It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman who’s just traveled across an ocean and back two hundred years in time might find herself in a bit of a pickle. Unless that woman discovers herself to be trapped in the arms of a man in possession of a good fortune ... and in want of a wife.
Eliza blinked her eyes as that corny perversion of Jane Austen’s opening line to Pride and Prejudice flitted through her mind. She looked down at the man in whose arms she was awkwardly wedged. He was half-sitting, half-leaning on a settee sofa, out cold. His arms, however, held her firmly, and even as she attempted to shift to survey her surroundings, he clutched her to him. His warmth and size enveloped her, a strange energy humming between them.
Peeking out over her left shoulder, Eliza could see she was in a library of some sort. Not a public library, but rather an old-fashioned personal library, like the ones she always read about in her novels. Built-in bookcases lined the two walls, filled with volumes of books in antique-style bindings— only in pristine condition. A fireplace separated the shelves on one wall, and a large portrait of an older gentleman in a white curly wig hung on the oak panels over it.
Turning to the right, she lifted her head a bit in order to see over the back of the sofa. A large, heavy, ornately carved desk, which was covered with papers, sat near a back wall containing more bookcases. A real inkstand rested on top of the desk, and next to it, several quill pens. An old clock ticked forlornly from the wall behind the desk. She couldn’t see the entryway into the room—it must be behind her— but the distant strains of a violin and the low murmurings of conversation drifted in from somewhere close by.
She closed her eyes. If the furnishings were any indication, she was in Regency England. For real. It’d worked. It had actually worked.
The man shifted beneath her but didn’t relax his grip. Eliza’s eyes flew open again as the enormity of the situation hit her. She was trapped in the arms of a duke. A duke her friend Cat created for her. An authentic Regency duke.
She whimpered, panic rising in her throat. Her stomach flopped and her head swam, as much from the weirdness of the situation as from the champagne she’d imbibed earlier.
Searching for calm, she focused on the man in whose arms she lay. He was handsome, all right—no surprise, considering she’d described to Cat exactly what she wanted when they’d concocted this crazy scheme. Dark brown hair cropped closely at the sides, though a bit longer at the nape, accentuated his high cheekbones, while a longer lock fell over his forehead, drawing her attention to the small scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His eyes were closed, but she knew they were a brilliant green, a vibrant shade she’d thought only achievable with colored contacts. Clearly, she was wrong. Well, not really; Cat had added that in on purpose, knowing Eliza’s weakness for green-eyed men.
She couldn’t believe it. She was here. It was happening, exactly as Cat had written.
Eliza sucked in a deep breath. She’d read the story Cat had written for her so many times, she didn’t need to see the paper anymore; she’d committed it to heart.
It was fairly short, more a rough sketch of things to come than a true story, but Eliza had wanted it so, had wanted it vague enough to not guarantee the ending, to have a chance at everything feeling natural, real, rather than predestined.
The words her friend had drafted warmed Eliza’s heart like nothing else, a testament to Cat’s love for her, as well as a blueprint for Eliza’s grand romance to come:
Deveric Samuel Alexander Mattersley, seventh Duke of Claremont, Marquess of Harrington, Earl Thomas, born to Samuel Mattersley, sixth Duke of Claremont, and his wife Matilda Mattersley, nee Lady Matilda Evenston, will absolutely, irrevocably, intensely, and forever be attracted to one Eliza Anne James, for her vivacious spirit and energy, her incredible intelligence, her generous heart. He will not be able to resist Eliza’s stunning face and glorious figure, despite the fact that said Eliza believes she overindulges in sweets.
Deveric needs Eliza to help him, to heal him, to love him, for like Mrs. James herself, Deveric has suffered loss. He is a widower, as she a widow. Though surrounded by family, he often feels alone, remote, separate. He needs to learn to love again, and Mrs. James is the best teacher he shall ever have.
Likewise, Eliza needs to be loved, to be the center of someone’s existence, to have an outlet for all the passion and devotion she harbors in her heart.
It shall be as if from a Jane Austen novel, with Eliza as Elizabeth and Deveric, her Darcy. Or, as I prefer to imagine, a Disney movie, and Eliza the fair Cinderella. Deveric and Eliza shall find each other at a ball, with a kiss at midnight leading them magically back in time, into each other’s arms. Eliza shall pull said duke to the Treasure Trove’s storage room before completing this kiss, lest she freak out everyone around her by suddenly vaporizing.
I shall be crossing my fingers that this works, that my powers extend to time-travel, that love trumps scientific reality and launches my real friend back with her once-fictional, now real duke to his estate in Regency England.
