by Nichole Van
She turned back to the ladies. “I hear Lord Stratton’s favorite subject for filigree is fruit,” she deadpanned.
“Fruit? Really?” Sebastian only just managed to keep from laughing.
“With faces on them. Particularly gooseberries.”
The Miss Burbanks all nodded in unison, obviously already composing paper filigree in their heads. Sebastian saw an army of smiling gooseberries in his future.
“Ah, Miss Knight, you know me too well. I look most forward to seeing your own charming fruitful example.”
He trapped her hand resting on the sofa. With a languid smile, he raised her knuckles to his lips in a careful salute. Her eyes widened in warning.
“You are all politeness, Lord Stratton,” she said, tugging her hand free.
“No, merely truthful.”
“You should know that I am only skilled in rendering lemons.”
“Perfect.”
“Truly? Oblong, boring, acidic. Lots of yellow.”
“Lemons are the most romantic fruit of all.”
“Lemons? I think that most poets would beg to disagree with that assessment.” She folded her hands primly in her lap.
“Oh, I think not.”
“Many would consider the pomegranate to be the most romantic fruit.”
“There the masses are wrong.”
“Not oranges or strawberries? Even the humble gooseberry is more likely to inspire amorous feelings.”
“No. It is most decidedly lemons.”
“Indeed? I had always considered them to be quite sour.”
“Exactly so, Miss Knight. Therein lies their charm.”
She cocked a quizzical eyebrow at him. He let his slow smile creep across his face, hoping it was as disarming as some claimed it to be.
He leaned toward her and whispered, low and quiet for her, and her alone, to hear.
“I find lemons make my lips . . . pucker.”
Georgiana caught her breath at that, the tiniest of catches expanding her ribs, the slightest flaring of her eyes.
She did not, however, blush.
Which was somewhat odd. The Georgiana of his youth would have flushed bright pink at such a statement.
Instead, she gave him a quelling look and pressed her heel into his foot again.
Sebastian turned back to see the entire room staring at them. Phillips, Arthur and Marianne grinning good naturedly.
The rest of the ladies . . . not so much. Lady Michael and Lady Ambrosia seemed ready to spit daggers, and even Mr. Snickers had a mean little look in his eye.
The sooner he convinced Miss Georgiana Knight to marry him, the better.
Georgiana’s bedroom
Haldon Manor
Early morning hours on August 28, 1813
Birthday in minus 42 days
. . . Wrap me in the light of your love . . .
That impossibly enigmatic letter.
Arthur had been quite dismissive of it. Troublesome indeed! Neither of her brothers had demonstrated a proper appreciation for the profundity of its mystery.
Georgiana tossed a photocopy of the letter onto the counterpane—she had left the original in 2013—and collapsed back into her pillows piled against the headboard.
After maintaining lady-like posture all day, she felt the tiniest bit naughty slouching on her bed.
She reached for her tablet and pulled up her My Mysterious Letter list, pondering it for a moment.
Who did she love to such depth? And when?
As she had noted in her list, the letter was dated -ber 1813, which meant it would be written sometime between September and December. Given that it was now pushing the end of August, she could write the letter at almost any time.
If only she felt that kind of emotion for someone.
. . . love that comes from deep within a woman’s soul . . .
Shatner. She cared about him—his focus, his energy, his drive—but did she care that much? Perhaps being away from him would make her heart grow fonder.
Or absence could make the heart wander.
She chewed on the inside of her cheek and pondered the state of her heart.
It felt . . . oh, who was she fooling?
Her heart felt whole and entirely her own. Perhaps she just wasn’t made out for romantic, gushy love like poets described. She felt happy when she was with Shatner, and she loved the idea of the life they would have together.
That probably described love for her. Other people just waxed more rhapsodic about it.
So what about her letter then? Did she write it as a lark as James had suggested—a joking expression of poetic love?
She briefly saw herself seated in Arthur’s study, pen in hand, composing the letter.
Someone else strolls to her side, leaning over, helping her come up with the lines. Someone with broad shoulders and dark hair, his low voice laughing as they write the ridiculous words of love together . . .
Georgiana groaned. Yes, she could see it all too clearly. Perhaps the letter truly was just a lark.
Sighing, she added that point to her list:
Could I have written (will I write?) the letter as a joke?
The clock on the mantle chimed once. Was it already one o’clock in the morning? Georgiana pursed her lips and looked around her room, the place that had always been her sanctuary.
The two windows stood open, allowing a cool summer breeze to stir the pale green bed curtains. No fire burned in the hearth, but the room was lit enough by a decidedly anachronistic solar lamp sitting on her bedside table. Much brighter and less sooty than candles.
The large trunk she had brought through the portal stood open at the foot of her bed. Marc had the ingenuous idea to place the trunk on casters, enabling her to wheel it through along with herself.
Georgiana had chosen the trunk because it looked quite period, but its contents were anything but nineteenth century. She might be returning from her adventures in the twenty-first century, but that didn’t mean forgoing all the perks of modern life.
