The Marquess Finds Romance Page 13

  “He has,” Janie grumbled, pointing toward James. “He thinks I should go, and he’s right. I have nothing here. I’m leaving. I’m not going to marry a marquess, so just let me go, please.”

  Hickstrom looked from her to James.

  “Will you not speak, Lord Carswell?”

  “I have spoken, Miss Hickstrom. I will not see Janie coerced into a marriage she cannot like to a gentleman she does not know.”

  “Marriage! Coercion! Truth! These are mere words with no meaning. Very well, Lord Carswell. It was within your power to end this charade.”

  Hickstrom turned toward Janie.

  “Very well, dear. Say your farewell to Lord Carswell.”

  Janie, confused by Hickstrom’s words but heartbroken at James’s rejection, turned to him, her pain crystalizing into anger. “Goodbye, Lord Carswell,” she muttered.

  “Janie—” he began, reaching for her.

  The soft lantern light dimmed, and Janie felt herself sliding to the ground. Arms reached for her, and she fainted.

  ****

  Janie opened her eyes. She lay on a familiar couch, but not her own. Hot tears burned her eyes and dripped down the sides of her cheeks as she realized she was in Clara’s apartment.

  Had it all been a dream? Was Clara still missing? She pushed herself upright with difficulty, her legs entangled in a blanket. Reaching for a table lamp, she switched it on and looked down at her lap.

  The gossamer sheen of her overskirt told her that she had not dreamed the past month. She ran her hands along the ivory silk of her dress.

  No, she had traveled in time, she had lived in Regency England and she had fallen in love. Hickstrom had sent her home at Janie’s rabid insistence.

  She looked up at a clock on the wall. Just past midnight. Of course. The whole thing had been quite the Cinderella epic. It was just past midnight in the twenty-first century, and Janie had no idea what time it was in the nineteenth century. Somehow, eight or so hours time change from Washington State to England hardly mattered when there was the matter of an additional two-hundred-plus years.

  Grief pressed against her chest, and she rested a hand over her heart, as if to relieve the pain. If she did nothing, she would never see James again. But who knew? Even if she did something, anything, called out to Hickstrom, she still might never see James again. She could hardly breathe at the thought.

  Janie tried to remember her desperation to leave, to see the last of James, to run from his rejection. His passionate insistence that she go home had taken her by surprise, and she hadn’t been able to think beyond wanting to run from her pain. Running meant demanding that Hickstrom send her home that instant.

  Hickstrom had said some strange things at the end that Janie couldn’t understand. She tried to remember what she’d said.

  Marriage! Coercion! Truth! These are mere words with no meaning. Very well, Lord Carswell. It was within your power to end this charade.

  Janie had no idea what they meant, and the knowledge that she might never know galled her. She jumped up, restless. Crossing to the window, she looked out into Clara’s monotonous view of the apartment parking lot. No golden coach awaited Janie to return her to the ball. She turned and scanned the living room. Everything was the same as they had left it. Three empty mugs sat on the table. An empty plate sat next to them.

  Janie almost smiled as she remembered that there had been several cookies on the plate when she traveled to the past with Clara. Hickstrom must have finished them off before she left the apartment.

  “Hickstrom,” she said in a whisper. “What happened? What did you say to James to make him send me away? Oh, I know he didn’t send me, you did, but something happened. What did you say? What were you talking about?”

  Janie deliberately resisted calling out to the fairy godmother in a loud voice. She wanted only to mumble out her concerns, her questions. She wasn’t sure she wanted the answers, and she hoped that Hickstrom wouldn’t come.

  Janie pressed her lips together and waited. The clock ticked, but otherwise the apartment was silent. Hickstrom didn’t come. Thank goodness. The fairy godmother’s presence wouldn’t make the pain of James’s zealous demand for her to leave any less painful. The man could very well have left himself if he found Janie’s presence that...awful? But where Hickstrom was concerned, no one knew which way was up.

