Anne Barbour (2 page)

Ash had thought his status appealed to Bridge’s beautiful daughter, as well. She had seemed to welcome his attentions, fluttering her incredible lashes at him and giggling dutifully at his every pleasantry.

Apparently, he had been mistaken.

He should be grateful, of course, at this excuse to break off the budding relationship, but, no. He had too much invested. He was, in short, desperate. Still, he thought as he moved purposefully toward the chapel, he could cheerfully throttle the silly little widgeon, who undoubtedly waited inside with breathless anticipation for the arrival of her lover.

The Bridges in his wake, he entered the vestibule and pushed through the door that led into the chapel. His gaze swept the interior. Yes, there she was, seated alone in a corner in an attitude of prayerful expectancy. Behind him, Serena Bridge gasped, and at the sound the girl rose. With a rustle of silken skirts, she whirled to face them.

Her mouth was a wide O of surprise and distress, and she raised her hands in a defensive gesture. In the next instant, however, a grimace of pain distorted her lovely features, and her fingers lifted to her forehead. She uttered a soft moan and slumped to the floor.

Ash stifled an exclamation of anger. Did the chit think to escape punishment by feigning a swoon? He knelt to gather her in his arms. He shook her roughly, then his breath caught. Her face was utterly still and slightly tinged with gray. He had seen death many times and knew its aspect well. Suddenly cold, he placed his fingertips at the base of her throat, to find only stillness. He glanced up at Serena and Jeremiah, the bewilderment and anguish in their eyes striking him like a blow. He steeled himself.

“She’s—” he began. “Mr. and Mrs. Bridge, I’m afraid your daughter is—”

He felt a stirring in his arms, and looking down, saw to his astonishment that Amanda’s eyes were fluttering open.

* * * *

Amanda’s first sensation on regaining consciousness was an unaccustomed feeling of warmth and security. Her second was an uncomfortable realization that she was being cradled in the arms of a strange man. She struggled to a sitting position and became aware with some relief of the presence of a middle-aged man and woman of an undoubtedly respectable mien. She noted, also with relief, that her headache had disappeared. She glanced up at the man who still held her and whose face was disturbingly close to her own. Good heavens, he was dressed in some sort of costume, as were, she realized with a start, the other man and the woman. Oh, dear Lord, had she passed out in the middle of some sort of reenactment?

“Please,” she whispered. “I—I’m sorry. I seem to—”

“Amanda!” It was the woman, speaking in accents of severe disapprobation. “Amanda, how could you, you wicked girl?”

“W-what?” asked Amanda in bewilderment. She hadn’t spoiled their presentation—or whatever they were engaged in—on purpose, after all.... And how did they know her name?

“It’s no good pretending you know nothing,” growled the older man. “We know what you were up to ... and you deserve a good thrashing for it.”

“What?” exclaimed Amanda again, in stronger accents. “Who the hell
are
you people?”

“Amanda!” cried the woman. “What will his lordship think?”

His lordship? Amanda turned with a jerk to confront the man who still held her gripped in an embrace. She judged him to be tall, and his eyes were of an unnerving steel gray. He could by no means be called attractive, for his features were harsh and irregular, arranged haphazardly around an imposing nose. Yet he was definitely lordly, she admitted, for he was possessed of a casual elegance and an air of command. He appeared to be about thirty years old, and his costume was composed of a pearl gray coat jacket, a silk vest, and a ruffled shirt, completed with an intricately tied cravat that added to the effect of upper-class arrogance. His hair was a thick black thatch that fell over his forehead in disarray.

Hastily, she thrust herself away from him. “I’m sorry,” she began again, waving her hands, “if I’ve spoiled your—oh, my God!” she concluded in consternation as she glanced at her hands. They could not be hers! Her hands were squarish and capable, with blunt, clipped nails. These alien appendages were smooth and delicate, the slender fingers tapering to polished nails. She looked down at herself and almost collapsed into unconsciousness once again. A deep trembling began in her, for her gaze encountered an ankle-length gown of some sort of light cloth. It was pale yellow in color and over it she wore a very short, light jacket with a high neck and long sleeves. With the younger man’s assistance, she rose gingerly to her feet. Dizzily she realized that she was moving on legs that were long and straight and strong.

My God, she must have had some sort of seizure! She had gone completely mad! In a blind panic, she turned to rush from the church, only to be grasped roughly by the older man.

