Divine (House of Oak Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  “Sebastian,” she murmured and walked around the island to him.

  Wanting—no, needing—to comfort him.

  Without thought, she slipped her arms inside his coat, wrapped her arms about his waist and rested her cheek against his chest.

  Holding him to her, willing him to give her some of his heartache.

  His arms reflexively crushed around her, gathering her to him, burying his face in her hair. Her hands rested on his back, and she could feel his muscles twitch under his waistcoat, could hear the bellows of his lungs as he fought his emotions.

  Why did his pain gut her so?

  She melted into his warmth, his strength. Breathed him in, wool and starch and clean soap.

  The smells of home.

  But then he stiffened, brusquely pulling back and pushing her away.

  “Enough.” His voice hoarse and rough.

  He took a step back, ran a shaking hand over his face. Placed his hands on his hips, staring at the floor.

  Silence.

  Then, he let out a long, shuddering breath. And lifted his head to look at her.

  His jaw was still clenched, but he had mastered himself.

  Taken all his emotion and reeled it back inside. Closing himself off.

  Gave her his game, boyish Sebastian smile.

  A smile that masked everything and gave nothing.

  Had he always been able to do that? To hide himself like this?

  How little she truly knew him.

  But, suddenly, she wanted to know him so much more. Ached for it. To understand all the emotions that bound him.

  “Enough, Georgiana. I appreciate your honesty with me throughout all of this. You insisted from the beginning there was never to be anything between us. I was wrong to doubt your understanding of the reality of the situation.”

  “Sebastian—”

  He held out a staying hand, giving his head a sad shake.

  “No, I understand. You have a life here and you want to stay. To be with James and his new wife, to continue your relationship with Shatner . . . To be with someone you view as more than just a brother.” He imbued the last word with such irony. He took a deep breath. “I am sure, however, you appreciate that this cannot be my life. I need to marry within the next few weeks. I am an earl and have tremendous responsibilities, a position within the government. Being part of something so much larger than myself . . . It is a worthy goal for my life.”

  “Sebastian, I am so sorry—”

  “My dear, it is for the best. This battle weary soldier knows when to lift the flag of surrender. A clean break, as it were.”

  Swallowing, he grasped her hand and bowed, elegant and proper, over her knuckles.

  But before releasing her hand, he raised it to his lips. Pressed a hot, scalding kiss on her fingers.

  The shock of his warm mouth—Georgiana nearly gasped.

  “Adieu, Miss Georgiana Elizabeth Augusta Knight.”

  With a smile, he released her hand and turned for the hallway and the stairs leading to the cellar.

  Stunned, Georgiana felt her mouth move. But no words came. She watched him disappear down, and then her entire body came to life.

  “Sebastian—” she cried, running across the kitchen, skittering down the steep cellar stairs.

  Only to run into his solid chest in the darkness.

  The portal pulsed and hummed in the dim light.

  But it was closed.

  For now, there would be no return.

  For either of them.

  Chapter 16

  Sebastian followed Georgiana up the stairs and into the same strange room they had just left.

  After his theatrically dramatic exit too.

  It just figured.

  He couldn’t escape Georgiana Knight so easily.

  Some diabolical god must find perverse joy in his misery, tethering him to her like this.

  “Sebastian, I am so sorry,” she murmured, turning to face him. “Obviously, I never meant for things to go like this. Look, take off your coat and boots. Be comfortable. I’m going to change my clothes, order Chinese takeaway and make us some tea. Then we can talk, okay?”

  “Okay?”

  She froze.

  “It means . . . all right. Everything will be all right.” She gave him a smile. Too bright, forced. “You’ll see. Some low mein and a pot of Earl Grey will make everything better. Trust me.”

  “I haven’t a clue what such things are . . .” He swallowed, still fighting a strange combination of hysteria and terror and loss.

  “Tea. Tea and food.” She gave that small smile again.

  Walking over to the large table, she picked up the palm-size rectangular object and started touching its surface again, staring at it intently.

  The afternoon sun poured through the window behind her, setting her edges aglow. Her hair hung loose down her back, rippling waves of silk, golden in the light.

  So desperately like the first time he had seen her.

  The irony was nearly suffocating.

  Now what was he to do? Watch her be wooed by D’Avery? Pretend he was happy for her in this new life?

  How could everything have changed so quickly?

  She glanced up at him.

  “Smart phone.” She indicated the object she held and then turned her attention back to it.

  He nodded, even though it made no sense.

  Smart phone? What did that mean? It didn’t look particularly stylish to him. It was an unremarkable silver rectangle.

  Perhaps it was meant ironically?

  He was still staring at her.

  “Ordering takeaway,” she explained, not looking up. As if that helped him understand.

  It didn’t.

  “Can I do something?” he asked.

  “Oh—no. Just make yourself comfortable and—”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t phrase that right. I feel as if I might lose my mind at any moment.” His jaw clenched. “Please give me something I can do. Some limited nineteenth century task?”

  She stared at him for a second, her mouth an ‘O’ of surprise. And then nodded.

