Living London Read online

  With a sigh, I looked around the room. I needed some coffee, but I doubted they had an espresso machine in London during this era. They would have tea, though, and it would be good tea. The thought of caffeine made the whole day seem brighter.

  I went to the large mahogany wardrobe and searched for something to wear. No jeans, just dresses—a huge assortment of dresses. I searched through them, trying to imagine needing so many types. Back home I'd owned a grand total of five dresses. I missed my jeans, but I couldn't exactly go around in my nightdress, so I found a simple muslin dress that looked suitable for wearing around the house.

  As I started to undress I ran into another dilemma. Regency London was not familiar with my idea of lingerie, boy shorts, or panties of any sort. I glanced around the room once more. I found a chest of drawers and opened each drawer till I found a light shift that looked like a short nightshirt. But I couldn't find underwear, even after searching meticulously. Did they not wear underwear in Regency times?

  In the last drawer, I found a small pair of frilly-looking boxers. Better than nothing. Biting my lip, I decided to look for a bra. To my utter horror, I found a corset lined with stays, ridged and stiff. This can't be happening.

  I resigned myself to wearing the offending article of clothing …somehow. The hippy look of "going free" didn't seem like a wise idea. "In for a penny, in for a pound," I muttered as I pulled it over my head and wondered how I could lace it backward. After some maneuvering and a few comments my Nanna would have grounded me for, I managed it. The empire-waist dress gathered slightly under my bust. Its lightweight material made me feel nearly naked. The garment was feminine and beautiful with long flowing lines.

  For shoes, I found little slippers that reminded me of my ballet lessons as a little girl. Thankfully, these were more comfortable. As I looked through the rest of the shoes, I found not a high heel in sight, which was promising, but no sneakers, either, which was not.

  As I stuck a few pins I had found on the vanity table into my hair, I cursed the inventers of elastic hair bands for being so late in developing their products. But the siren song of caffeine called me, and I left my grumblings behind as I walked out into the hallway of the home I somehow owned.

  It was early. The sun was just rising, so it had to be around five in the morning. I guess time travel is also susceptible to jet lag. As I walked quietly through the halls, I took in my surroundings. Candles burned dimly between the stretches of the morning light, bathing everything in a golden hue. Art hung everywhere, with pictures ranging from flowers to scenes to people. Side tables and sculptures tastefully accented the alcoves, and the ceilings were at least fifteen feet high. The doors leading to other rooms were etched with heavy wood moldings I had only seen in pictures.

  "Wow," I breathed. If I'm going to be stuck in the past, I want to live here. It's beautiful.

  My stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn't eaten in…wait. With a slightly hysterical laugh, I remembered all the times I had complained to my grandmother when I was hungry. But Nanna, it feels like I haven’t eaten for two hundred years! Who knew that some day it would be true? With a shake of my head and a wry grin I continued on my trek to the kitchen. After searching a while, I finally heard the commotion of pots and pans rattling and inhaled the blissful smell of fresh bread. Carbs. At least no one in Regency England was on the low carb diet. It might have killed me.

  I pushed a door open and entered the room filled with smells from heaven. One maid leaned over a pot, stirring something, while yelling at a young boy to fetch some eggs. As I took another step in, all the motion in the kitchen stopped.

  "Mademoiselle Westin?" An older woman with rosy cheeks and a thick French accent spoke to me with a question in her voice and a disbelieving expression.

  "Yes, ma'am," I responded automatically, forgetting the British accent and whatever protocol I should have followed. Should I call a cook ma'am? If not, what do I call her? I should have paid more attention to Nanna and all my Regency romance novels. By the look on her face I knew I hadn’t addressed her correctly.

  Think fast, distract her. "Could I please have some tea and breakfast? I find myself quite famished after yesterday's…ordeal." I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed the rest of the kitchen staff's understanding glances. Next I waited for the cook's response.

  "Oui, mademoiselle. We will serve you immediately. Please accept our sincerest hopes that you are feeling better."

  "Thank you." Somehow the simple words sounded better with a British accent.

