Once Upon a Time Travel

by Sariah Wilson

  Wishing he could comfort her but knowing he should not, Hartley crossed his arms, determined to keep his hands to himself. Even if they had stopped, he could not undo what had been done. There were consequences for his actions, and he was ready to face them.

  “You were well within your rights to use whatever means necessary to stop me,” he told her, not sure what particular piece of their situation was making her so unhappy. Had he frightened her? Did she think differently of him now? He found the idea that Emma would hold him in a low regard upset him. More than he might have expected it to. He, inexplicably, wanted to stay in her good graces, even if he did not deserve it.

  She nodded in response to his assurance, still not meeting his gaze. It took all his self-control not to reach for her, not to do everything within his power to make her smile again.

  All that was left was for him to make things right.

  “As I am begging for your forgiveness, there is something else I must do.” He moved from the chair to kneel on the floor in front of her. That made her look up, her beautiful green eyes wide and shocked. “Miss Blythe, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  Emma blinked several times, seemingly overcome. With joy? With shock? Was that disbelief? Hadn’t she been expecting this?

  And why was his own heart beating so rapidly? How had his palms gone damp like some green schoolboy? Why was his throat catching on each breath? He had looked on this as a matter of what was required of him as a gentleman and a lord. He knew that he must marry her, but he also knew that he would not love her. There would be obvious benefits to taking her as his bride, and they would have affection and respect. What more could a man reasonably expect? But still, kneeling here, waiting for her response, he found there was something else. Something he hadn’t counted on.

  He might have told himself that this would be little more than a mutually beneficial arrangement, but his physical response to her quiet showed him that he felt more for Emma than he would admit.

  She stayed silent for so long that Hartley was about to repeat his proposal. Perhaps she hadn’t heard?

  “Why are you asking me to marry you?”

  Was it not bloody obvious why? He wanted to sigh in exasperation but refrained. “Because of what passed between us last night. I must ask you to marry me.”

  Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say. Her expression turned from confused to angry. She blinked several times, and he would have sworn she was counting before she answered. “So because we made out and you tried to . . . you know . . . do other stuff, now you have to marry me? Am I understanding that right?”

  That seemed to be the long and short of it. “Yes. Recompense must be made.”

  “Oh. Then my answer is no.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THINGS I’M GOING TO INVENT IF I GET STUCK IN 1816

  The science of psychology so that I can figure men out. One man, in particular.

  “No?” Had he heard her correctly? “Did you just say no? To me?”

  “Did I stutter?” she shot back, her eyes flashing in an entirely too-appealing way. “Pretty sure I didn’t. You guys don’t do anything halfway, do you? All the men I’ve ever met think commitment is a four-letter word.”

  He rocked back to sit on his heels, both stunned and confused. “I’m fairly certain commitment is not a four-letter word anywhere. Regardless, we must wed.”

  ”No, we mustn’t. I don’t have to marry you if I don’t want to. And I don’t want to marry you because of your guilty conscience.” She let out a short peal of laughter. “I mean, where I’m from, there wouldn’t be a single unmarried guy over the age of fifteen if we had the same rules as you.”

  It was too late to tell her that it was about more than just honor or doing the right thing. He had been dreading asking her all morning, but now that she had refused him, he realized he had desperately wanted her to say yes.

  Wanting to sort out his feelings in private later, he stood, bowing to her slightly. “I do apologize if my proposal has caused you further upset. I only wished to . . .”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Please stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I didn’t do anything wrong. I mean, isn’t this all about reputations or whatever? Nobody knows besides us what happened, and as long as we both keep quiet, we’re good.” She leaned her head to one side, observing him. As if she saw things in him that no one else did. “Hasn’t a woman ever told you no before? You’re acting like a wounded puppy.”

  He straightened his shoulders. He was doing no such thing.

  Or was he?

  “You may very well be the only woman in England not interested in marrying me.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, he realized how arrogant and snobbish he sounded. But she was right, he did want to lick his wounds and bruised pride.

  She laughed, which made him furrow his brows at her. “Oh yes. With your charming personality and positive attitude toward women in general, I’m surprised they don’t cling to your boots when you walk down the street.” She paused. “That was sarcasm, by the way. You have sarcasm here, right?”

  “We have sarcasm,” he responded, clenching his teeth tight. He was getting worked up when he should not. He was an earl, not a child. He let out a sigh, running one hand through his hair. “I do not wish to fight with you. I wish only to reach an agreement.”

  “But we already have an agreement. I’m supposed to marry your brother. Unless you have a reason I shouldn’t.”

  Hartley could think of a million reasons why she shouldn’t marry James. Because James didn’t deserve her. Because she should marry a man who would truly appreciate her and take care of her. Because he didn’t want her vibrant spirit and joie de vivre to be ignored. Because he didn’t want her to leave his home and his life.

  Because he was dangerously close to falling in love with Miss Emma Blythe and wanted her all for himself.