Deveric shall not care that Eliza is an American of allegedly no standing (the author does not agree with the social distinctions of said period in England, but acknowledges and includes them, per Eliza’s request for authenticity); all that matters to him is her character, her soul, who she is as a person. Well, and her boobs. Ha ha ha.
Deveric’s many sisters shall also, I hope, come to view Eliza as a sister, as well, for she deserves that, to be surrounded by love on all sides.
Deveric Mattersley, Duke of Claremont, shall be tall, muscular, heavily masculine, garbed in Regency attire far exceeding anything Colin Firth has worn in terms of attractiveness—with Hessians, of course, and breeches that shall make Eliza salivate whenever she sees him in them. His eyes shall be a vivid green, his face shall have a hint of Hugh Jackman to him. Because who doesn’t think Hugh Jackman is wildly sexy? At least without the Wolverine hair.
While I, Catherine Abigail Schreiber, do declare Eliza and Deveric shall fall for each other, any relationship shall evolve through choice. Should obstacles appear, Eliza and Deveric must resolve them themselves—I am no fairy godmother weaving together something no one but God can tear apart. That is for marriage vows, and Eliza and Deveric must find their way to love on their own, commit to each other on their own. The attraction I decree, the outcome I do not.
Should Eliza Anne James ever wish to return to her best friend, in the present time, she need only find the monolith on Deveric’s estate (because I can’t resist a good mini-Stonehenge, or the chance to pay homage to one of Eliza’s favorite romances, Outlander), need only sit on the stone at the center and wish with all her might, all her heart, all the love in her body, to be back in 2012, back with the fictional man on whom I told her to fix her attention (for I fear this Escape Clause shall not work without a man I’ve created as its focus, given the limitations we’ve discovered regarding my weird powers). Then, I do declare (and seriously hope) she will return, but only if she truly wishes to do so.
Also, I decree that Eliza James shall have at some point the opportunity to meet Miss Jane Austen in person. (Not that I have any power to guarantee that, as Eliza well knows, but I figured it would amuse her.) God bless and Godspeed, Eliza Anne James. You are and will always be my best friend. I shall miss you more than you can possibly imagine. Thank you for bringing zest back into my life when I thought all was lost, and for showing me now, in the midst of all the bizarre happenings of the last several months—yeah, creating people, anyone?—that I do actually know who I am, and what I want. And whom. I owe it to you, Eliza. And so I give you this gift.
Go forth, and fall in love with your Regency duke, the stuff of your beloved romance novels. As Shakespeare said, “The course of true love never did run smooth,” but I hope for you, the waters never cease flowing between you and the ones you love.
You deserve that happy-ever-after, dearest friend. I wish you the greatest luck in pursuing it.
As it is written, so let it be.
Catherine Schreiber, signed this December 25th, 2011.
Her friend’s words echoing in her head, Eliza studied Deveric’s lips—those rich, full, sensuous lips. The memory of them moving over hers, surprisingly gently, given his rather rugged demeanor and large size, sent tingles racing through her. She nearly kissed him again but reached up instead to rub her fingers over the faint hint of stubble on his cheek. Before she could touch his face, a hand flew up and grabbed her wrist.
His eyes were wide open now and firmly fixed on her. They pulsated, those magnificent emerald orbs, pulling her like a magnet.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Why am I lying down? What happened? What was that place?”
His body tensed before he pushed her off of him and stood up. He grasped the edge of the settee, as if fighting dizziness, and cast his gaze around the room. After a second, his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Thank God. This is my study. I’m in my own study. It was a dream. An extraordinary dream.”
Study? Not a library, then. Eliza wasn’t sure what to say or do, her own nerves having her clutch at the edge of the sofa, herself. What was the protocol for time-traveling situations? Besides absolute bewilderment it’d worked in the first place.
“But you’re here. You’re here,” he continued, whirling back toward her. “So it couldn’t have been a dream.” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Who are you? Who put you up to this? Was it Arthington? I’ll kill him.”
“Ow!”
He immediately dropped his hands, his face wrenching in dismay. “I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s okay. I get it.”
“Oh—kay?” His brows wrinkled in confusion.
“Yeah, it’s all confusing for me, too. I was hoping you’d show up, but a part of me didn’t think you would, so I was making the most of it, figuring it’d be the only Regency-type ball I’d ever get to attend. And then, boom, there you were!” She raised her hand to her head. “Ugh. My head hurts. Guess I drank too much. Or maybe it’s from the time-traveling ...” She broke off, biting her lip.
