Bending Tyme (3 page)

“Ah, Lord Davenport, we missed your company at breakfast this morning. I understand you and Lord Byron had unforeseen business prompting your early departure from the masque last evening?” One of Logan’s houseguests, Lady Ashford, stepped forward, her hard glance moving across Esme’s form from her toes to her dishevelled hair and back again.

Logan started to reply—though he was at a loss for how to explain Esme’s…
abrupt
appearance to these insufferable busybodies—but Byron interjected.

“Lady Ashford, Lord Davenport learnt late yesterday, in an urgent correspondence from his American solicitors, that a former ward of his dear late father had arrived in Davenshire, alone and without proper escort.”

Logan, bemused and exhausted from the night’s strange events, considered telling the truth, disclosing to the old crone that Byron, seeking more earthly amusements than Logan’s guests inspired, had spirited him away in the middle of the masque to the closest brothel, but Byron’s tight grip on his forearm reminded him to say naught.

Logan watched Esme’s face as she struggled to absorb her surroundings. In spite of his own confusion, he suppressed a smile, seeing Esme’s fair skin turn a whiter shade of pale. Clearly, none of this was the norm in her reality…

But
what
reality? How had she got
here
?
Why
?

“Mademoiselle perhaps would enjoy some tea after her arduous journey,” Byron suggested.

Logan turned his attention back to Esme, dismayed to see tears threatening under her downcast eyes, torn between an overwhelming desire to crush her to him, to protect her from these gossips and snipes, and his well-bred desire to avoid a public scene in his own parlour.

Esme removed her elbow from Logan’s tight grip. “Yes, tea sounds…lovely.” Esme winced, feeling like a newbie actress from the original
Masterpiece Theatre
series who had failed to memorise her lines. “Earl Grey, please.”

Lady Ashford and Lord Byron fell silent. Esme saw that crease appearing between Logan’s eyebrows. She racked her brain…

Oh, screw it. England in 1814 comprised Charisse’s area of expertise, not hers.

Again Byron filled the tense silence. “Perhaps Earl Grey serves a familiar blend when business takes him to…Boston?”

Logan took Esme’s arm, exerting enough pressure to let her know he intended to retain his grasp this time. “We take our leave, Lady Ashford.”

“Logan, I swear, in twenty or thirty years you’ll be drinking Earl Grey’s tea, too,” Esme insisted, wincing as Logan tightened his grip.

He leant down to mutter into her ear. “Be not so informal in polite company, Miss Tyme.”

Shocked at hearing him murmur her name—
How did he know
?—Esme hesitated, then lifted her skirts, walking fast now to catch up with Logan’s long strides. She looked back to where Byron was working his charm to divert Lady Ashford’s attention from the couple, to no avail.

Byron clicked his tongue. “Poor dear, perhaps the change in climate…”

Lady Ashford raised one brow. “Perhaps, Lord Byron.”

“Sit down, Miss Tyme.”

Esme perched on a stiff chair in Logan’s library, a servant materialising in silence with a tea service.

Esme frowned at the formal address. “My name is Esme. Esme Tyme.”

Logan scowled down at her, waving the woman away, pouring the tea himself into cups decorated with sprigs of lavender. “I know.” He pulled up a sleeve, revealing a silicone Möbius bracelet on one wrist. “A gentleman does not address a lady in so familiar a way.”

When Esme accepted the cup he handed her, his long fingers touching her slim ones, Logan became aware of how his own broad palm engulfed the thin china, remembering how that hand had felt between this woman’s legs… Logan’s gaze caught Esme’s and he watched her shiver, knowing she shared his thoughts. Familiar, indeed…Logan reached out to push a lock of her hair back into place, startling himself with this gentle touch. Before Esme could respond, he turned on one heel, heading back into the hallway they had just vacated.

“I think it would be best if you retired to your chamber until the evening festivities commence. Betsy will attend you.” Logan signalled to yet another maid standing just outside the door.

