Eliza lay across her bed, tears streaming down her face. This is not going to plan, Cat! She wanted to scream, wanted to beat her fists on the pillow, but if she did, one of the blasted ever-present servants was likely to hear and would come to her aid. She didn’t want anyone. Not right now.
What had gone wrong? She’d been ecstatic to see Deveric, even more at the look on his face when he’d seen her. Pleasure. He’d been visibly pleased to see her, and that had warmed her heart, made her feel as if she had a chance to make this fantasy come true. And then, in the hallway ... She touched her fingers to her lips, covered now with salty tears, remembering the deliciousness of Deveric’s mouth on hers, the feel of his body pressing hers into the wall, the desire to get closer to him, to wrap herself around him and in him.
No one, not even Greg, had roused this fierce need in her, this sense that something was missing, that the puzzle wasn’t complete and wouldn’t be complete until Deveric and she had fit together.
It went beyond sex. She wanted to know him in a way nobody else did. He obeyed social norms of behavior to a fault—in her modern opinion, at least. He preferred order and stability and calmness. But that interlude in the hallway was anything but calm. Anything but orderly. There was so much more to Deveric Mattersley than he let on.
Was it Mirabelle? Had his first wife done this to him? A cold fish, the servants had termed her. Ill-matched to a man like Deveric. What had happened between them to have such a passionate man draw such heavy walls around himself?
Now that she’d gotten a peek over the wall, she wanted to break down the door, unlock him, and discover exactly who he was behind the shield. Because she had a feeling she could love that man, love him truly, madly, deeply.
Oh, Cat. I need you. I don’t know what to do. This mess was definitely not what Eliza had wished for. She hiccupped through more sobs. She’d been so selfish, asking Cat to send her here to find love. She’d abandoned her friend to pursue a fantasy.
On the other hand, Cat wanted her to be happy, to move on, to grow, instead of hiding out in the bookstore while life passed her by. And it wasn’t like she and Cat had known this would work. A big part of Eliza had assumed it wouldn’t. After all, while Cat had the power to create her own love interests, they’d had no clue whether she could craft them for others.
Yes, Eliza’d taken this crazy chance for a reason: she wanted love. She wanted to love and be loved. She wanted passion and desire. She wanted someone so enthralled with her, so intoxicated by her, that he’d never leave her—and vice versa.
She snorted through her tears. Maybe that kind of love wasn’t realistic, no matter what romance novels claimed, especially in this society, where rules of propriety forbade all but the minutest of contact between single men and women, and where people were expected to follow the codes of conduct to the letter. Many didn’t. But Deveric did.
If she couldn’t find that kind of bone-deep connection in the twenty-first century, where men and women pretty much did whatever they wanted with each other without anyone batting an eye, why had she expected to find it here, in a society familiar and foreign at the same time, bound by countless customs and rules she couldn’t keep track of, in spite of all the literature she’d read from the period?
At that, her thoughts turned to Jane Austen, and her tears slowed. Austen had written about all those rules, the social niceties, the pressures and realities placed upon women in this time. But she’d also written about love, about grand, all-consuming love. About the kind of love that had led Darcy to declare to Elizabeth, “In vain have I struggled ... You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” That had had Wentworth confessing, “You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.”
It had to be real. Or was Jane as hopeless a romantic as Eliza, wanting something that could never be had, an impossible fantasy? Darcy and Wentworth were literary creations, after all. In real life, Austen had never married. If she’d been in love with Tom LeFroy, as many asserted, it’d never gone anywhere.
Were the characters Austen created just as unrealistic as modern romance novel heroes?
Bitter tears streamed down Eliza’s face. Her eyes were red and raw, and her nose full of phlegm. This was reality. A mess of a face, a broken heart, trapped in a strange bed in a strange house in a strange country.
Could she have mucked this up anymore?
A few hours later, Eliza woke from the sleep into which she’d cried herself. Her eyes were puffy and raw, her lips dry and cracked. She was still in the chemise she’d been wearing since the night before. Where was Betsy? She hadn’t come in, as far as Eliza knew; perhaps the maid had heard her sobs and decided it best to leave her alone.
“Buck up, Eliza James,” she scolded herself. “You wanted this. And no one said it’d be easy.” The Coldplay song The Scientist echoed in her mind, and she sang a verse out loud.
Did she want to go back to the start? Did she want to give up? Would Cat’s escape clause even work?
Standing up, she crossed over to the dressing table and sat on the stool. The reflection in the mirror wasn’t pretty. She took a brush and started to work it through her hair when a knock came at the door and Betsy entered.
The maid’s eyes radiated sympathy. Eliza’s sobs had been heard in the hallway, then. Good. She hoped Deveric had been across the hall and had had to listen. The jerk. Why was he fighting his attraction to her so hard?
Maybe because attraction is not enough, Lizzie. Maybe he’s better at seeing—and understanding—the gaping chasm between your experiences and his. It’s not like you’ve been trained to be a duchess since the day you were born, as have many of these upper-class English ladies.
