And I had a pretty good idea of who it had been.
Testing the drawer, I saw that it was still locked. My shoulders relaxed when I realized I hadn’t been found out.
Mrs. Farnsworth really did want to get something on me. And if she managed to bust that drawer open, I was done for. I decided to get the key to my bedroom and to start locking it behind me and to tell Hartley what had happened. I wouldn’t accuse her, because I couldn’t prove it, but I knew he wouldn’t like it, and one way or another, she would find out he was displeased. Which would hopefully help keep me and my things safe.
Stephens himself came to fetch me when Mr. Watson arrived. He’d been doing that lately—tasks that involved me but should have been relegated to the footmen, he did himself. I thought it was probably due to the vase incident. Like he wanted to show me he was grateful by waiting on me personally. Which wasn’t necessary and I told him so, but he waved it off. Said he was honored to do it.
Honestly, I was sort of a lazy person to begin with, and I couldn’t decide if the whole servant thing was really bad for me. It had the potential to make me even lazier because there was always somebody around doing something for me.
I both loved it and felt guilty about it.
I told Stephens about the desk situation, which turned out to be a good thing. Like he was personally insulted that anyone would dare to mess around in my room. He said he’d get my bedroom door key and would discover who would “stoop to such a low degree.”
Lessons did not go well. Part of it was my stress over Mrs. Farnsworth going all 007. My nose still hurt from last night because I’d missed my Bioré strips and had tried to substitute hot wax to really disastrous and painful results. Not to mention when I’d also tried said hot wax on the redwood forest happening on my legs. I did it in one large section.
And after I woke back up after passing out, I decided I wouldn’t be trying that again anytime soon.
I probably should have confided in Charles about my personal hygiene situation, but as accepting as she was about the whole time travel thing, we didn’t really discuss our bodies. I tried once to ask her about the underarm situation, and she’d turned a shade of red I didn’t know a human could turn, and that had been that.
Hours later, Mr. Watson left for the evening in a cloud of disappointment. Which prompted Charles to say that she was in “dire need” of a walk. This was the one area where I wasn’t quite “up to snuff,” as Hartley would say. I got the quadrille okay, and the reels were fun. But the waltz was just not working out for me. Probably due in part to how uncomfortable it seemed to make my dance instructor. Apparently, this was like the nineteenth-century version of Dirty Dancing that Charles insisted I learn because she had procured some kind of permission for me to dance this way. I tried to imagine Mr. Watson’s face if I could take him to a London nightclub circa 2017. He’d probably die from shock.
Regardless, his uneasiness was throwing me off my game. Which, admittedly, was not all that great of a game to begin with. I liked dancing as much as the next girl, but this stuff was nothing like the shimmying Bex and I did when we went out.
Even though Mr. Watson had left, I decided to stay. I obviously needed the practice. I took off my dancing gloves because they were making me hot. I kicked them off to the side of the ballroom, then resumed my stance. I did the three-four count in my head. I tried to imagine some music but couldn’t. We’d gone to only the one disastrous “you’re a whore” ball, and I didn’t remember any music. Obviously, there would be no boy bands or techno playing, so I was stuck with the counting. I should have taken that classical music appreciation class in college.
Twilight spread across the sky, and I watched through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows as the day started to give way to the night, accompanied by even more rain. But thankfully, no thunder.
Back straight, right arm up, left arm pretending to be on someone’s shoulder while still holding a fan. Because obviously it wasn’t bad enough to have to learn this dance. We had to add holding objects to up the difficulty factor. I shut my eyes, still counting.
I heard the steps of one of the footmen as he entered to light some candles for me. “Thank you!” I called over my shoulder.
Most likely, I looked completely ridiculous. But there was no choice. I had to do well. This would effectively be my big debut under Charles’s and the Duchess of Warfield’s protective wings. People would be watching me. I couldn’t make a fool of myself. I couldn’t do that to them.
Or to him.
At some point, I was going to get my watch out of that locked drawer, and I was going to time myself to see how long I could actually go without thinking about Hartley. Nothing had changed. He still wanted me to marry James. Kiss or no kiss, Hartley wasn’t interested. Even if I did fantasize that he was.
Sighing, I shook my head. I was truly pathetic.
So pathetic, in fact, that instead of imagining some nameless, faceless guy dancing with me, I imagined Hartley.
It made me smile, and my feet seemed lighter. We were having one of those everybody moved off the ballroom floor to watch us in all our magnificence moments. I had a big fluffy dress like Belle in Beauty and the Beast, and we moved perfectly in time together. I tried to picture Hartley gazing at me with tenderness and affection and want in his eyes, but not even my imagination was that good.
I felt a large hand at my back, and someone took my free right hand. My eyelids flew open at the contact, and I might have gasped. My feet faltered to a stop, and I nearly crashed into him. I’d been so caught up in daydreaming about imaginary Hartley that I hadn’t even heard the real one enter the room. All my senses were assaulted at once, and every single nerve I owned tingled with anticipation and excitement.
Stupid nerves.