“Now then, missy, we’ll have no more of your nonsense.”

“Indeed, Amanda,” said the woman. “You must come home with us. We will—talk about it later.”

“The devil we will,” snorted the older man. “You’ll be spending the next few weeks in your room. Or, assuming ...” His fleshy lips clamped shut as he shot a glance at “my lord.”

“Come along then,” he concluded, wrenching her toward the exit doors.

Amanda glanced wildly around the church. It was still empty except for herself and this collection of maniacs. “No!” she cried. “Please! I don’t understand ...”

The younger man spoke for the first time. “Let her go, Bridge.” His voice was as harsh as his appearance, but his tone was cool and detached. “She is obviously distraught. I shall convey her home in my curricle. I suggest you save your questions until she has had a chance to recover herself.” Taking her hand, he led her along the aisle.

Dazed, she followed him unresistingly until they reached the sidewalk outside the church. She stopped abruptly, her eyes nearly starting from her head. It was broad daylight, and the sun shone on a scene she knew could not possibly exist. Horse-drawn vehicles of every shape and size trundled along the street, and pedestrians, all dressed in costume, jostled about them. Up and down the avenue, vendors pushing carts hawked wares at the top of their lungs. And the buildings! Gone was the Mayfair Public Library. In its place stood a row of small houses. Behind the church, where before she had glimpsed a lovely park, lay a graveyard.

She turned to stare in anguish at the man, who still held her hand in his. His returning gaze was unpromising.

“Come along, Miss Bridge. You must face the wrath of your father sometime, you know. And I am due at Carlton House in less than an hour to meet with the Prince Regent.”

Amanda simply gaped. “The—the Prince Regent?” she croaked, just before she fell into another swirling chasm of darkness.

Chapter Two

Amanda woke to find herself nestled in the softness of a comfortable tester bed, hung with a silky fabric of pale pink, matched by the draperies at the tall window that faced the bed. Further inspection of the room revealed a charming dressing table and a graceful wardrobe against one wall. A small desk occupied a nook near the window.

She had no sooner absorbed all this, when the door to the bedroom flew open to admit a dark-haired young woman wearing a plain apron-covered dress.

“Oh, miss!” cried this apparition. “You’re awake, then. Oh, I’m that sorry, miss. I couldn’t help it—I had t’tell them. Please forgive me, miss. Please!” She hastened across the room to stand before Amanda, her hands clasped before her and her blue eyes wide with apprehension.

For a moment, Amanda could not speak, but as the girl showed signs of bursting into tears at any moment, she said quickly, “Okay, I forgive you. Now, tell me, where am I?”

The young woman stared at her perplexedly. “Why, you’re in your own home, miss. In your own bed. Can I fetch you something? A nice cup of tea, mayhap?”

A nice cup of tea! Amanda could have laughed aloud if her situation were not so bizarre. What had happened to her in that little church? She must have passed out from the pain of the headache—and, perhaps her fatigue. Had she hit her head on something? She was obviously hallucinating, but it was sure a damned odd illusion. How could she not know where she was—or who the people were she kept encountering? Particularly since they seemed to know her. This was her hallucination, for God’s sake. She should know these things.

“His lordship” had spoken of the Prince Regent. An odd shiver passed through her at the memory of those flinty eyes poised so close to hers, staring straight through to her center. No. Never mind that. The Prince Regent. Could she have imagined herself back to Regency London? The clothing seemed right—but—why? She sank back into her pillows. Lord, what a mess. She glanced at the young woman standing before her. This person was not real—she was merely a fantasy created by a disordered mind. Amanda opened her mouth, but was brought up short by the odd certainty that she must not divulge the truth. Smiling tentatively, she turned to the aproned woman.

“Who are you?”

The woman’s eyes widened in fear. “Why, I’m Hutchings, miss, your maid. Don’t you know me?”

Amanda widened the smile. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I don’t remember anything. I think I must have hit my head when I fell. Hutchings, I don’t even know my own name.”

At this, the maid gasped. “Oh, dear heaven, miss! What a terrible thing.” She turned as though to run from the room. “I’d best fetch your mama.”

“No!” cried Amanda. “No,” she repeated in a softer tone as Hutchings paused in her flight. “Just tell me a few things first. How did I happen to be in that church, and—and who was the man who scooped me up off the floor?”

