Once Upon a Time Travel
Page 1
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
OTHER TITLES BY SARIAH WILSON
The Royals of Monterra
Royal Date
Royal Chase
Royal Games
Royal Design
Stand-Alone Novels
The Ugly Stepsister Strikes Back
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Cover design by The Book Design House; www.thebookdesignhouse.com
For Nadia Bjorlin and Jay Kenneth Johnson – my OTP
And to all the Phloe fans out there
P & C 4EVER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
“It’s a good thing this chick’s been dead for two hundred years. Otherwise I’d consider offing her myself,” I muttered as Bex—my roommate, coworker, and current best friend—brought out a whole new stack of household letters we had to categorize by subject.
Which was easy enough. All of Mrs. Kitty Farnsworth’s letters could be classified as: boring, more boring, and sucking my will to live. This level of monotony should have been against the law.
“Amen,” Bex murmured. “Some small part of me likes the idea of being born in this time period, but this housekeeper is making me hate the entire nineteenth century.”
As she started scanning the latest self-important, stupid letter, I pressed my face on the thick glass that protected the shelves of old books. My fingers curled up against the barrier as I again wished that I could pick the lock. It should be a crime to keep so many great authors imprisoned.
“I get it,” I said. “Balls, carriages, pretty dresses. But no plumbing, no electricity, and no reality television. No thanks.”
“Stop fogging up the glass, and come help me with these letters.” She said “letters” like it was a dirty word, even though her adorable British accent softened the R at the end, making it sound like “lett-uhs.”
Trying not to sigh, I sat at the desk next to her. This was where we spent most of our evenings going through the letters and journals of Mrs. Farnsworth, onetime housekeeper here at Hartley Hall. What had once been an opulent and extravagant home in the heart of London now served as a museum full of antiques and papers that needed to be summarized and scanned. Graduate students like Bex were permitted to work on their projects after hours, and I found myself staying here instead of leaving when my workday ended. Much as I disliked what we were working on at present, I loved everything else about this job.
Like how gorgeous the library was. Despite the fact that some fascist had locked up all of the beautiful vintage books, I loved the dark wood furniture, the antique rugs, and the faint scent of tobacco that gave it all a very masculine feel. Everything in the house spoke of elegance and class in a tasteful we-have-more-money-than-the-queen sort of way. It certainly beat my job last summer working as a lifeguard for screaming three-year-olds.
“Why are you working here if you hate the nineteenth century?” I asked as I took the stack of letters Bex had already gone through.
“I fancied a git obsessed with Waterloo and Napoleon and helped him with his research. The relationship ended, but since I was already pointed in that direction, I decided to get my graduate degree in women’s studies in the early eighteen hundreds.” Bex stopped to tuck some loose strands of red hair under the rubber band that held her messy bun in place. “When I took this position, I had hoped for something more interesting than the housekeeper’s daily accountings.”
She had a point. Not only was old Mrs. Farnsworth more boring than a roomful of politicians doing PowerPoint presentations, she sounded unbelievably self-righteous and annoying in her diary entries. And what sort of person handwrote copies of her letters?
I carefully positioned the yellowed paper on the scanner’s window and put the lid down. When I pushed the button, the machine emitted a high-pitched whine while it copied the page. “At least you know what you want to do with your life.”
“And you don’t?”
I didn’t. That was why I was here in England, trying to figure it out. I had graduated with a degree in American history but wasn’t sure what my next step was. Teacher? Librarian? Graduate school? Nothing sang out to me. There was no calling that I felt obligated to fulfill, no career that interested me.
There was also this feeling of restlessness, like I was waiting for something, or someone, to happen in my life.
“Nope. No major ambition in life, I’m afraid.”
“I suppose you could get married and have a houseful of children.”
She was being sarcastic, but honestly, some part of the white-picket-fence dream appealed to me. I never had a home of my own. At least, not one that I remember. All I remembered were the foster and group homes. But marriage was so not in the cards for me. Not only was I way too young at twenty-two, but I had zero prospects on that front. Not to mention that men generally sucked.
“In order for that to happen, somebody would have to actually ask me out on a date. All guys want is to hang out and hook up.” Which I was not into.
She raised one eyebrow at me, and
I tried to think of a transatlantic slang translation. “They want to spend noncommittal time with you and have no-strings-attached sex.” I held one of the letters aloft. “Despite their lack of access to hygiene products, at least men back then knew how to court a woman.”