And I probably should have said something, asked why he was holding me for the waltz and why he hadn’t said anything when he came in the room and cut in on me and my imaginary partner. Instead I just stared at him. Loving the feel of his hands on me probably a lot more than I should have.
“My apologies,” he said with a smile. Like somehow he knew exactly what I’d been thinking. “I did not mean to startle you. But it looked as if you lacked for a partner.”
Still, more gaping. It seemed so unfair that any man could be this beautiful. And in the ever-darkening room, with only a few candles burning, he was practically godlike.
“Am I encroaching on your personal space bubble again?” he asked.
Suddenly, I didn’t mind it quite so much. I wanted him to encroach. “No,” I said in a voice too breathy and tight.
“Then, may I have this dance?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THINGS I’M GOING TO INVENT IF I GET STUCK IN 1816
Dance-training videos. And the Internet and YouTube so I can post them and make a fortune.
Hartley had already been having this dance, even though he didn’t know it. My throat closed in on itself, the awareness from being so close to him overwhelming. I had dropped my fan, but I was not going to pick it back up. I managed to nod at him and tentatively put my left hand on his shoulder. His very muscular shoulder. I ordered my fingers to hold still.
We stood as far apart as I always did with Mr. Watson, but this felt completely different. Electric heat radiated from his hands and made me tremble. Neither one of us had gloves on, and his bare hand holding mine made the whole thing seem kind of scandalous. And exciting.
And slightly terrifying.
“I’m not very good at it,” I managed to whisper.
Something happy and bright danced in his eyes, and my stomach twisted in knots to see it. It was my real Hartley again. The fun, loving, quick-to-laugh one.
Which made sparkling butterflies and prancing unicorns take up residence inside me, trying to push away the panic and encouraging me to throw myself at him.
But I’d already learned the hard way that sparkling butterflies and prancing unicorns were absolutely not to be trusted.
<
br /> “Then that is the fault of your partner. You need only to stay with me. Trust me. Follow where I lead.”
The sparkling butterflies grew to Mothra sizes, sending shimmery glitter through every vein in my body. When he said stuff like that, his voice all silky and seductive, I was in danger of throwing my arms around his knees and begging him to love me forever.
I might have even been willing to give up air-conditioning when he sounded like that.
His hand splayed across the small of my back, pulling me toward him. At the same time, he pulled gently on my right hand. I took a step forward just as he stepped back.
It was too much. He was too much. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I just knew that if he looked into my eyes, he’d see my reaction to him. He wants you to marry his brother, I told my hopeful self for the millionth time.
My hopeful self didn’t care.
So I looked at my feet, watching the steps, following the pressure and guidance he gave me. I didn’t know at what point my heart had started thumping so hard. But I finally understood that saying about your heart beating out of your chest. Something inside of me wanted to be set free and instinctively understood that only Hartley could help.
Somehow this was different than the night of the party. When I’d showed him slow dancing. I’d been in control then. I knew what I was doing. I’d even done it in part to see his reaction to it, to have a reason to be close to him.
I wasn’t in control now. And I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
Like always, his movements were all liquid gracefulness. Easy. Elegant. There was never any doubt in what he did, no hesitation, just a total and complete confidence. I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was surprised by the reality matching up to the fantasy. We moved as easily together in real life as we had in my head. Like, we were almost meant to dance together.
Obviously, I was reaching. But could anyone blame me?
We danced to the sounds of our feet tapping against the floor and the rustle of my skirts. Even without music, he kept perfect time. Why was he so freaking good at everything? It made me crazy. And made me like him even more. I felt torn between wanting to stay in his arms forever and wanting to run away and hide so that he wouldn’t see how much I liked him.
“It is generally preferable whilst dancing to look upon your partner’s countenance rather than the top of her head,” he said.
Still, I didn’t look up. “But what if she has a really nice scalp?”
I could hear the smile when he spoke. “Even the world’s most perfect scalp would pale in comparison to a lovely face.”
Inhaling a big breath, I looked up at him. I loved when he said something about me was lovely.
The hint of the smile hovered over his lips, but it faded as his gaze met mine. “Much better,” he said in a low voice that made my toes want to curl up.
Then I couldn’t have looked away even if I’d wanted to. He captured me with his eyes, and I felt like I was drowning in their depths.
The intensity, along with my corset, threatened to suffocate me.
I hoped I wouldn’t puke on his boots again.
Our dance continued on, slowly swirling around the empty ballroom. I wanted to blame my uneven breathing on the dancing.
But it was all due to him.
Maybe it was the ridiculously romantic setting. Or his peekaboo charm. Or that I felt worn out and was tired of worrying and trying to keep my distance. Something happened. It was probably my traitorous body trying to get what it had been craving. The distance between us became smaller and smaller until it was nonexistent. Somehow I got closer to him with each step.
Until I was pressed flush against him, still staring into his eyes. His right hand held me tightly in place, his left hand enveloping my right. My left hand had migrated down from his shoulder to his bicep. His extremely strong, nicely formed bicep. I nearly asked him to flex it for me, but I did manage a little bit of self-control.