And sexual desire was not the same thing as affection, much less a wish to marry. If this had been a romance novel, he would have had to offer for her. He’d compromised her, after all. Hadn’t he?
Did people really do that? Marry for something as innocuous as getting caught together in a hallway? Okay, she and Deveric had been doing more than merely lounging about, but still.
Well, if he did offer out of obligation, she’d turn him down. Marriage wasn’t a prize won by default. She wanted all of him or nothing at all.
“May I fetch you anything, my lady? A coffee?”
Goodness gracious, we’re back to my lady? Betsy had taken to mostly calling Eliza by her name in the past week. She must really be feeling sorry for me.
“No, thank you. I shall have some when I breakfast.”
Betsy held up the gown she’d brought in for Eliza. “Breakfast is long past, but I’m sure we can find something for you. Emmeline sent this dress today.”
Eliza eyed the white gown. White. White. She was so tired of white. At first, she’d been mad with curiosity for each and every garment she saw, ecstatic to try on authentic Regency garb. Now, the authenticity was getting to her. She didn’t want stays and petticoats and dresses with a zillion buttons, she wanted an exercise bra and a loose-fitting T-shirt with sweats. She wanted to curl up on the sofa in front of a fire, drinking coffee and zipping through Target.com on her laptop, Chinese food on the way.
“It’s nice.” What else could she say?
“And ...” Betsy shifted uncomfortably. “The dowager sent this cap for your head. She insisted you might be ... cold.”
Eliza’s mouth twisted in a half-smile, half-sneer. She knew what wearing a cap indoors meant; it’s what older women put on to signify respectability. She wants to mark me as ancient, as unavailable, as an old maid. Someone who poses no threat. Maybe as a widow, Eliza couldn’t be an old maid, but she could refuse the cap.
“No, thank you. I’ve gotten quite used to the temperature.” That wasn’t exactly true, but she was not about to put that ugly thing on her head.
Betsy assisted her out of her chemise and into the day dress without comment, walking behind Eliza to fasten the lacings. Goodness, it was tight; she could hardly breathe. Emmeline was definitely smaller in the chest than she was.
Eliza tried to breathe in, looking down. Her breasts were smashed up so high as to almost overflow the bodice. Good. A satisfied smile teased at her lips. That would give Deveric something to think about when he saw her again. If he saw her again. He’d taken off for weeks before; was he was already on his way back to London now?
“Is that too tight?” Betsy asked, a nervous edge to her voice. “I fear Lady Emmeline is a bit, er, narrower than you are, my lady.”
Eliza snorted. “Ain’t that the truth.” She smoothed her hands down over her hips. In spite of the tight-fitting bodice, she had lost some weight here. She had no idea how much; there weren’t exactly bathroom scales lying around, something she found quite freeing. Not being able to try on her own jeans made it hard to know, but her stomach was slightly less round, her face a bit more angular. There was something to be said for not having food as readily available as it had been back home.
Home. She missed home. She missed Cat. She missed Presley, the big ol’ furball. She sighed. You can’t always get what you want. The Stones’ song echoed through her head. It’d been a favorite of her father’s, so she’d heard it time on end, but never appreciated the sentiment as much as she did now.
She certainly hadn’t gotten what she wanted so far. Was it time to go?
A maid entered the doorway. Lucy, if Eliza remembered correctly. “Beggin’ pardon, my lady, but the dowager has sent notice to all the ladies of the household that we will be leaving for London the day after tomorrow.”
“London?” Betsy squeaked. “But I didn’t think they were leaving until the end of the week.”
The maid bobbed her head. “I think so; I heard it directly from the dowager. She’s planning Lady Rebecca’s coming-out ball and has decided she needs to make the arrangements in Town herself. Or so I heard her telling her lady’s maid.” The woman flushed as if realizing she shouldn’t be admitting to eavesdropping.
“All right, then,” Betsy said. “We will have to pack. Not that you have much to pack, my lady, but I’m sure His Grace will set that right in London. There are lots of modistes there.”
“Oh, I’m not going.”
“Not going?”
“The dowager has made it clear my place, if anywhere, is here, with Frederick.” Eliza fought back the lump of disappointment in her throat. She desperately wanted to see Regency London, to see the places she’d read about as they were in this era: Grosvenor Square, Berkeley Square, Hyde Park, Gunter’s. Yes, she wanted to see all of those places. Almost as much as she wanted to stay with Deveric.
Betsy’s face fell.
“What’s the matter, Betsy?”
“Begging your pardon, Eliza. I did not mean to show disappointment. I had looked forward to seeing London, ‘tis all, going with you as your lady’s maid.”
“You’ve never been to London?”
“Oh, no, my lady. I stay here, at Clarehaven. There are plenty of servants at Claremont House; they’ve no need of a country miss there. I prefer the quiet of the country, anyway.”