“Why, you slipped out of the house early this morning, miss, to meet Mr. Satterleigh, your own true love! You and him was to elope, miss! It was ever so romantical.” Her face crumpled suddenly. “And I ruined it for you. I’m that sorry for it,” she said again, tears beginning to stream from her eyes.

“Yes,” said Amanda hastily. “Well, never mind about that now. Is that his name—the man in the church? Satterleigh?”

Hutchings paused in the act of dabbing at her eyes with her apron. “My goodness, miss, you really must be dicked in the nob! No, that were Lord Ashindon, your betrothed.”

Amanda brought both hands up to clutch her hair.

“Are you having another one o’ your headaches, miss?” the maid asked sympathetically. “They’ve really been comin’ on strong, of late, haven’t they?”

“Yes, they have, indeed,” replied Amanda hoarsely. “Tell me, er, Hutchings, what is the date today?”

“Why, it’s April fourteenth, miss.”

“And the year?”

“Lor’, it’s eighteen hundred and fifteen. You don’t even remember that?”

Amanda shook her head numbly. Eighteen-fifteen! Yes. Regency England. Dear Lord, what possible mental quirk could have thrown her back to the early nineteenth century?

“All right,” she said slowly. “It’s eighteen-fifteen, and my name is Amanda Bridge, and I live in ...?” She raised her brows questioningly at the maid.

“In London, o’course,” giggled the maid. “In Upper Brook Street,” she added, as though indulging a child in a new game. “You’re two-and-twenty and your mama and papa are Mr. and Mrs. Bridge—Serena and Jeremiah, their names are. Your mama has been by your bed since they brought you home. Limp as a wet dish clout, you was, when I undressed you. Your papa sent for the doctor and a few minutes ago your mama went to wait downstairs.”

Amanda closed her eyes.

“There!” exclaimed Hutchings. “I’ve tired you out altogether. I’d best fetch your mama now.”

Amanda’s eyes flew open. “No! No, don’t do that. Tell her I’m still sleeping. Please, Hutchings.”

The maid eyed her doubtfully. “All right, miss. I expect the doctor will be ‘ere soon.”

“Very well, but until then, could you please leave me for a few minutes? To sort of get my head back together?”

The maid’s expression did not lighten, but she bobbed a curtsy and whisked herself from the room.

Alone, Amanda threw back her covers and slid to the floor, nearly falling on her face from the unexpected height of the bed. Righting herself, she moved immediately to the dressing table, reveling despite herself in her strong, sturdy legs. She peered in the mirror and drew in a sharp breath.

Lord, she was a raving beauty! Golden hair tumbled in charming disarray over her shoulders, and from a piquant little face glowed eyes of a deep amethyst, fringed with a veritable forest of dark lashes. Her nose was short and straight, and her mouth, full and pink, curved charmingly. On second thought, Amanda mused wryly, she looked like a Barbie doll, complete with upthrust bosom and an incredibly tiny waist. Wow, she chuckled, did she know how to fantasize, or what?

For some minutes, she stood very still, contemplating the reflected vision before her. She marveled at the exquisite workmanship of her nightgown, a demure concoction of lace-trimmed muslin, embroidered with tiny flowers at neckline and hem. All accomplished by hand, of course. Still staring, she noticed the slim golden chain that hung about her neck. Hastily drawing it up in her fingers, she gasped. It was her pendant! The one she had examined just last night in Grosvenor Chapel. Or, no—perhaps not last night, but... She sank into the little chair before the dressing table, studying the pendant in bewilderment. She had not brought anything else of her real life into her hallucination—her purse, or her own clothing—why was she still possessed of this unwanted relic?

She turned the little piece of jewelry over in her hands, remembering the afternoon all those years ago when she and Derek had lingered in a little coffee shop in Sausalito. They had relaxed into a moment of reflective silence when Derek reached into his pocket to produce a shiny new penny. Tossing it on the table, he grinned. “Okay, what are you thinking?”

“I love you,” she had blurted, and his beautiful green eyes had darkened. He said nothing in reply, but he took her hands in his and pressed them to his lips.

He scooped the penny up in his long, thin fingers, and a week later he had returned it to her, embedded in a delicate lacy filigree of gold he had created himself. On the back, he had inscribed the words, “For Amanda, with my love, Derek,” and the date, July 25, 1989.