Said self-control wasn’t going to last for much longer, though, because every cell in my body wanted more. I felt like somebody had dipped me in some kind of everlasting fire of wanting that refused to go out.
Our steps slowed until we were no longer dancing. Just standing, holding on to each other. His mouth was so close to mine that I could feel his breath on my lips. My heart did a series of flips at his expression.
Kiss me, I thought. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.
That one kiss, whether or not he thought it was a mistake, was always present in my mind. I had wanted a repeat. To see if what I’d felt had been legit or imagined. I leaned into him even more, and he tilted his head, studying me intently. He let go of my hand to push a stray strand of hair from my forehead. I couldn’t help it. I sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation. His fingers trailed down the side of my face, leaving little pools of fire everywhere he touched me.
Not imagined. Very, very real.
“Miss Blythe . . .” He sounded as wound up as I felt.
“Emma,” I reminded him for the millionth time. I mean, if he was going to kiss me, the least he could do was call me Emma. And he was going to kiss me, right?
Right?
I was breathing so hard I probably sounded like a winded elephant. My eyelids drifted shut in anticipation.
Then he totally withdrew from me. I opened my eyes to see that he had stepped back a few feet away. He bowed. I was supposed to curtsy back, but my knees weren’t exactly functioning properly.
“I thank you for the honor of a dance.”
What? He sounded so calm and collected, and I was a jumbled mess of frazzled nerve endings and disappointment.
He took long strides to one of the doors, and all I could do was stand where he’d left me, missing him desperately, wanting him back, but watching him go.
Pausing at the doorway, he turned around briefly, facing me. “You are an excellent dancer. All you needed was the right partner.”
My heartbeat zoomed up into my throat and then dropped with a thud down into my feet. What in the world was I supposed to make of that?
Then he left. I sank into a puddle in the middle of the floor, hanging my head. How did I keep letting this happen? I couldn’t keep wanting something more with someone who was so clearly not into it.
He was wrong. I didn’t need the right partner. What I needed was to face the reality of my situation and get back home.
* * *
Problem was, every minute of my day was now scheduled with either preparing for or attending some social activity. Which was nice after what had essentially been house arrest, but I found myself getting caught up in this lifestyle. Imagining that I could live here with Hartley and his family. That I could be happy.
I missed so many conveniences in my life back home, but I was finding so many things to like about here and now.
And I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that most of those things revolved around Hartley.
Some nights we stayed in, and those were always my favorite. When it was just the three of us, hanging out after dinner. I quickly found out that Charles didn’t need help from alcohol to fall asleep in front of the fire with Princess on her lap, leaving me and Hartley alone to play checkers.
Where we did not talk about our kiss. Or about our dances. Or how we kept finding ways to touch each other.
Mostly we just talked about our lives. I told him things that I’d never told anyone else. Because I knew I could trust him. Whatever I confessed he would keep to himself and never share with another person. I knew it, on some basic level, and it loosened my tongue. He was so easy to talk to that it was hard to remember a time when he hadn’t been part of my life.
I was still lying to him about the time travel and lying about all the feelings I was having for him. I had never been in love before, but I thought this might be it. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
Being here, with him, it felt . . . right. Safe. Like for the very first time ever I had a place where I belonged. W
here I was wanted.
With people who felt like family.
A home.
I tried not to smile too big when I, yet again, beat Hartley at checkers. He pretended to be upset, although he couldn’t have actually been surprised, but he demanded we switch to chess so that he could have “satisfaction.” I obliged.
Because I liked making him happy.
Because I could see a future for us. Not one back in the twenty-first century. But here. I would never be like Libby Amesbury. I wouldn’t ask him to give everything up just for me. I understood that if I stayed, I would be giving everything up for him, but it was different. He had a title. Responsibilities and duties not only to his country but to his tenants and his businesses.
Hartley had a family. A family who loved him. They needed him here. I would never ask him to choose me over all of that.
Other than Bex, I didn’t have anyone waiting for me. No ties, no obligations or expectations. I could stay.
This entire line of thinking was stupid and pointless. Of course I would go back. I had to. I didn’t belong here, and who knew how I was messing up the future by even being in 1816? Like that butterfly effect thing. Maybe I would be the cause of global warming. Maybe Germany would win World War II now or something and I had ruined the whole world because I couldn’t find one simple spell.
Or I was giving myself more credit than I should have. Maybe I wasn’t affecting anything. Maybe the timeline had already happened and I had always traveled back in time and everything I was now experiencing I’d already done and so it didn’t matter because the future was set.
Just thinking about how it all worked made my head hurt.
And I had to remind myself that one hot kiss, two intoxicating dances, and quiet nights of checkers did not equal a relationship.
But could it? Could there be more?
It became my new obsession. Wondering. Daydreaming. Watching Hartley watch me. Because he did. He probably would have denied it, but there was something between us. Some undercurrent that sparked and sang when we were together, drawing us closer.
Once Upon a Time Travel Page 18