Bex laughed. “They didn’t exactly date, either, Emma. They went to a party, fell in lust, and stayed married all their miserable lives.”
“But I bet there was some dating involved and the men were the ones who did the asking. Like, I have no intention of getting married, but I might consider it for the next guy who actually asked me out. Because he liked me and wanted to get to know me better.”
“In that case, we’ll be old spinsters together. I’ve given up men.”
I pointed at the portrait of the museum’s current owner that hung on the wall directly across from the desk. “You can’t give up. What about Charlie Portwood?” Bex had a massive crush on the young earl, who had given me a scholarship and a job through his foundation. He was twenty-eight, handsome, charming, very single, and obviously had a ton of money. He didn’t do it for me at all, but Bex went all googly-eyed and slack-jawed whenever he walked in the room. “You should totally go after him.”
“Me?” She gaped at me in horror, as if I’d just suggested she should kidnap babies. “Go after one of England’s most eligible bachelors?”
“Why not?”
“First of all, Charles Portwood . . .”
As if on cue, the door to the library swung open, and the man being discussed entered. I only just refrained from asking him if his ears had been burning, knowing how much it would embarrass Bex. She tended to blush all over her exposed flesh, thanks to her pale skin. It was actually something we’d bonded over, initially. How we couldn’t tan.
“Oh.” He sounded surprised. “I didn’t realize anyone was still here . . . I just came in to get some papers . . .” The Earl of Hartley shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other and looked toward the door. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Bex and . . .”
His gaze drifted in my direction. He obviously didn’t remember my name. It wasn’t surprising. I was very insignificant in his world. I stood up and held out my right hand to him. He looked directly at me then, taking my hand and shaking it briefly. There was something about his eyes that felt familiar. A weird, cold shiver coiled up in my stomach. I brushed it off.
“I’m Emma Damon. In case you forgot. Your, um . . .” What was I supposed to call him again? Lordship? Majesty? Earlness?
“Charlie, please,” he said with a smile. A look of recognition lit up his features as he placed me. “You’re the one here on the foundation’s scholarship, correct?”
I nodded.
“Are you enjoying your time here in London?”
“Definitely. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to be here.”
He held a hand up, as if embarrassed. “Think nothing of it, really.”
Bex sat silently next to me, apparently forgetting how to talk as she ogled Charlie. Not that I could blame her. Being nearly six feet tall myself, I had an appreciation for any guy who had three or four inches on me. His blond hair, blue eyes, and deep tan reminded me of the surfers I had mooned over all four years of college in California.
I was glad I wasn’t attracted to him, because Bex might have cut my brake lines if I ever infringed on her turf.
An awkward silence filled the room until the earl cleared his throat and said, “I know we met at your interview, but do I know you from somewhere else? You seem familiar to me.”
Weird. Hadn’t I just thought that a second ago? But Charlie and I didn’t exactly run in the same social circles. My lips twitched with a smile. “I don’t think so,” I replied, while covertly shooting Bex a talk-to-him look.
More silence, more awkwardness. Bex had turned into a frozen statue of herself, unable to move. I noticed that he wasn’t really looking at her, like he was avoiding it. Interesting. Maybe he liked her, too. “I should just get those papers I came for.”
He walked over to a cabinet on the far wall, opening it with a key from his pocket. As he pulled documents out, I nudged her with my elbow. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, your garden won’t ever grow if you don’t ever talk to him.”
She gave me a dirty look. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”
And apparently I hadn’t been as quiet as I’d thought. Charlie’s hand stilled, and he turned toward us. “Mary?” he repeated. He had heard every word. Humiliation washed through me. I could only imagine how she felt. “I thought your name was Rebecca?”
“Common mistake.” She could finally speak to him. “Everybody thinks Bex is short for Rebecca. But I was the worst player on my football team, so they called me Bex for David Beckham as a joke. It stuck.” Not to mention that she’d told me multiple times how much she hated the name Mary. Better to have a cute nickname with a stupid origin than use her real name.
“Mary Smith?” he said, and I realized that his face had gone white. “Is your name Mary Frances Smith?”
“Mary Frances?” I repeated with a hoot. She’d never told me that part. “Did your parents want you to be a nun?”
She seemed very confused. “Yes, my name is Mary Frances Smith. Why?”
