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Instead, he could only see an illusion of her true self she had given him to hide her identity. She swallowed and sat beside him, cradli
ng his cheek. Leaning in, she kissed him with all the love she could never express. She kept it soft and light. When he leaned in to deepen it, she pulled away and stroked his lip.
“I will never, ever forget this night. I hope you can remember me with fondness, as well.” Her voice broke on the last word. She tried to look away from him, but found herself hypnotized by his amber eyes. “I’ll miss you.”
Thomas brought her fingers to his lips. “You said I could walk you home. There will be time for good-byes.”
She tensed and blinked back tears. “It will do you no good to know where I live. I dwell far from here. In a place where no one ever sees me. You’ll be no different, even after tonight. But know this: I have always, and will always, love you. Now, more so than before. I wish you and your son all the luck in the world.”
His jaw dropped. “How could you…how do you know about my son?”
Eleanor knew as well as he did that he hadn’t mentioned the child tonight. “I’m sorry.”
She pulled out the device that would help her escape his accusing stare. When he saw what she held, he lunged for it. She jumped to her feet, did two fast turns counter clockwise, and closed her lids. Light flashed, and when she dared enough to peek, she stood in her bedroom, surrounded by all her familiar things.
Yet, in an unfair twist of fate, everything inside her had changed.
Epilogue
Countess Hastings’ Masquerade Ball
London, 1812
One week.
One week had passed since his mystery woman—was her name even Eleanor?—had disappeared in front of him, after letting him know her secret. After punching him in the gut by letting it slip she hailed from his time…and knew him. He’d seen her turn the dial two complete turns, which took her back two hundred years— right before her vanishing act. Thomas hadn’t stopped searching for her yet.
They had unfinished business, he and she.
How dare she lie to him? Make it seem as if she came from the future? Never mind the fact he’d sought to do the same. Somehow, her lies and secrets were different from his. He was a male, and she an innocent. And a woman.
Ladies didn’t go around throwing their virginity away at a moment’s notice. Then again, perhaps she wasn’t a lady at all. He’d made discreet inquiries all around town about any unmarried, gorgeous, twenty-six year old spinsters. He’d gotten lots of odd looks and plenty of rumors circulating, but no damn answers. No one claimed knowledge of any such paragon. All the spinsters were described as dull and boring. And plain.
Not his Eleanor.
I live far from here. In a place where no one ever sees me. You will be no different, even after tonight.
A chill racked his spine, and he gulped another glass of punch. They ought to serve better beverages at these crushes. Maybe then he’d come more often. In all reality, he was here for one reason—he hoped to catch her.
Once he found her, he’d either shake her until her teeth rattled or sweep her into his arms and run away with her until he could find a way to make her want to stay. To make her his in every way. Scotland, perhaps. He had a small estate there he’d been meaning to check on.
But first, he had to bloody find her.
Where would a woman who never got seen be hiding? In the shadows? He searched every corner of the room, but he didn’t see any swishing skirts next to him. Maybe it was as she’d said—she was a tavern wench.
But how would she know about his son? How would she have seen him enough to love him—as she claimed she did?
His instincts screamed no. If ever a true lady had existed, she was it. Why hadn’t he recognized her? He knew all the debutantes. He scanned the ballroom for what had to be the millionth time, searching amongst the flowing couples for a sign of her blonde curls…a tad on the short side. Or maybe a hint of periwinkle eyes crinkled in laughter at something her dance partner murmured in her ear.
He rubbed his neck, amazed that he felt like punching a fictional man in the nose for making Eleanor laugh.
What the bloody hell was wrong with him?
He pulled at his cravat, of a sudden so hot he couldn’t catch his breath. He dodged his way around all the marriage-minded mamas parading their daughters in front of him like prizes. He didn’t give a damn if he acted rude.
He needed air.
***
