Lady in Lace: Regency Timeslip Read online

  LADY IN LACE

  ~Regency Timeslip~

  JOANNA MAITLAND

  Published in the United Kingdom by Joanna Maitland Independent in 2018

  libertabooks.com

  LADY IN LACE

  Regency Timeslip

  Copyright © Joanna Maitland 2018

  ISBN-13 : 978-0-9957046-4-0

  The right of Joanna Maitland to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Thank you for purchasing this eBook. Please note that it is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you think this book is worth sharing with someone else, please purchase additional copies for each recipient. If you did not purchase this book, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete or return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the rights and hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or places is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Extract from His Silken Seduction

  Copyright © Joanna Maitland 2009, 2015

  All rights reserved

  Requests to publish work from this book should be made to:

  [email protected]

  Cover Design: jdsmith-design.com

  Cover Images: Shutterstock

  Interior Formatting: Joanna Maitland

  DEDICATION

  Tto the members of the Marcher Chapter of

  the Romantic Novelists' Association

  with huge thanks for their support and encouragement

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Beginning

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dear Reader from Joanna Maitland

  About the Author

  His Silken Seduction by Joanna Maitland

  Books by Joanna Maitland

  Chapter One

  Emma was alone in the passage. She hadn't been down here since her first day. She remembered being shown round then, peering into all these museum store rooms. Today it felt different. Was it because it was so late? But surely it hadn't been this gloomy down here before? Or this cold?

  A strange shiver danced down her spine. That mahogany door. She hadn't noticed it before. It seemed totally out of place in a museum. But it was real. Solid.

  She paused in the act of reaching for the intricate brass handle. She could just about make out her own frozen shape, dimly reflected in the door's fielded panels. There was something ghostly about her fuzzy outline, as if it were half real, half melting.

  Nonsense. It was just a door. If she wanted to know where it led, she would have to open it.

  Her extended arm seemed reluctant to make that last effort, her fingers unwilling to grasp the cold metal. That strange shiver came again, this time tingling down her arm and into her outstretched fingers. For a single mad moment, she thought she saw… She could have sworn she saw jagged streaks of blue lightning joining her hand to the brass.

  Too much wine last night, she told herself sternly, trying to dismiss the weird feelings. Or those mussels. You should never trust mussels.

  She forced her rigid body to move. Only a wimp would be frightened off by a dim reflection and a slightly queasy stomach. And she'd promised herself she wouldn't be a coward any more. Hadn't she?

  She grasped the handle at last. It was strangely cold, almost icy. She shuddered again, but refused to let go. She began to turn it, to pull the door open.

  Immediately, too soon, the door began to swing towards her, as if it had a mind of its own. Under her fingers, the metal began to heat.

  Emma gasped in shock and snatched her hand away. In less than a second, the brass had become too hot to touch. It was impossible. Cold… hot… blue lightning? Was she in the middle of some strange dream? Would she wake up soon?

  The door had swung open on silent hinges. Expectantly. Waiting for her to step inside. Into the louring darkness beyond.

  I am not afraid of you, whatever you are. She had taught herself to conquer her fears. She would not stand here on the threshold, petrified, like some kind of statue.

  "Damn those mussels," she spat. Her wild words seemed to echo for a second. Then they were swallowed up by the dark silence in front of her. But they had broken the spell. She could move at last. And it would be forward. She was her own woman now. She would not run ever again.

  She took two firm steps through the doorway. Into the gloom.

  Why was it so dark? A room, even a corridor, should have windows somewhere. Even here in the museum. What was this place?

  She stood still, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Behind her was the open door and the dim light of the hallway. In front, nothing. Or so it seemed. Yet she sensed that there was a great space in front of her, as if this darkness went on and on.

  For the moment, her eyes were worse than useless. She reached her arms out sideways, feeling for walls. If this were merely a dark corridor, there should be walls.

  Her right hand met something soft. Yielding. At her touch, it swung away.

  She cried out, "Who's there?"

  The softness swung back against her hand. Pile. Velvet? But not alive at all. She understood that instinctively, even in the dark, for there was no smell of life. It was some kind of velvet wrap, suspended here, swaying at her touch.

  Not a corridor, then. A storage cupboard? But why so enormous?

  She was beginning to overcome her childish fancies at last. Her mysterious door led to a huge cupboard, big enough to walk into. She put both hands on the velvet and groped her way towards a hanger and a rail, then on to more hangers and more suspended garments: furs, heavy wool, then fine silk and gauze. It was an enormous clothes store.

  But whose clothes? This was no way to store museum exhibits.