  The shocking realization rendered him unable to speak. Unable to give her the response that he should give her. That of course she should marry James.

  Even if that was not what he wanted.

  But should he confess such a thing to her? What if she did not hold him in the same regard?

  And if he let himself love her, what would he do if something happened to her? He could not and would not lose another woman he loved. He did not know if he could bear it.

  It was better to remember himself. To remember his position, his oath, what society expected of him. What he expected of himself.

  Better to keep his heart safe.

  “Look, before you answer, can you wait here a second? There’s some stuff I want to show you.”

  She left him to his disturbing and overwhelming thoughts and feelings. He hadn’t allowed himself to care about anyone since Libby, but somehow Emma had sneaked in. She had laid siege to the stone wall around his heart, turning it to rubble, leaving him defenseless. He had to reassemble it and keep her at bay.

  Emma reentered the room, carrying something bright and metallic in her hands. “I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to believe me. But I’m not crazy, and I can prove it.”

  She came closer, still speaking. “You should probably sit.”

  There was something in her voice that encouraged him to do as she asked. He had never seen her looking so anxious, so apprehensive.

  “I . . . uh . . . that is . . . I mean, I should . . . I . . . I’m not very good at this.”

  “At constructing full sentences?” he asked. What was she driving at? “Begin at the beginning.”

  “You said to me once that I could trust you. That I could always rely on you.”

  He leaned toward her, wondering where this was going. “And that is true. With the possible exception of when I’ve taken total leave of my senses.”

  Although he had not meant to tease her, he was glad that he had when she gave him a small smile. “Speaking of, you probably shouldn’t drink like that again.”

&nbs
p; “Upon my word of honor, I promise you that it will never happen again.” Even if it meant pouring every drop of alcohol in England into the Thames. He could not afford to lose control with her.

  Emma nodded, distracted. “I’m telling you this because I realized last night that I could trust you.”

  That seemed to be rather ironic considering that he had behaved completely untrustworthily last night. She blushed, as if she realized what she had said. “I mean, after. When I went back to my room I thought about how you’ve confided in me and trusted me, but I haven’t done the same with you. I want you to know that I trust you. And that I want to show you just how much I do trust you.”

  For some inexplicable reason, her assurance that she trusted him filled him with a warmth that started in the general vicinity of his heart.

  Before he had time to ponder on what that feeling meant, she continued on. “And we’re friends, right?”

  Were they? Friends? It seemed an odd way to consider her.

  “So if I’m going to begin at the beginning, in the immortal words of Snoopy, it was a dark and stormy night.”

  “Snoopy?” he echoed.

  “He’s a dog.”

  “There’s a talking dog involved?”

  “What? No.” She sounded exasperated. He understood that feeling all too well. “I was trying to set the mood. Okay, um, I’m not from here.”

  “I am aware,” he said, sensing something very important was about to happen and not wanting to frighten her off before she said what she needed to.

  “No. I don’t mean I’m not from England.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I’m not from 1816.”

  Not from 1816? “What do you mean?”

  “I was born in 1996. In the year 2017, I was working in your home, which will become a museum. One night I snuck into what is currently my room, and there was a piece of paper with writing on it that I read out loud during an awful storm. The next morning I woke up here. In your home, with you, in 1816. Two hundred years in the past. I am from the future.”

  He blinked several times. Was she serious?

  She seemed very serious. “This is a cell phone. It’s really hard to explain everything that it does, but one of the things I can do is take pictures. Can you hold that newspaper on your desk next to your face?”

  While incredulous, after a moment’s hesitation he did as she asked. The rectangle in her hand flashed a light at him briefly, startling him. She brought it over and showed it to him. There, he saw himself. Holding today’s newspaper. She had somehow captured his image with perfect clarity. Astounded, he reached for the object she called a cell phone, but she held on to it.

  “How is this done?”

  “No idea. Not a scientist or an engineer.” She came over, putting her head close to his, and used the cell phone again. This time she showed him an image of the two of them together. “It’s not magic. It’s science. Twenty-first century science.”

  Then she let him hold it. It was so light and fit easily into his hand. She did something with her finger, showing him pictures. “This is my best friend, Bex. She’s British. We met here in London. Here’s some pictures of Big Ben and the Tower, and you can see streets and cars. That’s how we get around. We don’t use horses. And here’s pictures of me on my flight. In an airplane. We have big machines with wings that fly us across the ocean.”

  Emma took the phone once again. “I use my cell phone to call other people. You can speak to someone, and they answer on their phone, and we can have conversations. Or send texts. Which are like instant, short letters.” She showed him another screen with writing encased in elongated circles. “I also use it for music.”

  Another movement with her finger, and a loud thumping noise filled the room. “Oh, not hip-hop. Let’s start you out with something easy. Like the classics.” Then he heard, to his great astonishment, Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5. As if she held an entire orchestra within the palm of her hand.