  I waited, unsure of what to do or where to go. There was a small kitchen table, but I didn't think the lady of the house was meant to eat there. I needed to find a dining room, but I had no idea where it was.

  Might as well ask. If I was stuck here, I needed people to have a reason for me not knowing very much, even about my own home. The servants would talk—at least they always did in the novels—and everyone would know by tomorrow, but that would work in my favor as well. Here goes nothing.

  "Excuse me, but would someone please direct me to the dining room? After yesterday's incident I am having a hard time remembering… well, anything."

  The cook's eyes widened and she gasped, placing a hand to her cheek as she openly stared at me. Then something shifted in her eyes — she visibly straightened and regained control. "Mademoiselle Westin, you follow me. I will take care of you. Henrietta, bring her favorite breakfast in the family dining room. Bring a pot of hot tea as well. Margaret, continue with the preparations for luncheon, and I will be back shortly, oui?" She nodded and glanced to me. "Come."

  With gentle compassion she opened the door and waited for me to precede her. She walked behind me and gave me discreet directions, down the hallway and to the left, into a moderate-sized room with a beautiful view of what I assumed to be Hyde Park. The carved wooden table had seating for ten. As she pulled out a chair for me, she leaned over to whisper, "Do not worry. Should you need anything, simply ask. It is our delight to serve you, my lady, and that is the truth."

  She left quietly, leaving me alone with my loud thoughts. The room was grand, with dark wooden paneling and wall sconces giving off golden light. As I glanced around, I noticed various similarities to the home Nanna left to me. The realization comforted me.

  Soon Henrietta brought in breakfast on a tray and served me. It was strange to have servants attend me. She laid everything out and curtsied as she left. I blinked hard and gazed around the room again, as if it would all blur and I'd wake up realizing it had all been a dream.

  Breakfast was delightful and far more than I could have eaten in a day. The hot tea, eggs, ham and even kidney pie were incredible. Once I’d eaten my fill, I wandered in the direction of the library, directed by Mrs. Trimbleton. She had balked at my early rising and fussed over my health during breakfast. When she noticed my hair, clothes, and all-around state of disarray, she promptly sent me back to my room and asked Libby, my personal maid, to see to my "toilet," as she called it. Personally, I thought I had done pretty well on my own.

  Libby had tugged ruthlessly on my hair till it obeyed her every whim and was secured to my scalp with at least a hundred pins. A headache was in my future. What was worse, the corset had to be properly laced, as she put it. All the Regency romance novels I’d read didn’t come close to explaining the strangling sensation of being laced up and the futility of trying to get a lung full of air. Apparently, breathing was optional in Regency times.

  Now feeling much more confined, uncomfortable, and poodle-like, I sought solace in my one true love—books. While searching the shelves, I found a Byron I had read before. I was about to sit down when a man entered. "Miss Westin, I'm your butler, Wains." He bowed crisply and proceeded to speak without any expression. "I've been told of your situation by Mrs. Trimbleton, and I'm here to let you know you have a caller. A gentleman caller. Are you at home?"

  I glanced at him, then around the room. "I believe so," I answered, unsure. What a strange question!
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br />   As if sensing my confusion, Wains explained himself. "If I may be so bold, miss?" He continued on without waiting for any consent on my end, and it made me smile. "The gentleman is the one who escorted…or well, carried you home yesterday after your ordeal in the park. A Morgan Ansley, Marqess of Ashby. Do you wish to see him, or would you prefer to tell him you're not receiving callers?"

  I glanced down and bit my lip. On one hand, my curiosity was burning to find out more about this guy. Yet, on the other hand, I was afraid I’d make a fool of myself. Indecision warred for a moment before my curiosity won out. I glanced up. Wains gazed at me patiently until I nodded.

  "Very well, I'll show him into the blue parlor."

  As Wains turned to leave, I remembered I needed directions, or I'd be opening up doors for a week before I found the blue parlor. "Wains! Where is the blue parlor? Could you please show me or give me directions or something?"