  She was finally beginning to see through the gloom, helped by the faint light from the hall at her back. The racks of hanging garments stretched into the distance and disappeared. As if the rail went on for ever.

  She forced herself to straighten her shoulders. She would not be intimidated by a mere cupboard. She lifted her chin and took a deep breath, ready to challenge anything. Anyone.

  She could smell the sea.

  Impossible. Her mind was playing tricks. It had to be that. Didn't it?

  She could smell the sea. As strongly as if she were standing on a beach, with banks of
drying kelp and crashing breakers.

  Her shoes began to sink into soft sand. Her toes curled automatically, trying for grip. She grabbed for the coat rail, desperate to keep her balance.

  The coat rail was gone.

  Her flailing arms met wool, warm wool, and warm flesh beneath.

  "Take care, or you will fall." It was a man's voice, strong and reassuring. It seemed familiar. As did his touch.

  Her body knew him. This time, she was not afraid.

  She had come home at last.

  She had been holding her breath, desperately trying to fathom what was happening to her. Now, relaxing, she breathed in the comforting scents of sand and sea and warm, living man. He smelt of fresh winds and freedom. His touch, where he held her up, was merely a polite support. Yet it was more, too. A caress, a knowing caress, of two bodies that had lain together, naked skin against naked skin.

  So familiar. So loved. And yet she did not know him.

  She tried to speak, but her throat would not open. She reached for him with her free hand, clutching for his arm where he held her up, and beyond, to the body she longed to find. It was eluding her.

  "Oh, where are you, my love?" she managed at last, in a voice that sounded nothing like her own. Had she really said those words? To a man she didn't know?

  His reply was wordless, a soft laugh deep in his chest. Then the contact was broken. The warmth of him was gone.

  She was alone.

  The ground beneath her feet was solid again.

  He was gone. And so was the smell of the sea.

  Tears of frustration welled up in her straining eyes. Her lover, her life, the man she was destined for – he had been here, holding her. Then, so swiftly, he was gone.

  She peered into the darkness, narrowing her eyes. Surely there was movement, somewhere in the distance? A shadow, a shape. Yes, someone was there. He was still with her.

  "Don't go, my love. Please don't leave me." She spoke without hesitation this time. Her heart was pounding like a racing engine. It was vital not to lose him. He had to understand that she was his. Always.

  That deep laugh again, but no words. She saw the dim shape of a tall man in some kind of tail coat. For a split second, she caught the gleam of something gold before he turned away. And a flash of white teeth as he smiled back at her.

  No need for words. His smile said it all. Wait for me, love. We will meet again.

  She started towards him, arms outstretched to embrace his beloved form. Her questing hands met another rack of clothes, soft, and full, and yielding. But lifeless.

  He had been here, touching her, reaching for her. She could have been safe in his arms. Should have been. But now he was gone. And her heart was empty.

  She clung to the rail, racked by sudden shuddering sobs. Nothing she had suffered could begin to approach this searing emotion, this harrowing sense of loss. As if her heart had been torn from her living body and trampled in the dirt.

  Under her hand, something scratched her skin.

  Beckoning.

  It was ridiculous to think that racks of clothes could call to her, but she was prepared to believe almost anything now. She stroked a hand blindly across the hanger. This was a flimsy gown made of something she could not identify. Fairy gauze? Nothing could surprise her any more.

  She made to lift the hanger from the rail. It stuck. She leaned closer, determined not to be beaten. It had summoned her, so she would have it.

  It smelled of the sea.

  For a second only, and the scent was gone. Then the gown came sweetly into her hands, as if it had leapt from the rail of its own volition. As if it were alive.

  She brought it to her face, to touch, to caress, to breathe in its elusive scent. Her love came with the sea, and this gown was the link.

  The gown's own scent was almost too faint to discern.

  It was not the sea after all. It was lavender.

  ~ ~ ~

  "What have you got there, Emma?"

  She was standing in the passageway, gazing down at the golden lace and gauze draped over her arms. But she had been somewhere else entirely.

  "Emma?" It was Richard, another of the museum curators, one who had begun to feel like a friend in spite of the difference in their ages. "Are you OK?"

  She looked at the golden gown, then at Richard, and then swung round to the wall behind her. Yes, there was a door. No, it wasn't made of mahogany. It was a standard museum door, one she had definitely seen before. It led to the racks where they stored the costume collection in specially controlled conditions. "I…I…I'm fine. It was just this gown. It—"

  His frown evaporated. "Oh, yes. That one. Your predecessor showed it to me once. Shame it's in such a state. It must have been stunning when it was new. What date do you reckon it is?"