  The more she thought about her final moments in the nineteenth century, the more Janie suspected that Hickstrom had said something strange to James, perhaps threatened him that he would have to marry Janie if she didn’t go home, and so he had pushed her to go.

  “None of this makes sense, Hickstrom,” she mumbled. “You told him he couldn’t marry me, so why on earth would he be terrified you would force him to? None of this makes sense!”

  Exhaustion swept over her. All she wanted to do at that moment was sleep. Janie crossed over to the couch and lay down again, pressing the side of her aching head against a soft throw pillow. Tucking her hand underneath the pillow, she felt something hard.

  Janie gasped and pushed herself upright. From under the pillow, she pulled out a very large, very thick cranberry-colored hardback book.

  “Hickstrom’s Book of Fairy Tales,” Janie read aloud. “It’s here!”

  She hushed her voice and searched the room, holding her breath. Minutes passed, and Janie eased in some air, noting with a sense of relief that Hickstrom didn’t magically appear.

  She lifted the cover to peek at the book, and a chill ran down her spine. Dropping the cover like it burned her fingers, Janie imagined a story about a viscount who fell in love with a beautiful redheaded woman and lived happily ever after.

  Janie tugged at a strand of her blonde hair. No, she didn’t want to open the book. She didn’t want to read anything about James or Hickstrom’s plans for him. As Mary had said, it was likely that Hickstrom was going to find him a suitable match, and Janie didn’t want to read that story.

  With the tips of her fingers, she shoved the book back under the pillow and laid her head down. Sleep was what she wanted, a reprieve from feeling bad about everything...including her failure to say goodbye to her best friend. As she drifted off, she wondered if she should dye her hair red...just to hide the silver strands. No other reason.

  ****

  Janie woke up as the soft muted light of the Pacific Northwest filled the room through the windows. She rubbed her eyes and felt underneath the pillow for the book. It was still there, and she pulled the book out to examine it. Beautifully bound in cloth, she traced the outline of the gold lettering. But that was as far as she allowed her fingers to wander. She had no intention of opening the Hickstrom’s Book of Fairy Tales.

  “That won’t bode well,” she said.

  No redheaded brides for Lord Carswell.

  Rising, Janie carried the cups and plate into the kitchen and made coffee. The sight of the plate made her smile again, and she washed it by hand, dried it and retrieved some more chocolate chip cookies from a bag to refill the plate. She returned to the sofa with her coffee and cookies and munched in silence while she stared at the book.

  There was so much that she had to do since she was back—contact the staff to see who had taken over the business in their absence—surely someone had. Pay bills, check on her apartment, do something with Clara’s apartment. So much to do.

  Yet she drank coffee, ate cookies and stared at a book. The void caused by Clara’s absence from the apartment was poignant, but Janie knew where she was and that she was happy. Hours passed until Janie realized she needed to use the restroom. She wriggled out of her Regency-era clothing and hung the items up on hangers before stepping into the shower for a luxurious wash with warm running water.

  After emerging from the bathroom squeaky clean—if emotionally numb—Janie searched for something to wear from Clara’s closet. She slipped into a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and flip-flops before returning to the kitchen. Pouring out another cup of coffee, she sat back down on the couch and pul
led the book of fairy tales close to her...as one might pull a lover close. She stared out the window at nothing, her thoughts held prisoner by memories of the nineteenth century and the silvering hair of a handsome brokenhearted viscount.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The following morning, a haggard Lord Carswell presented himself to the gatekeeper’s house at Alvord Castle.

  Clara answered the door, and he bowed.

  “James!” she murmured with a warm smile. “You shaved off your mustache. You look wonderful!”

  Her voice, so similar to Janie’s, almost brought him to his knees. He had not slept since Janie had vanished the previous night. He had not wept, though his body longed for that release. He had not cursed the fairy godmother or railed against the fates. He had walked all night. The last words he had uttered to Miss Hickstrom had been trite.