  It was humbling asking for directions in my own home, but on the other hand, it was quite impressive to need directions in one's own home because it was that grand. The pride and humility balanced each other out as I followed my tall, thin, and austere butler to the correct room. I settled myself down on the soft settee. Nervously, I crossed my legs then uncrossed them, folding one ankle behind the other, and waited. My fingers tapped with anxious energy, but I stopped my fidgeting just as the door opened.

  Wains allowed the Marquess to enter first, and I glanced down to his boots as they thumped solidly on hardwood floors.

  The boots were a glossy black that contrasted with the tight pants that he wore. Though I had always been an activist against the boys-wearing-girl's-jeans movement, I had to admit he filled them out well, and there was nothing feminine about it. Forcing my gaze away from his muscular legs, I noticed his shirt was blindingly white in contrast to his fitted jacket and perfectly tied cravat. I inwardly grinned to myself at his dress. I had often wondered what a cravat looked like on a gentleman the many times I'd read about it in a book. Now I knew, and it was more than appealing.

  It was a good thing I'd noticed his clothes first. After seeing his face I doubt I'd ever notice anything else ever again. Dark eyelashes framed piercing blue eyes, hooded by an arched eyebrow straight out of photos of New York's fashion week. His lips were full, and the lines around his face gave me the impression that he smiled a lot. His dark chestnut-brown hair was longer than I'd expected—in fact, it was actually quite similar to the style I had recently seen around back home, in my time. The style reminded me of Tom Brady’s hair just before he cut it. As I regarded him, I assumed him to be no older than thirty, but no younger than twenty-five. The broad stretch of his shoulders and the muscular build apparent even through his immaculate clothing were far to masculine and developed for him to be any younger. My lips bent in a grin. Too bad I was unconscious when he carried me home. He was gorgeous, the perfect mix of boy-next-door and tall, dark, and handsome. A sigh escaped my lips before I could stop it.

  His eyes twinkled as he took in my cataloging of his striking presence. My cheeks heated, and I stood up and held out my hand, then pulled it back quickly. People don't shake hands like that! So I bowed, but that felt wrong too. Curtsey!

  My ballet training came rushing back, and I dropped a quick curtsey, then sat back down and hoped he hadn't noticed my inability to properly welcome him in the most basic way. His mouth twitched, and he looked like he was trying to prevent a smile at my expense. "Oh, forget it," I mumbled to myself. "I did that wrong, didn't I?"

  At my shy confession, he burst into a laugh that I couldn't help but join. The fullness of his mirth rumbled in the room and my belly stirred in attraction. He even had a sexy laugh. Be still my beating heart.

  "No, my lady, you were the epitome of grace. It is I who should bow to you and accept your hand should you offer it." His grin faltered. "That is, your hand hand, not marriage, because, well, women don't ask for men's hands in marriage. It's the other way around, and well, I mean to say…" He trailed off, his cheeks getting redder and redder as he fumbled over his words. Gone was the laughter of a moment ago, and I enjoyed the reversal of roles. It was refreshing after the havoc of the past day.

  Unable to allow his embarrassment to continue, I threw caution to the wind and stood up, moving over to him and holding out my hand. "Miss Jocelyn Westin. I'm pleased to meet you."

  As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized another blunder. I was supposed to have known this man already, and here I was introducing myself again. When would anything go right?

  A look of confusion passed over his features before he dismissed it and tentatively took my hand and bowed his head slightly in a gentlemanly fashion. "A pleasure, Miss Westin. I am your servant." His hand felt warm even through my glove sending tingling sensations up my arm. He released me much too soon.

  "Please, sit down," I invited, directing him to the chair across from my settee. A moment of silence passed before I remembered basic hospitality. Thankfully it was universal in any culture. "Would you care for tea, sir?" I offered, wondering how I would get the tea short of yelling for Wains.

  "No, thank you." His words were sincere and his eyes were warm as he watched me. No wonder Mrs. Trimbleton thought I was trying to gain this man's attention. He was handsome and kind. He had nice teeth—a definite plus in this time period. "I was calling to see how you had fared after yesterday. You gave us all quite a scare there in the park."