  Emma stared at him and then glanced down at the dress. "Er, middle to late Regency, I think. Somewhere between 1815 and 1820." She looked again, really looking this time. Just minutes ago, in the gloom, it had been floating on that hanger like woven gossamer in a summer breeze. But the gown in her arms was little more than shreds of golden overskirts, suspended from a fragile lace bodice and a silken petticoat. One puff sleeve was almost intact; the other was a wreck.

  "I'd have thought it was beyond restoration," Richard said with a knowledgeable nod, "but you're the expert. It would be great if you could put it on display. Regency exhibits always pull in the punters. It's all those Jane Austen fans, I suppose."

  "And memories of Colin Firth in a wet shirt," Emma quipped with a smile, glad to be brought back to earth again.

  Richard raised his eyebrows. Well, he was a man and well past forty. He probably wouldn't understand how that iconic TV adaptation could feed fantasies, more than twenty years on.

  A fantasy? Was that what she'd had? It had seemed so real. You didn't smell lavender in fantasies, did you? Or the sea? Or—?

  She banished the image of white teeth and glinting gold to the back of her mind. She was a serious woman, with an important new job here. And a whole new life.

  "I'm going to have a look at it under the lights in the research room," she announced in her best reliable-colleague voice. "Need the magnifiers to see exactly how bad the damage is. We might be able to do something. You never know." She turned and started along the corridor. Then she remembered how late it was. "There's time before we have to lock up, isn't there?" she called over her shoulder. Richard, as the longest-serving curator, was responsible for locking up the museum at the end of the day. He replied with a cheery wave.

  ~ ~ ~

  She was still examining the gown when closing time actually came. She wanted to weep over it. Under the magnifiers, she had discovered, with a shock, that at least some of the rents were not caused by age or vermin. Some of the gold lace had been cut. Someone – someone out of their mind, surely? – had taken a knife or scissors to this fairytale ballgown and deliberately shredded the overskirt. Someone had wanted to be sure this gown could never be worn again.

  Someone hateful.

  She leaned back in her chair and began to muse on the owner of the gown. The museum had no information about who she might have been. It would have been someone rich, perhaps aristocratic. Young, but not too young. Really young girls wore white ballgowns in those days. This one probably belonged to a married lady. A rich, young, married lady. Was it her husband who had destroyed the gown? Had he found her in some compromising—?

  "Emma?" It was Richard, doing his final rounds to check everything was locked away. "Oh. I didn't realise you still had that gown out." He muttered a curse. "I've locked all the stores." He glanced across at the clock on the church opposite the museum. He was due to meet his wife and baby daughter immediately after work, Emma knew. He wouldn't want to keep them waiting in the cold. It was spring, but the wind was bitter.

  Emma leapt to her feet, conscience-stricken. It would take a good ten minutes to open up the stores again. "I'm sorry, Richard. I lost track. Look, it's about time I took a tur
n at locking up, anyway. Has everyone else gone?" When he nodded, she said decisively, "Fine, well, leave me the keys and I'll finish doing the security checks after I've put this away. I know how to set the alarms. You can rely on me."

  He chuckled. "You do realise you'll have to be first in tomorrow if you have the keys? I thought you weren't a morning person?"

  She smiled at him. "It's amazing what caffeine can do, you know."

  He looked relieved as he tossed her the huge bunch of keys. "See you tomorrow then. Early. Very early." He was still smiling as he left.

  Emma laid the keys on the big round table and sat down again to gaze at the gown. Silence settled. Richard had switched off most of the lights. It was like being on an island of light surrounded by darkness.

  She could smell the sea.

  Rubbish. She was nowhere near the sea. It must be simply that idiotic idea of being on an island. Islands were surrounded by sea, not darkness. So she had fancied she smelt it. Was she going down with something, maybe?

  She touched the back of her hand to her forehead. It felt normal. Well, it would, wouldn't it? You could never feel your own fever.

  Get back to work, Emma Stanley, she told herself. You are supposed to be a sensible, dependable, professional woman. Put the gown away, lock up the building, and go home. You can always check your temperature once you're there.

  It didn't matter if she had a temperature like a furnace tomorrow morning. She was in charge of the keys now. No matter what, she would have to be here early enough to open up.

  ~ ~ ~

  The clock of St Mary's struck the half-hour.

  Shocked back to reality, Emma gasped aloud. How long had she been sitting here in the research room, marvelling at the shredded beauty of the golden gown?

  She shook her head in disbelief at her own strange behaviour. She had won the job of regional costume curator because of her innovative but level-headed approach to planning the future of the collection. Her ideas and passion had persuaded the panel to overlook her patchy employment record. Yet here she was, barely a few weeks into her new job, and without a single level-headed thought in her mind.