  “There! You have had your way, Miss Hickstrom,” he had ground out when he could finally find his voice. “Now, you may inform all who loved Miss Ferguson that she is gone.” And he had strode away, eschewing any notion of a ride back to Alvord Castle. He had walked through woods, over meadows, stopping under the moonlight to visit with the newly shorn sheep.

  “Where have you gone, my love?” he called out to no one, surrounded by the creatures that bleated as he wished he could. “Are you home? Firmly ensconced in your comfortable bed? Unwed? Free? Free to choose?”

  Of course there was no response to his ramblings, none save the sheep.

  “Janie,” he called out again. “I will not wed another. You are the only woman I wish to marry. I admire your spirit, your shining flaxen hair, your hoydenish way, the light in your blue-green eyes, your intellect. I desire no other woman. I could not say that to you for fear that you would not go. Please do not think that I failed to see your love. But we were doomed, were we not? You to wed another man, and I bound to another woman. We have both seen the fairy godmother’s powers at work. We were both assured that her wishes become the rule.

  “You hold my heart in your hands. Keep it safe, my love. Keep it with you always. I did not love before. I know that now. I love only you, and shall forever. Be well, Janie. I shall think of you every day and every night. You and these silly sheep.”

  With that, Lord Carswell twitched one last ear and returned to Alvord Castle to await a decent calling hour.

  “Lady Rowe,” he murmured. “May I offer my felicitations? I did not have a chance to speak with you last night at the ball, and I wanted to rectify that situation.”

  “Thank you! And it’s still Clara,” she said. “I’m glad to see you. Roger isn’t here. He’s gone up to the castle. I’m surprised you didn’t see him there.”

  “Perhaps he is closeted with St. John in his study.”

  “Come in,” she said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  Lord Carswell hesitated. It was not quite proper to visit with a lady alone in her home.

  “Do you have a cook or a maid present?”

  She looked over her shoulder toward the interior of the gatehouse.

  “No, but we might get someone in to cook. That’s not quite my thing. I imagine we’ll eat at the castle every night like we did before we married.”

  “Indeed.” Faced with Clara in the flesh, he knew not what to say. His affections for her continued, but they seemed very intangible, as if their strength had dissipated.

  “Come on in. I’d like to talk to you about Janie,” she said. “I noticed something very weird about you two last night, and now she’s gone.”

  Her smile drooped, and Lord Carswell saw the light leave her eyes. He stepped inside and followed her to a small room that seemed to serve as a drawing room and dining room. He took the chair she indicated at a round table clearly used for dining.

  “I was just making some tea,” she said. She brushed her hands on her pale-yellow muslin dress and left the room. He could hear her banging about in what he supposed to be the kitchen before she returned with a silver tray bearing a porcelain tea service. She set the tray down and poured tea.

  “I’m learning to serve tea the English way. Where we come from, we just dump a teabag in a mug and pour in hot water.”

  “Yes, Janie described as much to me. She told me of your ‘microwaves.’”

  Clara sat down. “Did she? You two must have gotten to know each other well.”

  “We did indeed,” he said, gritting his teeth together to prevent himself from blathering about what was uppermost in his mind. Miss Janie Ferguson.

  “Did you try to rescue her too?” she said with a soft smile.

  Lord Carswell caught the light in her hazel eyes and returned the smile as best he could. “Yes,” he said. “I seem to have a penchant for attempting to rescue twenty-first-century ladies. I do not profess to do it well though.”

  “You were great to me, James. You really were. I was already in love with Roger. There was nothing I could do to stop that.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I hoped that you and I might become friends.”

  “Of course!” she said. “Of course we’re friends. We’ve always been friends at the very least.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Clara’s cheeks turned rosy.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you—” She paused, biting her lip.

  “Yes?” he encouraged.

  “Did you fall in love with Janie? She’s perfect for you! Really perfect for you!”

  Lord Carswell closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain in his chest. When he opened them, he saw moisture in Clara’s eyes.