  “Astonishing,” was all he could muster.

  She went on to explain several other uses for her cell phone, showing them to him, and each new piece of information shocked him more than the last. To have such power, such knowledge, at your fingertips at all times. It was simply unbelievable. Unfathomable.

  “I think I should probably sit down,” he said ten minutes later.

  “You are sitting down,” she reminded him with a mischievous grin.

  “Oh yes. Quite right. It’s just . . .”

  “Don’t worry. I get it. It’s a lot to take in. And this is my Mickey Mouse watch. A lot of people don’t wear watches anymore because your cell phone has the time, but it was my mom’s, and I like wearing it.” She handed him a timepiece. This at least felt familiar, even if it was impossibly small and attached to a leather band. “I don’t have to wind it. It runs on a battery. If you want, you can take the back off and look inside. Just don’t, you know, ruin it.”

  Not have to wind it?

  “So since we’re having actual sunshine today, I’m going to go out into the garden. You come and find me when you’re ready to talk. When you’re done messing with my phone, here’s how you turn it off. I want to conserve the battery on it.” She showed him an extremely slim button on the side of the object, and words magically appeared. Emma told him to choose the “Power Off” option. She also showed him how to do something she called “scrolling” by moving his finger from one side to the other along the face. “Don’t forget to turn it off.”

  With that last reminder, she left.

  Left him after completely shattering everything he thought he knew about her.

  The cell phone seemed far too intimidating. After scrolling a few times and looking at the things it contained, including a moving cartoon that involved furious birds and their porcine tormentors, he shut it off as she had instructed. He picked up her timepiece, or what she had called a wristwatch, and began to study it. A drawing of a partially dressed rodent smiled back at him, and the rodent’s hands served to keep the minute and the hour. He turned it over.

  The seams on the back were too perfect, too flawless. One could hardly tell where to open it, as she had offered. He took the quizzing glass from his top drawer and a letter opener to pry off the back. The words “Made in China” were engraved on it. How very odd. It didn’t appear at all Chinese in design.

  Then he held his glass over the innards of the timepiece. In addition to the ingenuity of the band that made it wearable, the insides were far too tiny. As if elves had cobbled it together. It looked nothing at all like his own pocket watch in either design or size. He wondered if the round circle near the bottom was the—what had she called it? Oh yes, the battery that powered the wristwatch.

  He also had no explanation at all for the pale-green phosphorescent light that illuminated the face when he pushed one of the side buttons. He swore and dropped the watch on his desk. The ramifications of her proclamation were mind-boggling. He had all the basic questions. Why. How. What. They didn’t even begin to cover it. It made his head hurt worse.

  Standing up, he went to look out of the window nearest to his desk, which faced the garden. He had a glimpse of Emma’s skirts before she headed behind a tall bush. She had proclaimed them friends. He’d only ever thought of his schoolmates as his friends. Even then, there were few relationships he’d kept up, especially since Libby’s death. At the moment, he didn’t think there was anyone he would currently consider a friend.

  With the singular exception of Emma. She was right. They were friends. Which meant he had to trust her. Believe her.

  Even if it seemed beyond impossible. How could she be from the future?

  And yet, how could he not believe her when all the evidence currently sat in pieces on his desk?

  If she truly were from the future, it would certainly explain all of her queer sayings and expressions and her utter lack of social grace and manners. The way she’d known how to save the Duke and Duchess of Warfield’s daughter. Her odd notions about women’s
equality to men. The joy she took in every experience. Because they were all new experiences. They were things she was unfamiliar with. How had he never worked this out before?

  Some very small part of him thought of the possibility that she was simply delusional. But even as he thought it, he knew it to be untrue. She was quite sane. Strange, but sane.

  And she possessed objects he could not explain or rationalize away.

  Not to mention that he knew, better than anyone, how such a thing could be possible.

  No, Emma was not insane and was not lying. What she said was true. Which meant she was not Professor Blythe’s daughter.

  He blinked several times as this realization set in. What had happened to the real Miss Blythe?

  * * *

  On my way outside, I ran into a very smug Charles. And everything fell into place. “Your dog never threw up, did she?”

  How had she managed to keep all the servants away? Magic? Bribes?

  Witches, man. Manipulative, sneaky witches.

  “And?” She wasn’t even ashamed or embarrassed.

  “And . . .” Part of me wanted to lie to her. To not give her the satisfaction of finding out that her plan had almost worked. Not to mention that I’d just told Hartley we had to keep this on the down-low. But it was like the words just spilled out of my mouth. “Your little scheme worked. He just proposed to me.”

  “Oh, my dearest Emma!” She ran over, grabbing both of my hands. “I had so hoped—”

  “I said no.” I had to cut her off before she went too far down that road. Especially since I wanted to travel down it with her and jump around like a giddy teenager. She looked so disappointed I almost wished I could take it back.