  “A fire,” she said, gesturing toward the large fireplace. “A fire would be lovely. There should be wood in the box to the left there. Matches are on the mantle. They’re the long sticks in the tall box. You can strike them against the stones to create an instant flame. No tinder box needed.”

  She smiled too brightly again and walked toward the stairs.

  “You’ll see. Everything will be okay,” she repeated. They must say that word a lot in 2013—okay.

  She left, skirts swishing up the stairs.

  He glanced around the room and then, with a sigh, shrugged out of his coat, folding it carefully over the back of one of the table chairs.

  Next, he untied his cravat. And then slowly unwound its long length. Deliberately, carefully.

  Unraveling himself with each sweep around his neck.

  All his hopes. Every wish gone.

  Would he ever be put back together?

  He placed his neckcloth on top of his coat but opted to leave on his waistcoat. Walking over to the sofa, he sat and contemplated his boots.

  Taking them off without the assistance of a valet was tricky at best. Besides, taking off his boots felt like he was surrendering to this century. To the thought of settling in for a long stay.

  Something with which he was not okay.

  The boots stayed on. For now.

  Taking a deep breath, he set about doing what he could: build a fire.

  He stacked kindling, followed by a few larger pieces. And then the—what had she called them—matches? Long and thin, they were coated in a red substance on one end. Selecting one, he scraped the tip along the flagstones lining the fireplace, jumping when it flared to life with a hiss.

  Impressive.

  Five minutes later, he had the fire roaring. Satisfied, he sat back on his heels, watching the wood crackle. An island of comfort in this strange new worl
d.

  For nearly a decade, Georgiana had been his lodestar, the one brilliant shining guiding force by which he steered all his dreams.

  That impossible possibility.

  But now . . .

  It felt as if his life had been a house of cards. A collapsed illusion.

  A loud buzzing sound emerged from the front of the house.

  “I’ll get it,” Georgiana called, her feet pounding down the steps.

  The front door opened, and he heard the murmur of voices. And then Georgiana sailed into the kitchen, a bag clutched in her hand, staring at the rectangular smart phone thing.

  He instantly stood, as any gentleman should when a lady entered the room.

  Not that she noticed, as she was still intent on her ‘smart phone.’

  But she had changed her clothes . . .

  Sebastian sucked in his breath with a hiss.

  Her hair tumbled down her back, now combed and loosely curled. She wore a foamy-green skirt that skimmed the ground but hugged her body more tightly than would have been considered proper in 1813. On top, she wore the same type of simple, unadorned white shirt that Shatner had, clinging to her slender form. Without buttons, how did one put on a shirt that tight? Over it all, she had a gray jacket-ish, wrap-ish thing that hung loosely to her hips.

  Her feet were bare, toes peeping cheekily out from under the hem of her skirt.

  It was all hard to describe. Simple and yet impossibly alluring.

  Georgiana walked around the counter and lifted a handle on the spigot, causing water to instantly gush out into the basin. Blinking in surprise, Sebastian watched as she picked up what looked to be a shiny tea kettle off the counter and filled it with water. Then she set it down on a round circular object. A light at the base of the kettle lit up.

  Odd.

  She turned around and saw him staring.

  “Everything will seem incredibly different until you get used to it,” she said, apologetically. “The twenty-first century is a place of tremendous contradictions. Nearly magical machines and amazing freedom mixed with a complete lack of social niceties and decorum. James fits right in.” She gave a soft laugh as she grabbed two oversized tea cups from the cabinet.

  “And you?” He had to ask the question.

  She shrugged and pulled a yellow box labeled ‘Earl Grey Tea’ out of a drawer.

  “I don’t know.” A pause. “James is here. And I do love so much about the twenty-first century. Women are freer. We can do everything a man can do: hold a job, vote, attend university, travel alone, hold political office and so on. I never realized how few my choices were in the past.”

  She reached into a drawer and pulled out a large bag labeled ‘sugar.’ Surely a bag of sugar that large would be an extravagant luxury. Or was it?

  Georgiana continued. “Aside from marriage, what options does a well-bred lady have in nineteenth century Britain? Respectable work is limited to being a governess or companion. If she is very lucky, she might have an independence, like I received from my grandmother. But any woman who marries, instantly becomes her husband’s property. She isn’t even seen as a separate person under British law. Just an appendage of her husband.”

  He walked around the sofa and into the kitchen. “Any gentleman would always consider his wife’s feelings—”

  Georgiana waived her hand. “Of course. But problems arise because there are no social systems in place when men don’t behave as they ought. A man can beat his wife and children for no reason whatsoever, as long as he does not use a stick larger than his thumb. But were he to beat a stranger in the same manner, he could be held liable before the law. How absurd is that?”

  All the air sucked out of his lungs. He knew what she said was truth, but still—

  “Is this what you think of me? That I would do such a thing?”

  She blinked. “No—no, of course not. But to live in a time where my children would be subject to such laws and social mores . . . Where death from easily treatable diseases is common . . . It’s hard to get used to the idea again, I guess.”