Aside from the solar lamp, Georgiana had brought her phone and tablet, as well as extra batteries and discrete solar chargers for them. She had loaded an external harddrive with a ridiculous amount of information, everything from medical textbooks to music to dress patterns. She even had night vision goggles. All the tools necessary for sleuthing out an answer to her mysterious letter.
She had the trunk fitted with a false bottom, enabling her to hide all her futuristic anomalies from servants. And she knew of a small window in the attic which would be the perfect stowaway place to recharge all her small solar batteries.
However, the bulk of her trunk she had dedicated to clothing, all the dresses and accessories made for her Bosom Companions of the English Regency meetings. Even if she didn’t find love, she would be the best dressed young lady in Herefordshire. Right now she was wearing a lovely nightgown of the softest Egyptian cotton with yards of lace. The kind of lace that abounded in 2013 but would be obscenely expensive in 1813. A matching dressing gown lay draped at the end of her bed.
But how to go about investigating her letter? The Jupiter sign was an utter enigma. What did the symbol mean in the context of the letter? It wasn’t as if she could go around showing the symbol to people, asking for their opinion.
Or could she?
Georgiana pondered for a minute. That wasn’t such a terrible idea actually. A small wondrous smile touched her lips. It was just so exciting. The whole situation made her feel all bubbly.
And Sebastian? What to do about him?
He really was her dearest friend. Kind and cheerful and just . . . Sebastian.
Every time she looked at him, she saw the gangly boy who had nothing better to do with his time but sit under that old willow tree, its branches dipping down into the river.
“The Mysteries of Udolpho,” he said, taking the novel from her hands with a raised eyebrow.
She grabbed for the book, but he turned his shoulders to her, his long arms keeping it out of rea
ch.
“Sebastian . . .” she warned.
He laughed and thumbed through a few pages. “Let’s see. Dastardly guardian. Creepy decrepit castle. Please tell me the story involves copious amounts of swooning—”
“You are terrible.” She lunged around him and snatched the book back, her long braid hitting his arm. “There is nothing wrong with swooning if the situation merits it.”
He laughed harder. A full on guffaw really.
“Please! Georgiana Knight, I cannot imagine a situation that would induce you to swoon.”
She glared at him, trying to control a smile which threatened to undermine the sternness of her look.
“If I were the heroine of a gothic novel, I am sure swoon-worthy moments would arise with shocking regularity—”
He shook his head, chuckling incredulously.
“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Georgie, but gothic heroines are regularly praised for their exemplary and obedient natures. I can think of many words to describe you, but for some reason obedient is never on the list—”
“What a thing to say! Of course I am obedient. In what way am I not?”
He gave her a wry grin and then tapped the cover of her book.
“Case in point. Does your grandmother approve of this reading material?”
She opened her mouth to reply and then shut it.
“Touché,” she said with a nod. “But what Grandmama doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Besides, who is going to tell?”
Sebastian smiled. Slow and decidedly mischievous.
“Oh no. Just no, Sebastian.” She knew that look too well. “You cannot seriously be thinking—”
“How delightful.” He leaned toward her. “I love nothing more than holding a secret over you.”
She stared at him for an instant and shook her head. “Is it to be blackmail then?”
He chuckled. “You were wanting your life to be more like a gothic novel. Blackmail seems like a good place to start.”
It was just like Seb. It had taken her a month’s worth of pin money to buy his silence. Which he had used to purchase more dreadful novels for her. Just to have additional things to hold over her head.
Everything was a joke to him.
When other boys heckled him about hanging around her, he brushed it off. It was the same way he laughed away their teasing over his step-father’s sermons, his sister’s flirtatious beaus and his mother’s eccentrically large hats.
He was the boy with an irrepressible sense of humor who looked at the world as a grand lark. Nothing ruffling him.
Which was both good and bad.
He was easy-going to a fault. Nothing captured his emotions, focused whatever passion he may have. He was a good sort but lacked the emotional depth to make him truly interesting to her as an adult.
She gave a puzzled little frown.
Yet there was no sense of boy about him anymore. Sebastian fit comfortably into his own skin, shouldering power and authority like a well-worn coat. Becoming an earl had changed him somewhat. Or maybe it was serving in the army? Hadn’t he said something about rising to the rank of captain?
She was honest enough with herself to admit that the Georgiana of a few years ago might have married him. For someone in 1813, his reasons for proposing marriage were sensible and logical.
But she wasn’t that Georgiana any more. Not entirely. Facing death and spending time in the twenty-first century had changed her too much. Without the old earl’s silly will in the way, Georgiana was quite sure the issue of marriage would never have been brought up between them.
And even if she were to tell Sebastian about the last year of her life (and that was an enormous if), he would never fully understand her experiences there. A part of her would always be separate from him. Not that Shatner knew about her nineteenth century origins. Was she doomed to always keep a part of herself from any potential suitor?
It was not a comforting thought.
With a sigh, Georgiana tossed her tablet onto the counterpane and turned off the solar lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Weak moonlight drifted in through the open window.
Pushing to her feet, she looked out over the rolling hills, lumpy in the dim light. It was wonderful to be home but, without James here, the house felt empty.
