled. “I return you to our host.”

  Logan stepped into a turn with her, silent, as the relentless notes played on for yet another round.

  About fucking time, Esme thought as the final notes of the quadrille faded. Ignoring the opening strains of the next dance—a waltz—she began making her way back to her corner, but Logan, ignoring the eager faces of the prospective brides on parade, turned to her, bowing.

  Esme dropped an unsteady curtsy.

  “Is this ‘proper,’ us waltzing?” she asked him.

  Logan looked down at her. “Nothing regarding this dance is ‘proper.’ Yet dance we shall for George’s amusement, you protected from wagging tongues as a ward of my father’s.” She started to protest the lie, her voice faltering when she saw that crease appearing, yet again, between his eyebrows. His clenched jaw reminded her they were paraded on display in this room, where every word might be overheard.

  “Just asking.” Esme’s chin jutted out. She looked around the dance floor, where but a few adventurous souls joined them. Esme lifted her chin higher still.

  Esme startled as Logan reached out one hand as if to cup that determined chin in his palm. She watched him fight to suppress the urge, dropping his hand from its proximity to her face, his form and posture impeccable now as he turned her about the floor. Esme closed her eyes for a moment, his cologne—what was that scent?—filling her senses. She opened her eyes, blushing to find him watching her. Somehow, the formal distance between them, even as they touched with only the slightest of contact, felt sexier than the usual clinging bump-and-grind she’d experienced with anonymous men at any number of interchangeable night-clubs she frequented.

  Used
to frequent…

  Esme looked up to find Logan staring at her, a bemused look on his face. Esme grimaced. She knew Logan was studying her to find some clue to explain the multiplicity of emotions chasing one after another across her face. Emotions that made themselves felt as she struggled to reconcile a kaleidoscope of memories from her past—her future?—with her present in this unfamiliar existence.

  Esme bit her lower lip, surrendering the thoughts clouding her mind to the comfort of the one reality that made sense to her right here, right now—his arm around her, connecting them even though they stood apart.

  Lost in his scent, remembering his hands on her body without all of these layers between them, Esme let go of the tension in her body. Logan smiled back, much to the obvious consternation of the other young ladies—and their mothers—present at this event.

  As soon as the dance ended, a collective sigh of relief swept the room. Decorum was restored as the final notes of that horrible music faded away, and the ladies swarmed away from the dance floor. Esme caught Logan’s eye, but the gentlemen left to smoke and drink before their late dinner—leaving Esme alone in this crowd.

  One young lady looked Esme up and down. “Lord Byron does exert an uneasy influence on Lord Davenport, does he not? First that…waltz…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if the mere utterance of the word sullied her reputation. “And now an untimely session with tobacco and drink…” She shook her head at the scandal of it all—clearly enjoying every minute.

  Across the expanse of the hall, Betsy tapped her forehead and Esme realised she was suggesting a ladylike way out of the crescendo of voices threatening to crack Esme’s resolute choice—choice? What choice?—to make the best of this night.

  “I fear”—Esme balked at that word, but, catching Betsy’s stern gaze, she forced herself to continue—“I fear I suffer from the ill-effects of my journey from…Boston. I beg to take my leave of you, ladies.” At least protocol worked to her advantage this time, Esme thought, watching the disappointment crossing their faces even as they wished her well.

  Esme retired to her bedchamber and fell asleep, her rest fitful, the sounds of the ball resuming and a late meal—and then more dancing still—interrupting her troubled dreams.

  “For fuck’s sake, don’t these people ever sleep?” Esme considered the endless rounds of business luncheons, charity events and other schmoozing necessary to build her business into the success she and her staff enjoyed. She and her friends were amateurs, all of them, nothing more than rank amateurs compared to these privileged gentry who partied harder—for months on end, no less—than anyone Esme knew in her own time.

  Maybe a walk to clear her head.

  Dismayed, Esme looked through the clothes Betsy had laid out for the morning, loath to tackle the requisite layers. She threw open the wardrobe, hoping to find something resembling a pair of jeans and T-shirt. Wishful thinking, of course… But her hands closed on a worn pair of deerskin breeches and a simple man’s shirt. Well, not a man’s… Esme realised these garments must have belonged to Logan as a boy.

  Even so, the shirt billowed about her as she tucked it into the waist of the breeches. She inhaled—the garments smelt like him. She pulled on a pair of well-worn riding boots, his sister’s, perhaps, and slipped out into the hall.

  Chapter Three

  After making her way down the flight of steps to the first landing without discovery, Esme let her breath out—then she saw one of Logan’s guests ascending the lower portion of the stairway.

  “Ah, now what have we here?” the man muttered, clearly inebriated. Esme met his leer with a look of disgust, pushing past him, startled when he grabbed at her.

  Self-defence training kicking in, Esme yelled, “Let go of me!” She pulled back, hoping to get away with as little fuss as possible, appalled to hear her voice reverberate up and down the staircase, the acoustics not favouring stealth.

  Logan and several of his guests heard her, too—before she knew it Logan was bounding up the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time, Byron at his heels.

  They arrived in time to watch Esme pivot, one leg flying through the air, her sweep kick bringing the drunken Lord Jameson to the floor. His head slammed against the banister, knocking him out cold.