That was a big fat lie if Betsy’s crestfallen expression said anything, but Eliza didn’t call her on it.
It certainly was quiet. Eliza missed the hustle and bustle of the first week when the house had been filled with guests. No wonder house parties that lasted for days or weeks were so popular—otherwise one could die of boredom on such an estate.
She wanted to slap herself. My God, I sound like one of the bored, entitled debutantes I so despise. There were tons of things to do here. She’d sampled just a few. She certainly enjoyed her time with Freddy and the dogs. She’d sat for hours in the library while Dev was away, combing through the volumes. She’d read a fair number of novels, some familiar from her twenty-first-century studies, others not. She’d even tackled the Flora Britannica before deciding she wasn’t that desperate.
And now that she’d met the cook, she wanted to spend time in the kitchen, getting to know more of the house staff and learning this century’s methods of cooking. How did one make food without access to a microwave, or a refrigerator?
Yes, there was plenty to do here. If she didn’t go home, that is.
An hour later, Freddy dragged her by the hand to the familiar stone hut. Though her own heart was heavy, she loved that his cheeks glowed with healthy exuberance as he chatted animatedly about Pirate.
“He licks me all the time!” Freddy exclaimed. “And even though he hasn’t got an eye, he runs around just as easily as his sisters and brothers. And he’s only a little bit smaller, you’ll see!”
Eliza wasn’t sure what the boy expected her to notice, considering they’d been down to see the dogs together every day, but she followed along dutifully, glad for some time away from the main house and the people—all the people—in it. She needed to think.
Deveric’s son had run a few steps ahead when a booming voice called out over the courtyard. “Frederick! What are you doing out in this weather? You should be in the nursery, warming yourself under the covers.”
Freddy froze in his tracks, his face anxious, though he tried to hide it. “Good afternoon, Father,” he replied automatically. “Lizzie and I are going to visit the dogs.”
Deveric turned to Eliza, arching an angry eyebrow. “Lizzie, is it?”
She shrugged. This? This is how he interacted with her after ditching her in the hallway that morning? By picking an argument over a nickname? Freddy had started calling her that a few days ago, and she’d decided she didn’t mind, especially since when he said it, it was laced with affection.
He looked back at his son. “You should call her Mrs. James; it is what’s proper between a governess and her charge.”
“Yes, Papa.” Freddy tucked his head down into his chest, his spirit visibly dimming.
She wanted to clobber Deveric over the head for stealing his son’s joy. And for referring to her as the governess. The man was erecting fences left and right. Sadness seeped into the hole in her heart.
“I told him he could call me that, Your Grace.” She emphasized his title. “Freddy and I get along well. Our daily trips outside have done wonders for him.”
Frederick gaped at her with wide eyes as she challenged his father. He nodded enthusiastically, his small head bobbing up and down. “I have, Papa. I haven’t had a fever for weeks, Nurse says, and my throat hasn’t been sore at all!”
Deveric paused before answering. “I am pleased you are feeling well, my child.”
“Do you want to see the puppies, Papa?”
“Puppies? Oh yes, Mr. Sayers informed me Bertha had whelped her litter.” He paused for a second. “Wait, have you been playing with the dogs? Those dogs are hunting dogs, meant to be trained and controlled. They are not playmates.”
“But I have my own dog now,” Freddy protested, looking at Eliza for back up.
Great. I go up against his dad, and now Freddy tries it. That’ll get me in trouble, for sure, teaching impertinence. She smiled at the boy. Deveric deserved all the impertinence in the world today, for the way he’d behaved. Could he not see how red her eyes were?
“Mr. Sayers and Liz—I mean Mrs. James—let me keep him! Come to see!” Freddy ran down the path, obviously anxious to show his father his puppy.
“You gave my son a hunting dog?”
Eliza’s eyes turned frosty. “No. Mr. Sayers let Frederick keep the runt of the litter, an adorable little fellow with one eye that your son has fallen in love with and spent a lot of time nurturing.”
“A runt? Why didn’t Mr. Sayers put it out of its misery?”
“Because that runt has saved your son from his.”
“His what?”
“His misery.”
Deveric scowled at her. “What do you mean? My son is not miserable. He has a good life.”
“A good life? Are you kidding me? Yes, he’s a duke’s son, so I suppose he has most anything material at his beck and call. But do you know what he wants? What he needs? That boy wants love. He wants attention. And he wants it from his father!”
Her voice had risen until she was yelling at him, anger surging through her. How dare he come out here and treat her so formally, so coldly, as if she really were nothing more than a servant. How dare he act as if nothing had happened between them, as if he—and she—could bury the emotions, the desire, the connection between them.
“He’s been sick for months now, and what do you do? Coop him up in a room with that ghastly Nurse Pritchett.” Her chest heaved with every word. “And instead of spending time with him, you run away for several weeks. I didn’t know—I mean, he didn’t know if you were ever coming back!”