  Her eyes pools of blue, her smile so very wide. She was still his Georgiana.

  But not.

  She had taken his neat little world, shaken it around in a box labeled Nuance and then dumped the pieces out into a morass of confusion and complexity.

  Her gaze turned concerned. He couldn’t decide if the pity in her eyes comforted or alarmed him.

  The light popped off on the kettle, and Georgiana dropped a couple mesh bags into it.

  Tea.

  “Come,” she said, taking his arm and directing him back to the sofa in front of the fire. “Sit. We’ll enjoy the wonderful fire you have built, and I will tell you my entire tale while we eat some lovely Chinese takeaway.”

  A few minutes later, she had him situated on the sofa, holding a fork and box (box!) of food with a cup of steaming tea on a small table at his elbow.

  She curled up on the sofa next to him, twisting her body to face his, tucking her knees underneath her and slumping. The diaphanous material of her skirt stretched and pulled, covering all of her except her bare toes, which peeped out at him, like the pink noses of so many mice.

  It was not at all ladylike.

  But it suited her, this new Georgiana, and had the ease of much practice. She had obviously sat just like that many times.

  He inspected his food. Chinese takeaway. It was noodles with vegetables and smelled of soy. He perked up. He liked soy sauce and curries in general. Not everything was so different it seemed.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. The food was lovely, just as promised.

  “So, where is James?” Sebastian asked.

  “He and Emme are in Bali. Or are they on to Fiji now?”

  “Fiji?” Sebastian thought through everything he knew. “That is . . .”

  “It’s an island country in the middle of the South Pacific. Pretty much on the opposite side of the planet from here.” She lifted up the smart phone and touched it. Again. “I messaged him, but it will still be an hour or two before sunrise there, and he won’t call until he wakes up. But I am sure James will want to talk—”

  “Wait. You can send him messages? Talk to him? I don’t—”

  “Smart phone.” She held up the object in question.

  What was so remarkable about that silly rectangular box?

  “Yes, you seem ridiculously attached to it. Does it ever leave your person?”

  Georgiana laughed. “Stop! Now you’re sounding like James. Honestly, it’s worth living in 2013 just to have one of these.”

  He held out his hand, motioning for her to give it over.

  With a wide smile, she set her box of takeaway down and slid next to him. Tucking her shoulder against his. Her body a ball of warmth at his side.

  “Look,” she said and touched the phone. It lit up with words and images. “Emme swears the history of all civilization has had the creation of this one device as its end game.”

  A half hour later, Sebastian reluctantly had to agree. The device was miraculous. It could order you food, tell you the weather days in advance and play weeks worth of music. Remarkable.

  He kept looking for something, some reason why Georgiana should be dissatisfied with her life here. Any glimmer of hope to which he could cling and convince himself there might still be a way for them to be together.

  Yet every minute he spent here, the more utterly futile it became.

  She would never be his. Not now. Why would she return to a life in 1813 with him, assuming that were even possible? And if he were stuck in the twenty-first century with her, how could he even begin to create a life for them here? What could he possibly offer her that was more than what she already had?

  The sooner he accepted that fact, the better off he would be.

  Of course, convincing his wayward heart of the reality of his situation . . . That might take some time.

  “Tell me your story,” he said, handing the phone back to her.
“I want to understand everything you have been through.”

  He expected her to move away. To retreat from him, just as she seemed to have retreated from her childhood and the world to which she was born.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she snuggled into him even more, wrapping her hands around his arm and resting her head on his shoulder, her body soft and heated through his thin linen shirt. She smelled of sunshine and roses and Georgiana.

  Sebastian nearly laughed at the irony of it.

  To have her here, so close, relaxed and nestled against him.

  How many lonely evenings had he had this very dream? Sitting with her curled up against him, talking and laughing together?

  And now—now!—it happened.

  When events had destroyed his understanding of her and the world.

  She only held him out of pity. To console him when everything had turned upside down.

  She sighed into his arm. Or had she breathed him in?

  And did he want to know the difference?

  “Yes, let me explain.” In her soft voice, she told her story. The time portal and how it worked. Her miraculous recovery in a hospital, the joy of being whole again. And then a new world to discover.

  She described traveling with James and his wife, Emme. There were impossible seeming things in her story. Flying through the air above the clouds in a machine called an airplane. Riding in and then actually driving a car—a carriage which didn’t use horses and instead was self-propelled through a fuel called gasoline.

  Through it all, she stayed tucked up against him. Knees folded into her chest, bare feet peeping out.

  Had he ever seen her toes before today? He didn’t think so—even frolicking together at Lyndenbrooke as children, she never went barefoot.

  But now he found himself fixated on her toes. Watching them bounce as she animatedly described thieving monkeys in India. Curling up as she described buildings in New York City which stretched to touch the clouds.

  How could he not have known her toes were long and slender, like her fingers, with her second toe extending farther than all the rest? Each little nail a symmetrical half moon. The pinky toe on each foot shyly ducking underneath its neighbor.

  They offended him—those treacherous little toes.

  In their innocence, they represented everything he didn’t know about her.