A maid for every lady… Esme felt the tears threatening again and pushed them back. “Of course,” she answered. “As you wish, Lord Davenport.”

Logan hesitated, that furrow reappearing between his brows at her tone, then left, slamming the door behind him.

Esme tried to rest, but the task proved impossible. She paced in her bedchamber, turning over the events since the launch party, finally sinking down on a bench, exhausted.

At least I can find out more about my…host
, she told herself.

On cue, Betsy tapped at her door. “I’m here to attend to you for the ball, Miss.”

 
Another fucking ball.
Esme grimaced.

Noting the maid’s curious stare, Esme forced herself to smile as Betsy poured tea for her.

Recovering her composure, Esme sipped at her tea. “Tell me about Lord Davenport.”

Betsy smiled back, happy to oblige—Esme was by no means the first guest here this week to ply the ladies’ maids with sweet smiles—and perhaps coins—to learn useful secrets about the enigmatic and eminently marriageable Lord Davenport, secrets his family’s servants were sure to know.

 
“Tell me more about his parents. Such an…intriguing story.” Esme held her breath, praying
something,
perhaps, was intriguing enough to cover her shot in the dark.

Watching a smile light up Betsy’s face, Esme let her breath out. Betsy reached for the silver-backed hairbrush, obviously happy to oblige her lady by attending to Esme’s hair in preparation for the evening’s entertainment. Esme protested, then forced herself to relax under Betsy’s ministrations when she saw the confused look on the woman’s face.

“Well, Miss, Lord Davenport’s mother was the second Lady Davenport. I am certain you know that his Lordship married for love the second time.”

Esme made some agreeable sound, as if she had any idea…

Betsy continued, “Oh, the first Lady Davenport, now there was a cold one. Some say…” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Some say she refused the former Lord Davenport his conjugal rights and died a virgin, afflicted with a woman’s ailment left to fester since she let no surgeon part her knees, neither.”

Esme choked on her mouthful of tea. Betsy patted her on the back, continuing her story.

“Ah, the second Lady Davenport…what a beauty. Black Irish, she was. Lord Davenport’s love of riding and breeding horses came from his father, but he favours his mother in his looks, with his light eyes and those black curls and that pale skin…meaning no disrespect, Miss.” Esme smiled at the flush rising under Betsy’s fair skin, amused by the maid’s obvious crush on her employer.

“A bit of a scandal, his Lordship marrying a young Irish miss, but his wealth and titles soon enough laid the gossip to rest. Except…” Betsy’s voice dropped to a whisper again.

Esme put down her tea.

“Except it was widely known she carried the gift of the second sight. She had some skill with the brush, too, often painting her visions.”

Betsy motioned Esme to her feet. “We had better get you dressed for the ball, Miss.”

Betsy began lacing Esme’s corset. “They say she dreamt of her son’s true love and commissioned a portrait of who she saw, not satisfied with her own skill in drawing her face.” Betsy laughed. “More than one young miss this evening will be out of sorts with you, Miss.”

Esme’s eyes widened. “What does it have to do with me?”

“Lord Davenport’s mother said his love would come from afar.”

Esme started. Surely Betsy had no idea she came from…another time.

“Why so surprised, Miss? Boston seems far enough away to the likes of me.”

 
“Betsy, has anyone ever seen this picture?”

“No—none but Lord Davenport, so they say.”

Esme fingered the locket she still wore.

Betsy reached to undo the clasp. “Lord Davenport has sent you others to choose from…”

“No, thank you,” Esme said, wondering if Logan knew of his portrait around her neck.

* * * *

Esme fidgeted, feeling like a child caught playing dress-up in her mother’s best finery, the infernal corset under the ornate gown constricting her breath. Several seamstresses had worked all day altering a few outfits left behind by Logan’s sister, who had been married off to a lord someone-or-other of something somewhere…

Byron rescued her from her corner, where she was endeavouring to make herself inconspicuous—an unattainable goal, given every eye in the room cast its gaze in her direction.