No, not empty. Just hollow.
It was an odd kind of death in a way. Gone and yet not. Georgiana found herself suddenly swallowing against tightness in her throat.
She stared out into the darkness. The night was eerily quiet, broken only by the far off lowing of a cow. No light pollution glow from Hereford on the horizon. No hum of machinery or cars on the motorway. Just the faint chirp and rustle of natural things.
A soft breeze swished through the trees and stirred the hedges. Suddenly, a slight movement to the right of the garden caught her eye. Peering into the darkness, Georgiana thought she saw a moving shape. Squinting, she tried to make it out.
Without hesitation, she turned back to the room and dug into her trunk, pulling out her night vision goggles with a low cry of triumph.
How exciting to be able to use them so soon!
Giddily, she turned them on. Instantly, night became clearer shades of green-gray.
Training them on the garden, she skimmed around until she located a person furtively moving away from the house. The figure was wearing dark breeches, stealthily darting from bush to bush, crouching against the garden wall. Obviously intending not to be seen.
Even with her night vision goggles, she couldn’t make out the person’s features. The figure paused next to a flower urn on the garden wall and slipped something that flashed white under the violets in the pot. And then with a suspicious glance around, the person melted farther into the garden, disappearing from view.
A shiver of excitement shot down her spine. At last. Something to investigate.
With an eager grin, Georgiana turned back to the room, drew her dressing gown over her nightgown, grabbed a flashlight and dashed out of her bedroom.
Chapter 7
The great hall
Haldon Manor
A few minutes later on August 28, 1813
Birthday in minus 42 days
Honestly, this just needed to stop.
Sebastian rubbed a weary hand over his face as he quietly crossed the great hall of Haldon Manor aiming to return to the guest wing and his bedchamber to hopefully (maybe) get some rest.
He had awakened from a deep sleep to find a cloaked figure slipping into his room. Fortunately, he had recognized Lady Ambrosia before mistaking her for an intruder and tackling her to the ground.
This made three.
Three times that she had stolen into his bed chamber in some ridiculous attempt to entrap him. Twice before with Mr. Snickers and now tonight without her dog.
It was a poorly thought out scheme. As a widow, she could not force a marriage by being caught alone with him. Her persistent presence only served to make him more wary of female-kind in general.
Of course, he had never cataloged intelligence as one of Lady Ambrosia’s strongest assets, either. He could only assume she had some sort of seduction in mind, not that he allowed her to remain long enough to find out.
He had firmly escorted her out a side door with some choice sharp words, most of which involved the legal ramifications of trespassing and a not-so-subtle threat to haul her before the magistrate, the tense whiteness of her face oddly gratifying. Maybe the seriousness of his tone had sunk in.
He had watched her disappear into the night, headed back to her room at the Old Boar Inn. Thank goodness Knight wasn’t housing her in Haldon Manor itself. Now all he wanted was a soft bed and undisturbed rest.
He padded quietly through the great hall, pulling his banyan a little tighter over his chest. Faint moonlight streamed across the parquet from the floor to ceiling bay windows to the right. As he neared the far end, he heard the rustle of fabric and slippered feet on the staircase ahead of him.
Not again.
Suppressing a groan, Sebastian darted behind the curtains lining the large windows. Why couldn’t they just leave him be?
Peering out, he saw a slim figure glide through the doorway, her white dressing gown glowing in the dim moonlight. The long, golden braid instantly identified her, even though a subliminal part of him had already known.
Georgiana.
His heart whispered over her name.
Without thinking, he stepped out and grabbed her arm. She let out a small shriek and whirled on him with surprising speed, yanking down to break his grip and taking a swipe at his head with a cylindrical object she held.
Grinning, Sebastian ducked and let go of her arm, taking a quick step back and holding up his hands to show he meant no harm.
Her pale eyes flashed in the moonlight which shimmered through the window behind him. Her chest rose quickly in surprise. Like a kitten, bristling at some imagined threat.
She looked outrageously gorgeous or, well . . . at least gorgeous in her outrage.
“Sebastian,” she squeaked, swatting at his shoulder. “You nearly startled me out of my skin!”
“That was uproariously amusing,” he chuckled.
Her breath was still coming fast and hard, but she managed a little laugh.
“Seb, stop! My poor heart nearly tumbled out of my chest.”
Still chuckling, Sebastian leaned into her. “Never fear, my dear. Had that happened, I would have happily caught your heart and held it close to my own for safekeeping.”
Even in the dim moonlight, he could see the slight roll of her eyes.
“Give over, Sebastian. Is there ever a time of day when you are not an incorrigible flirt?”
Sebastian paused, as if pondering the thought.
“No,” he said, feigning reflection, edging even closer. “At least, not where you are concerned.”
She shook her head and, with a disbelieving lift of an eyebrow, took a pointed step back from him.
Clever girl.
“Was that you I just saw creeping through the back garden?” she asked.
He gave a puzzled look. “Me? Heavens, no.”
“Well, I saw someone creeping around the garden from my bedroom window and—”