His head spun as she spoke. Funny, that: unlike the woman, he hadn’t yet had a drink. His eyes fell to her lip, the one she was still chewing, so plump and full. A stunning American, but lacking in manners. Definitely not a lady of refinement. She resumed talking, so he tried to focus on her words.
“And I told Cat even though she had clearly created those guys for her it was okay if it didn’t work for me. I mean, what kind of broke grad student would ever really land a duke anyway, right? That’d be like winning the lottery.”
He couldn’t understand half the words she was saying. Oh-kay? Grad student? Wait—time travel? Was the woman a lunatic?
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if to warm herself. “Wow, it’s cold.”
“Since no one was expected in here tonight, the fire wasn’t drawn.” He couldn’t believe how calmly he’d spoken those words, given his bewilderment as to who this woman was, and how she’d got into his study. Or what had happened just before that, for that matter.
He eyed her gown, his gaze lingering on her impressive chest. His groin tightened and he clenched his fists, determined to ignore his extreme, and inappropriate, reaction to her. “You women, dressing in those absurdly thin gowns. You’ll catch your death.”
She muttered something about Regency styles imitating classical styles.
With her finely etched features and well-formed body, she did somewhat resemble a Greek goddess. Aphrodite, perhaps.
At that thought, his mind flew back to the last thing he could remember before all had gone black—of him calling her his personal goddess, of her kissing him with that sweet, succulent mouth.
What had come over him, kissing an unknown woman like that? He hadn’t allowed passion to rule him for years, even before Mirabelle died. The guilt was too strong. He’d tamped down that side of himself in atonement for his sins.
Yet this woman, this unknown, fired his blood as no one else had in a long time. If ever. He cleared his throat. He didn’t even know who she was. Some tart Arthington had arranged as a practical joke? He and Emerlin did often heckle Dev for “not taking advantage of the bounty before him.”
“And I agree.” Her words pulled him out of his head and back to her. “I always thought these dresses, although beautiful, did seem impractical for an English winter. Though I suppose they’d make sense in a warm climate like Greece or Italy. I’d much rather be in my sweats with a thick sweatshirt, and maybe even a coat.”
“In your what?”
“Oh yeah, sorry. Never mind. You wouldn’t know what sweats are. I’ve got to be more careful in what I say.”
She visibly steeled her shoulders, pasting that toothy smile on her face again as she dropped into a rather awkward curtsy. “Let’s start over. Hi. I’m Eliza James.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her exquisite mouth. “Who are you?”
“I just told you, I’m Eliza. And I know you’re Deveric.”
His eyes widened at her use of his first name. Only his sisters and his closest friends, James Bradley, Duke of Arthington and Morgan Collinswood, Marquess of Emerlin, called him thusly. Everyone else addressed him as Claremont.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot,” she offered, her cheeks pinking adorably. “I should not use your Christian name until you give me leave to do so. My pardons, Your Grace.”
His brows wrinkled, although he supposed it understandable an American wouldn’t know the ins and outs of the peerage. Surely even in America, however, new acquaintances did not stoop to such intimacy as Christian names on a first meeting.
Voices echoed from down the hallway, catching his attention. Someone was close by. Good God, if he were discovered here with this female, alone ...
“Quickly, hide behind my desk,” he commanded.
“What?”
“Go on, hurry. I don’t plan on being caught with an unmarried woman in my study.” He glanced at her gloved hands. “You are unmarried, I assume, given your advances earlier?”
“Advances?” she squeaked. “I merely kissed you. Cat said I had to, to make it work.” She arched an eyebrow. “And it’s not as if you were complaining.”
“Who is this cat to which you constantly refer?” Was she a witch, with a feline as her familiar? She didn’t look like a witch. Not that he knew what one would look like, even if he believed in witchcraft. Which he didn’t. He was far too enlightened for that. Still, a niggle of fear rooted itself under his skin. If not a witch, who—and what—was she? A succubus? She certainly had his blood running, every inch of her calling to him.
Her other words suddenly registered. “Make what work?”
“Me. Coming here. To Regency England. In 18-whatever it is.” She cocked her head. “What year is it, anyway?” she added, as the voices in the hall drew closer.
“You don’t know the year? 1812? Are you mad?” He shook his head. “I can’t make sense of you. I can’t make sense of any of this. I must have struck my head. Or you, yours.” Yes, that was the only logical explanation.
As he reached up to check for a lump, the door to the library flew open, and a woman and a man fell in, enveloped in each other’s arms and laughing. The woman pressed her lips against his throat as the man fastened his hands on her derriere, pulling her closer into him.
Fury rose in Deveric, blocking out all thoughts of the delectable Eliza James.
“Amara!”