Byron leaned over, whispering in her ear, “Smile, as we construct a pretence you find me handsome and witty, by far the most magnificent specimen of manhood present here.”

Esme laughed. “I do find you handsome and witty, Lord Byron.” She sighed. She always had enjoyed his poems from this era best of all. Esme caught her breath at the energy emanating from the impassioned poet, unsettled by the fact that he would be dead in just ten short years… Catching Byron’s quizzical look at her own facial expressions—Esme made a mental note to work on a poker face since, clearly, emoting was so
not
de rigueur around here—she shook off her discombobulating memories, glad to feel at least somewhat at home in his presence, even if for reasons she could not share.

Byron took her arm, for a stroll about the grand ballroom. “Then ours shall be a successful ruse.” He engaged in small talk, flirting with the young women, introducing Esme to the ladies, evading pointed questions with his poet’s grace and sly tongue.

With Byron by her side, Esme managed to walk the length of the room without undue incident.

I wonder if I can high-five him without anyone noticing
, she thought, smiling her gratitude towards Lord Byron for helping her shed some of the tension she carried inside.

Standing now on the other side of the room, Esme, still smiling, found herself face-to-face with Logan, an inevitable turn of events. She tensed, then blushed, angry with Logan for these feelings trumpeting her lack of self-control around him—and angry with herself for letting this man get under her skin so.

Logan’s own countenance lit up at her smile. Then, just as fast, he appeared to grind his teeth again as he and Byron watched the emotions flitting across Esme’s face.

Esme scowled, watching Bryon chuckle to himself while Logan’s jaw clenched. Could it be the dashing Lord Davenport had never experienced the look of frustrated annoyance Esme felt crossing her face?

Damn the man
…

“Shall we, Miss Tyme?” Uttering a command, not a request, Logan took a firm grip on one elbow, escorting Esme to the dance floor.

 
As the opening strains of a quadrille filled the ballroom, Esme breathed out, relieved—she recognised this music from Charisse’s arrangements for their party…except these people walked through the steps, rather than danced.

OMG
, Esme thought.
This fucking song will never end at this speed
.

Esme watched the couples changing partners at an insufferably slow pace, forced to make awkward small-talk at every turn. Would this damnable music never stop?

Byron moved into place next to her again, leaning down to speak in her ear. “Ah, virgins on parade. Although I know for a fact more than one nubile offering this evening cannot truly claim the prize remains intact.”

Esme laughed, enjoying his company for a few minutes’ precious respite. She looked up to see Logan watching her over the heads of several other dancers, his eyes narrowing at Byron’s easy conversation with her. Logan’s gaze locked with her own. Esme shivered, seeing his eyes go that deep blue, her skin tingling although he danced with another, touched another.

She looked away.

Esme blushed, aware that Byron had intercepted her exchange with Logan. She blushed again, noting that Byron was not the only one. More than one young woman—and her mother—sent a scathing look in her direction. Esme clenched her fist, annoyed—again—at her loss of control over her emotions.

Byron smiled. “I return you to our host.”

Logan stepped into a turn with her, silent, as the relentless notes played on for yet another round.

About fucking time
, Esme thought as the final notes of the quadrille faded. Ignoring the opening strains of the next dance—a waltz—she began making her way back to her corner, but Logan, ignoring the eager faces of the prospective brides on parade, turned to her, bowing.

Esme dropped an unsteady curtsy.

“Is this ‘proper,’ us waltzing?” she asked him.

Logan looked down at her. “Nothing regarding this dance is ‘proper.’ Yet dance we shall for George’s amusement, you protected from wagging tongues as a ward of my father’s.” She started to protest the lie, her voice faltering when she saw that crease appearing, yet again, between his eyebrows. His clenched jaw reminded her they were paraded on display in this room, where every word might be overheard.