The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (35 page)

“What are you thinking, my lady?”

Her forehead creased; why would the duke call her “my lady”? Her book on manners was quite clear about the rank of peers, and she certainly didn’t qualify. She’d read
A Tale of Two Cities
in high school, and, though she hadn’t thought it the most significant book at the time, she did remember that the French Revolution had done away with the aristocracy. She should reread it. It might be an interesting story if she weren’t being forced to analyze it for credit.

She shook her head as her mind wandered and made a mental note to look for it in the library.
When was it published?
Her brows pulled together. No, she’d seen other Dickens books in the library. It must be old enough. She thought about it more. She wasn’t so much concerned about
where
she was—that much was obvious—but she had no definitive idea about
when
she was. From the size of her bustles, she would guess the Victorian era, but that still left quite a large bit of time. She frowned and sighed, glancing up at the approaching forest.

“Francine?” Gideon asked. “What is it?”

She shifted her gaze to the duke when he called her, pulling her out of her literary reverie. She smiled, and he visibly tensed. She tried to devise a strategy for discovering the year. Years were printed on newspapers, business documents, books, checks, bank statements, and birth certificates. She didn’t have access to any of these except books, but that wasn’t going to help since knowing when a book was published wouldn’t tell her how long it had been around.

“I wish I could know...what you are thinking,” he said slowly. “It looks frightfully puzzling, and therefore must be terribly interesting.”

She considered how she could ferret out the information she wanted and was grateful that he waited patiently while she formed her plan. Then she snapped her fingers and signed,
February 5
, but hesitated afterward as she realized the year was an issue. A serious issue. She shook her head and pointed to herself, then pointed at him. He had one brow cocked and his mouth hung open. She laughed and signed again:
My birthday is February 5
. She pointed at him again, her brows raised.

He gave a little chuckle. “Oh, I see. Do you wish to get me a gift?”

She shrugged her shoulders, imploring him with her eyes.

“I was born the twenty-sixth day of February in the year eighteen-hundred and fifty-one.”

She felt shock crawl across her face. She truly was in the latter part of the 19th century.

Gideon watched her, leaning his elbows on his pommel to effectively stop the horses. “That would make me nine and twenty, my lady. Certainly an acceptable age, is it not?”

She nodded violently, nearly displacing her hat and knocking herself off-balance. Her arms shot out, and Gideon laughed as he quickly nudged Samson closer and reached over to her outstretched arm.

She lowered her arms and looked at him, into him, begging forgiveness with her eyes.

“You are forgiven, my lady,” he whispered.

She signed
my lady
and shrugged.

He nodded. “You are now officially the ward of my brother. We determined it was in your best interest that we procure you a place here in England that would release you from the agreement your parents made with Lord Hepplewort.”

She appeared stunned, and he waited for her to consider the situation. Her features flashed emotions of confusion and rage, then finally settled on annoyance. Her brows knit together, her mouth opened slightly, her eyes narrowed, and her jaw lifted.

He shifted his seat. “It was done in reaction to the events last night. I wanted to protect you. It was obvious you didn’t want to be taken away, and once I learned about the arrangement with Hepplewort and the plans he had, I simply could not—” He was cut off when she abruptly turned Delilah and rode away.

Samson bristled and stomped. “Settle,” he said firmly, stroking the Friesian’s neck and patting him on the shoulder. “Just give her a minute,” he added, more to himself than the horse.

Francine didn’t want Gideon inspecting her, as he seemed so fond of doing. She didn’t necessarily mind that he knew what she was feeling, but right now she wanted to think. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following.
He’s manipulating me, right?
He had created a guardianship agreement with her so-called parents without even consulting her. Then again, the alternative was being returned to people she had never met. She shook her head. While being tossed about at the whim of others was commonplace in her previous life, it was no longer something she wished to tolerate, but this—this was clearly different.

She thought she understood why it would be his brother. He was close to his brother and Gideon couldn’t do it himself if they had a relationship, but—why couldn’t he ask? Nobody ever asked her permission for anything. Her brain, so fond of playing good cop/bad cop, thought:
Of course they didn’t. It’s freakin’ 1880!
She looked back at him again through narrowed eyes. Gideon was behaving with much more patience than his cocky steed. She could see Samson was annoyed that Delilah had wandered off without him, and she grinned.

Maybe he didn’t intend his actions to come across as such high-handed gestures. He’d been raised in a different era, a different world entirely. It was wrong, inappropriate, and impossible, but the reality was that she was in his time, not the other way around. There was a point at which she would reach her limit of handling, but this was not going to be it. She could see his reasoning, understood his behavior, and frankly, she liked the way he attempted to protect her. Nobody had ever done that. They feigned protection well, but never actually achieved it. She turned Delilah and met his gaze.

She had the most beautifully broad smile. It opened her face and brightened her eyes. Even her ears seemed to smile at him. He took a couple of short breaths, trying to release the tension that had gathered in his gut.
How could this be the same woman who crawled into my bed in the middle of the night, demanding I ruin her?
He shifted his gaze.
Perhaps her boldness requires the dark of night
. He shook his head and looked back toward her, returning his own grand but wary smile.