  “Yes,” he said with a nod. “She is perfect for me, and yes, I did fall in love.”

  Clara bounced in her chair like a child and clapped. “Yay!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I’m so happy! You guys are going to be great together. I know you’re going to haul her off to Wayburn Hall, wherever Bedfordshire is, but please, please bring her back for visits. How far is it?”

  “Thirty miles,” Lord Carswell said automatically with a frown. He leaned forward. “Clara, do you not understand that Janie has returned to the twenty-first century? She has gone home. She will not return.”

  “Yes, she will,” Clara said with a confidence that served to send Lord Carswell’s heart pounding. “She will.”

  “No! She must not!”

  Clara reared her head back. “What do you mean? Why not? Hickstrom can bring her back!”

  “No! I forbid it!”

  “What?” Clara all but screeched. “Since when do you get to forbid anything, James? What is going on? If you love her, why can’t she come back?”

  “Miss Hickstrom, that is why! Do you know of the curse she levied upon Janie? Upon myself?”

  “Curse? You mean like she cursed St. John? I thought she wasn’t doing stuff like that anymore. I thought she was sticking to coercion and pressure and bullying and all the stuff that fairy godmothers do. You know, strong-arming people to get what she wants.”

  “Yes, yes, all those things!” he agreed.

  “So what’s going on? Don’t tell me she tried to match you two? How? Janie isn’t in the book of fairy tales. Can Hickstrom just randomly match people who don’t have stories in her book? No!”

  “I cannot say. I have not seen this infernal book that so many others have seen.”

  “Exactly what did Hickstrom try to do?”

  “I believe she hoped to match Janie and I from the outset. When it appeared that Janie and I would not suit, that we disliked one another–”

  “Whoa! Hold up there, Hoss. Are you saying you didn’t like Janie? Who doesn’t like Janie? Everyone likes Janie!”

  “I realize that must be so now, but it took us some time to appreciate the other. I was—I had my moods, and Janie was...unique.”

  “Well, of course she is. That’s why I love her. That’s why you love her. Anyway, go on.”

  “What is this Hoss?”

  “Just an expression. Go on,” Clar
a said again.

  “Very well. As best I can understand the sequence of events—and mind you, I cannot understand very much when the fairy godmother is involved—when Janie and I mutually agreed that we would not suit and allowed Miss Hickstrom to see such, she forbad me to marry Janie and promised that I would bow over the hand of Janie Ferguson, marchioness.”

  “Marchioness? What is that?”

  “The wife of a marquess. Or a marchioness in her own right.”

  “Oh, a title! How fun for Janie!”

  “Quite,” he said dryly.

  “So, she ‘forbad’ you to marry Janie? How did you go from not wanting to marry Janie to being ‘forbad’? Forbaded? How about forbidden?”

  “I spoke disparagingly of Janie to Miss Hickstrom. Quite out of Janie’s hearing, but nonetheless, Miss Hickstrom took up arms against me.”

  “She took up arms against you? With what?”

  “I did not mean that in a literal sense. She armed herself by forbidding a match between us and by insisting that Janie would marry a kind, considerate marquess.”

  “Where is Hickstrom going to find a kind, considerate marquess in the twenty-first century?”

  “As to that, Miss Hickstrom said there were no bachelor marquesses in England of marriage age. I believe she said over twelve years old.”

  “So Hickstrom’s ‘curse,’ or whatever that was, ended when Janie went home?”

  “I certainly hope so!”

  “Why do you hope so?”

  “I could not bear to see her coerced into marriage. I simply could not bear it.”

  “Because you love her.”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Does Hickstrom know that? Does she know that she actually achieved a match she wanted, book of fairy tales or not?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “Does Janie know you love her?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “You didn’t tell her?”

  “I did not.”

  “Not even last night when she looked so beautiful, when she couldn’t keep her eyes off you, when you had the chance?”

  Lord Carswell shook his head morosely. “Do you not see? Miss Hickstrom decreed that she should become a marchioness?”