  "Thank you. I'm much better, only a few lingering ailments." Like losing myself a few hundred years in the past, not knowing anyone I've supposedly known my whole life, and my all-around inability to function in any social setting.

  He nodded and then waited. His eyes searched mine. The intensity of his expression led me to believe he was waiting for me to explain further.

  What now? I groaned to myself. I didn't want him thinking I was incompetent, but at the same time he'd already seen my inability to greet, meet, and welcome him, so how much worse could it get if he knew the truth? At least it would be coming from me and not a servant who'd heard it through the grapevine. By then I'd have no memory at all, or worse as little embellishments attached themselves to the gossip.

  I breathed a frustrated sigh that caused him to raise his eyebrows. Apparently a lady didn't sigh aloud, either. I needed a crash course in etiquette, and quick. First things first, though.

  Here goes nothing. "Well… I do seem to have some memory issues." At least the accent was becoming easier and more natural. Unable to force myself into the famous polite aloofness of the British, I decided I needed to be myself—at least the self I remembered being. "Honestly, I can't remember my own butler's name or where the kitchen is located. I have no idea if I've ever met you or if I even like you. It's all quite frustrating." I accentuated my words with my hands as I'd always done, even as a little girl. I'd never been able to detach my words from my actions.

  Taking a deep breath, I watched a shocked Morgan Ansley collect himself and settle on a brief smile that crinkled his eyes causing them to twinkle mischievously. The grin matched with his killer baby blues was overwhelming and my heart stuttered with fierce attraction. "Forgive me. I don't mean to find humor in your situation, but your speech was quite… entertaining. I haven't seen a woman of breeding display such pass — er, emotion in such an overt way before."

  "I can easily see how I could be entertaining. I often amuse myself, so I took no offense." I waved my hand again slightly, watching his eyes follow my movement. A smile bent his lips, drawing my attention to their fullness once more.

  "To answer your questions — or at least the one I can help with — yes, we've met before. His eyes lingered on mine as if willing for me to remember him. After a moment, he glanced down. When he met my scrutiny once more, his expression was guarded. He didn’t elaborate on our acquaintance any further, which made me burn with curiosity. "I was surprised to see you yesterday, but felt I should impose on your company today to appease my conscience by making sure yo
u were well." His voice rang with sincerity as his gaze roamed my face, but the expression of warmth was quickly extinguished. I tilted my head in confusion.

  "Well, thank you," I replied graciously. "That was very kind of you. Consider your conscience appeased." Something about him seemed oddly familiar, but it couldn't be possible. Shaking my head slightly, I resolved to steer the conversation back to our acquaintance. Anything I could learn about myself would be helpful. "So…" I paused, wondering how I was to address him. Mister? Sir? Lord?

  He must have seen my panic because he immediately reminded me of his name…again. "Ansley, Morgan Ansley. Marquess of Ashby, Miss Westin." His eyes were concerned, but also hurt.

  That had to be hard on the ego. "Oh, no, I didn't forget your name! It's more of, well…" He already must think I’m crazy — might as well make it official. "I didn't quite know how to address you. I know that I should not call you by your first name, but beyond that, I'm afraid I'm lost." Biting my lip, I waited for his reaction, hoping he would find humor in my question rather than politely excusing himself from my company and calling the mental institution.

  His expression softened, and his eyebrows rose. He spoke with a tender tone, surprising me. "Ah, I can see how it would be confusing. You may call me Ashby, or Lord Ashby if you wish." There was not a hint of annoyance or impatience in his eyes, but there was amusement. I studied his face and the masculine line of his jaw.

  My eyes were lingering too long on his strong features. I broke eye contact and took a steadying breath. "Lord Ashby, would you be so kind as to tell me where we first met? If you remember, that is."

  He offered me a charming smile that melted my insides. "We've been acquainted for years, Miss Westin, but I believe the first time I asked you to dance was about a year ago at the Fortshire Ball."

  "I'm envious of your good memory," I remarked, wondering if I should ask more or go against my nature and be patient. Choosing patience, I tried to flirt a bit instead. "Ah…do I dance well?"