“I thought . . . I never checked . . .” His eyes widened as his voice faltered. Things had definitely taken a turn for the weird.
Without explaining himself, he grabbed his briefcase while mumbling what sounded like an apology as he bolted out the door. He even left the cabinet door wide open in his hurry to escape.
I could see the confusion and disappointment on her face. “Bex . . .”
“Wanker.” No translation necessary. She gave me a weak smile and added, “This is why I don’t tell people my real name, and this is why I’m giving men up. It’s gotten so bad I am literally driving them away.” She sighed loudly, and I couldn’t blame her. “It’s probably for the best, though. My mother always says that men who look like film stars tend to cheat like them.”
A grandfather clock bonged from another room, which made her glance at her phone. “Sod it! We’re late for our self-defense class.” She turned into a cleaning whirlwind, and before I could respond, she’d returned all the letters back to the desk drawer and locked it.
Bex was going to leave. Charlie Portwood had already come and gone. The summer was almost over. This might be it. My last chance.
“I think I’ll skip it.” I hoped I sounded casual. “I’ve got the general idea—kick him where it counts, blah, blah, blah.”
She put her purse strap over her chest. “You live in London. You never know when you might need it. Look at how I had to self-defend Tony out of our flat.”
“Self-defend?” I repeated with a laugh. I had to rearrange my amused expression at her serious one. “I think when you hit him first it’s self-offense.”
She shoved folders and notebooks into her satchel. “Defense, offense, it’s his own fault for shagging Kitty O’Brien in my room. I mean, honestly, what kind of name is Kitty? Who would do such a thing to a child? Didn’t her parents realize with that kind of name she’d grow up to be either a stripper or a prostitute?”
I refrained from reminding her about the Mary Frances thing and tapped a pencil against the top of the desk, willing her to leave. “Mrs. Farnsworth aside, I’m sure there are lots of nice women named Kitty.”
“Name one.”
“Well, there’s, uh . . .”
She crossed her arms in smug triumph. “See? You can’t! Even Jane Austen made Kitty a slutty tramp.”
I’d read the book once my freshman year, but we’d just watched the movie version a week ago. “You’re thinking of Lydia. She’s the one who ran off with Wickham. Kitty was the air-headed sister. But there have to be decent women with that name. To assume that they’re all exactly the same is . . . name-ist.”
That caused one corner of her mouth to edge its way up. I was relieved that she could smile again. “All this drama, all this
emotional pain. This is the reason why I don’t have sex.” The other reason was because apparently nobody wanted to have sex with me. Well, that wasn’t strictly true—I could probably do it if I was willing to lower my standards. But I wanted my first time to be with somebody I loved and was committed to. Which no male in the world seemed to be interested in.
“You do realize that eventually it probably will happen, yeah? You’re the one who brought them up, but I’m fairly certain the nuns won’t take you if you’re not Catholic.”
I flipped my pencil at her, and she giggled as she put her satchel over her shoulder and slipped her phone into her pocket. “One night I’m going to get you properly intoxicated, and we’ll see what we can do about your status.”
“Not going to happen,” I told her, glad that she could smile and tease and Charlie Portwood seemed forgotten.
She stood there expectantly. “Are you really not coming with me?”
“You go on,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”
“What are you going to . . . oh.” She narrowed her eyes at me, giving me her most severe glare. I didn’t have to explain. Bex knew exactly why I wanted to stay. I probably shouldn’t have told her.
“Well, don’t get caught. I don’t want to be sacked.”
“I won’t.”
She stayed in place, studying me. A strange pang seized my heart. I suddenly felt like I would never see her again. I jumped up and hugged her, which surprised both of us. “Be sure to take an umbrella,” I told her. “Surprisingly enough, it seems to be raining yet again.”
Bex laughed. It always rained in London. “I’ll see you at home.”
I unplugged my cell phone from the charger, slipping it into my pocket. We walked into the front hallway together, and I told her to be careful as she headed out into the storm toward the underground. Or subway, as I called it.
Closing the door quietly, I went down the hall to the guard station. I stuck my head in the open doorway. “Bertie, I’m going upstairs for a sec.”
The guard in the small room filled with monitors waved me on, unhearing. Manchester United was playing. I could have belly danced naked holding a beer in one hand and a sub sandwich in the other as I set the mansion on fire and Bertie still wouldn’t have stopped watching the game.