He nudged Samson, who was more than ready to regain his lead. They approached Francine and Delilah, the horses rubbing their muzzles together before Gideon turned Samson and they began walking back toward the wood. “I...am sorry if we behaved too expeditiously. I believed—
believe
we acted in the best interests of both you and your sisters.”

Her brows drew together and he shook his head.

“That is the other thing. We also arranged guardianship for your sisters. Once we learned M. Larrabee, your, uh, father, was selling his daughters, we couldn’t possibly leave them to him.”

She nodded, though she knew there was something he wasn’t saying.
Did he say they were sold?
The Larrabees were odd, she would give him that. She certainly didn’t want to go anywhere with them, or the man they said she belonged to, but to take two other girls away from their family as well?

They reached the edge of the clearing, where the tall grass rose to meet the shade trees that protected the forest from the meadow. He jumped down and walked around Samson to help Francine.

His hands reached up, settling on her waist. She lifted her right knee from the pommel and shifted in the saddle, pulling her boot from the stirrup. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she rested her weight on him as he moved closer.

He let her slide down between his unyielding frame and Delilah, who didn’t budge. Holding her at eye level, he leaned forward slightly.

He’s going to kiss me
.
Here in broad daylight, in this field, with Carole as a chaperone, he is going to kiss me.
She gasped and the breath she took in her mouth was his, warm and spicy like unsweetened cinnamon.
How scandalously improper
. Delilah shifted her weight, pushing them together abruptly, and their lips met in a searing kiss. He let her toes touch the ground as his arms bracketed her shoulders, putting his hands on Delilah’s saddle to steady the mare behind Francine and hold her to him. Her lips parted from the pressure, and he accepted the invitation by exploring inside, sliding across the roof of her mouth with the tip of his tongue.

Her mouth opened wider as the sensation spread through her like tiny fingers, and he captured her groan, venturing deeper, tasting every part of her.

Carole politely cleared her throat from the other side of the three horses as she spread a rug below a tree and unpacked the basket Mrs. Weston had prepared. She had included fruits from the orangery with some crème fraîche, a few cuts of cold ham roasted in honey, some crusty sourdough, and a bottle of Lindisfarne Honey Mead. Carole looked at the bottle and blanched. Mrs. Weston certainly knew it was traditionally served at wedding brunches and for honeymoons. She peered behind her. All she could see below the horses were skirts tangled around legs. She stood and cleared her throat again.

“I think mayhap I should gather some berries. P’raps Chef would care to use them for a pie. Would you mind too much, Your Grace?”

Delilah shifted away from them sharply, breaking his grasp on the saddle. He clutched Francine before she could fall away and kissed along the edge of her jaw. He heard Carole, but she sounded so far away from where they stood. He continued kissing his way down Francine’s neck, unbuttoning her jacket slowly as he moved. She let out a deep breath and threw her head back to give him access as she held his shoulders.

She could no longer think. His fingers trailed down her hip from the line of velvet-covered buttons, pulling her skirts up as he nuzzled and kissed the delicate underside of her jaw.

He put his hand on her lower back and stood straight, looking into her eyes. They were light, glassy, and heavy-lidded. He blew gently across her face and her eyelashes fluttered, clearing her vision and bringing her around. He cupped her chin with his large gloved hand and handed her the button loop from her skirt.

“Oh,” she whispered, “is that what you were doing down there?”

He gave her a warning gaze when she spoke, and she smiled as she buttoned up her skirt. He proffered his arm and she wrapped her hands around his elbow as they walked past the horses.

“Thank you, Carole. Have fun looking for berries, but do not go far.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she answered with a small curtsey, then ducked past the trunk of a large tree.

Perry left the study to track down Shaw and inquire if he was interested in a treasure hunt, which he was. Perry had never really inspected the passageways, due to the fact that he simply didn’t like them. They were dark and he assumed there wasn’t anything to be seen. He was wrong. Small transom windows let in a modicum of light, allowing for safe passage, but without the additional lights one couldn’t see the walls. They lit the sconces that lined the passage and had Stapleton bring extra candelabras to make the area as bright as possible.

“This woodwork is exquisite,” Shaw said. “Some of these panels are inlaid with dozens of types of wood. Look here. This is a twilight setting—stars, clouds, and moon, and this one is sunrise.”

Perry studied the panel. “How do you know this one isn’t sunset?”

“It’s on the east wall.”

He is serious,
Perry thought. As he looked at the other side of the passage from that panel, he found a similar picture and began to believe him. “So what is the opposite of twilight?”

“Dawn,” Shaw answered simply.

Perry started to consider the panels with a new respect. The tonal variations of the woodwork actually supported Shaw’s assumptions.

Each panel was framed with intricate molding, which the men inspected meticulously for any movement. About halfway down the passageway, with Perry on the east wall and Shaw on the west, Perry heard a click. He stopped and turned to Shaw, bumping into him as he stared at the slightly moved panel.