  Byron lifted one eyebrow. Logan stood, silent, his houseguests exclaiming behind him.

  Several of the men carried Jameson to his room. All eyes turned towards Esme, the women taking in every detail of the outfit she sported—and at such an hour. She shrank against the wall, wanting to disappear, thinking right now would be an excellent time to wake up in her penthouse bedroom. In the twenty-first century.

  Byron herded the other guest back down the stairs, leaving Logan alone with Esme.

  “Out for a midnight ride, Miss Tyme?” Logan’s grip on her arm hurt—but not as much as the sarcasm in his voice.

  “I needed air.”

  Esme watched his jaw clench. He walked her, in silence, back to her room.

  An hour later, Betsy knocked at her door, a letter of apology from Lord Jameson in hand—he had mistaken her for something other than a lady.

  “Like that excuses his behaviour?” Esme looked at Betsy. “What do I do?”

  “A letter accepting his apology is customary, miss, although naught will prevent Lord Davenport from meeting Lord Jameson on the field of honour at dawn.”

  * * * *

  “A duel? Are all of you out of your minds? I’m fine, really. A duel? Logan, he apologised, I accepted—we’re done!”

  Logan and Byron sat in the library, drinking brandy. Esme’s uninvited entrance drew Byron’s smile, while Logan’s jaw clenched yet again, his insistence on grinding his teeth at every mishap involving his sultry time-traveller assuring he invited a cracked tooth soon.

  “He laid hands on you under my roof. An apology does not suffice. Your honour—and mine—demands I meet with your attacker on the field of honour.”

  “Ridiculous…just ridiculous,” Esme sputtered.

  “Perchance you will consider the potential consequences of such behaviour in future, then, Miss Tyme.”

  Esme’s eyes narrowed at Logan’s comment. “Gee, not much changes over the next couple of hundred years, either. Some drunken idiot gropes me, and somehow that’s my fault!”

  Logan sighed. “Are you obtuse to bedevil me? Lord Jameson holds sole responsibility for his behaviour—and I am obligated to a course of action as a consequence.”

  Byron stood, taking Esme’s arm. “Let me escort you back to your room, Mademoiselle.”

  Outside her bedroom once again, Esme turned her face up to Lord Byron. “George, please. Reason with him.”

  Byron looked down at her forlorn expression. “Stay in your room, Esme, until Betsy sends word for you to join us at breakfast.” He winked, leaving her little consoled.

  Esme paced away the remaining night hours. Two shots rang out at dawn, a commotion ensuing downstairs while the other guests exclaimed at the unexpected turn of events—what excellent fodder to while away the morning hours engaged in idle gossip… Esme wanted to scream.

  Betsy opened Esme’s door. “Lord Davenport suffered no injury, miss. Lord Jameson took a bullet to his right shoulder. The surgeon is attending him as we speak, and he and his company will be leaving as soon as he is fit to travel.”

  Esme breathed out, shocked to find her hands shaking. “At least he didn’t kill him.”

  Betsy chuckled. “Oh, miss, Lord Jameson posed no threat to Lord Davenport. My youngest nephew sports better aim than that one. Now, I did consider, seeing the storm in Lord Davenport’s face, that he might very well aim true—Lord Davenport being the crack shot he is, miss.”

  Esme downed the tea Betsy handed her. “But he didn’t.”

  Betsy refilled Esme’s cup, laughing again. “Well, miss, I believe Lord Jameson has you to thank for that. Is there anything else, miss?”

  “Betsy, gather up the female staff. We need one man to join us. Meet me in
the ballroom in fifteen minutes.”

  The household settled back into relative quiet, many of the guests retiring to rest or to prattle, anticipating an even later breakfast than the norm after the long events of the evening and early morning.

  Esme, still dressed in Logan’s boyhood buckskins and shirt, walked into the ballroom where Betsy and several of the housemaids stood, looking nervous.

  “You know what happened last night.”

  The women nodded.

  “You also know I managed to defend myself.”

  Laughter greeted Esme’s comment, the women seeming to relax at her smile.

  “Some of my skills took years of practice in…Boston…to develop, but I can show you four basic moves to keep scum like that off you.”

  Esme marched up to Jeremy, a stable hand Betsy had managed to bully into joining the group at Esme’s request for a man in attendance. “Try to grab me.”

  Jeremy balked. “Oh, no miss, I could never…”

  Logan’s deep voice rang out. “Perhaps I may offer my assistance.”

  The women each dropped a curtsy, finding interesting specks of dust to study on the floorboards, the tension between Logan and Esme instantaneous and tangible to all. Jeremy beat a hasty retreat.

  “Fine.” Esme raised her chin, struggling to concentrate. Damn that cologne he favoured… Bay rum, Byron had mentioned.

  Esme relaxed her posture. “Grab me.”

  The servants watched, breathless, but Logan stood still for what seemed forever in the strained atmosphere between Esme and himself—then he lunged, a collective gasp rising from the women as he grabbed Esme from behind, lifting her off her feet, pulling her tight against the hard length of his own body, bending one of her arms behind her back. Esme fought the tears stinging her eyes, this pain real, his speed disorienting her…but only for a moment.