Her Time Traveling Duke

One

Oxfordshire, England

Friday, May 1, 1818

Henry Horatio Leighton-Lyons, the fifth Duke of Beresford, jerked his head to one side to avoid the man's oncoming fist-only to bring it in the direct path of the other one.

"Damnation," Henry swore, stepping back and rubbing his nose. The blow had not broken it, of course. His private boxing instructor, Quentin Dunton, pulled his punches.

Dunton grinned. He stood nearly as tall as Henry's own six-foot height and wore his black hair closely cropped, with sideburns. "Better fighters than you have put their nose in front of my left fist."

The former prizefighter never addressed Henry properly as Your Grace. Henry supposed one could not expect that from an American, and particularly one from Boston, the city famous for dumping hundreds of crates of perfectly good English tea into the ocean. At any rate, there was no one else to hear. The two men were sparring in the south barn of Henry's estate. He had converted it into a gymnasium, complete with Indian clubs, climbing ropes, and dumbbells.

Exercise, and especially boxing lessons, provided a distraction. Mornings were the worst: waking up to a world that no longer had his wife in it. Charlotte had been twenty-six when she died. Henry was thirty-six now, and as of today, he'd been a widower longer than he'd been a husband.

"Another round?" Dunton suggested.

"First, let me check the time." Henry had an important meeting soon. He strode to the hook where he'd hung his shirt and greatcoat, drew his gold watch out of his pocket, and clicked open the case. Then he shook his head.

"It is nearly nine. We'll have to end here."

"You are particular about time."

"It is our greatest treasure," Henry said.

A man who lost a fortune might make another one. No man, no matter how diligent or enterprising, had ever made more time to spend with his beloved . . .

But Henry was working on it. He spent long days and nights studying theories and equations, and reading rare texts he'd had translated from ancient languages, trying to work out the secret to turning back the clock.

After both men donned their shirts and greatcoats, they exited the barn and walked the short distance to the great house. With its square stone towers on either side, Everly Park had the air of a castle. Budding rosebushes lined the walkway, rising above the little white starflowers that grew everywhere on the estate.

"I think that's the first rose I've seen this spring," Dunton said, inclining his head toward the mauve bloom with tightly packed petals.

"They call those Early Cinnamons," Henry said, "due to the spicy scent." To Henry's nose, it was incense, rather than cinnamon, that mingled with the fragrance of the rose. Henry knew the name because of Charlotte. She'd had the gardener plant more of them in the center of the knot garden. From spring to fall, when the wanderer came close to the center, the lush fragrance guided him home.

Henry didn't attempt to fill the silence. He'd never acquired the easy manners that anyone might've expected of a duke. Once he'd gotten married, his wife had been the one to keep conversations with others flowing. Henry supposed he had not been the first man to discover that the easiest way to be thought of as a fine fellow was to marry a gregarious wife.

They reached the paved Great Court, where the columns of the Corinthian portico entrance loomed over the visitor.

"I'll miss my rooms here," Dunton said. "Fit for a prince." In Henry's father's time, a prince had stayed in that suite, with its murals and gilded ceilings. Faced with the conundrum of whether Dunton was a temporary staff member or an honored guest, Henry had decided on the latter, given the man's minor celebrity. Dunton had not been born to privilege-his father had been a common laborer, and his mother had escaped slavery-but his triumph over an English champion had earned him headlines and accolades.

"I am glad you found them comfortable," Henry said. "Good luck with the boxing saloon." Dunton had been recruited as an instructor at a new establishment on Bond Street, but its opening had been delayed, which had prompted Henry to extend an invitation to Everly Park.

Dunton flashed a smile. "Perhaps you can tell your friends to become members," he suggested, with typical American boldness.

"I am afraid my friends are mostly astronomers." Colleagues would've been the more accurate word. "They do like to fight, but not with fists."

Henry himself had no remarkable talent for the pugilistic arts. Nonetheless, he did have more than his share of determination. Over the past few months, with Dunton's excellent instruction, he'd made real progress.

Dunton gave Henry a sidelong look. "Why did you want to learn to box?"

"I beg your pardon." Henry wasn't accustomed to anyone asking him why he did anything.

"Who do you want to give a beating to?" Dunton clarified, apparently mistaking Henry's affront for confusion.

Death himself, Henry supposed. "I thought it would be useful to have the skill." His father's words came to his mind. "A gentleman should be capable and competent in every circumstance."

Dunton's suite was in the West Court, and Henry's private quarters were in the center. They shook hands, and Henry wished him safe travels.

As they parted ways, Henry felt a pinprick of regret that he hadn't dined with the man instead of continuing to take his evening meal in the library. But Henry had heard that Dunton had chosen to eat with the staff rather than on his own, and no doubt they'd been more agreeable companions.

Henry passed the state dining room, designed to accommodate forty guests. White cloths protected the furniture from dust. An acquaintance had suggested that Henry should get away for a while. Go to Brighton, perhaps.

And do what? Walk alone on the beach? What could be more dismal?

Henry wasn't going anywhere.

At least his own house held whispers of Charlotte. At the breakfast table, her reading aloud the papers devoted to gossip and scandals. In the library, her telling him about her studies of mythology and folklore. In the bedroom, her clever hands, her lovely body, and her cries of pleasure. Learning how to elicit them had been his most rewarding field of study by far. Those memories were both a torment and a solace, late at night when he lay by himself in the dark.

Now Charlotte was a box full of bones in the cold churchyard, abandoned while the rest of the world ticked on with their lives. But not Henry. His soul carried memories of her like a chalice filled to the brim with wine, ever so carefully, not willing to spill a drop.

By nine thirty, he was washed, combed, clean-shaven, smelling faintly of the American cologne he favored, Caswell-Massey Number Six, and impeccably dressed, from his very white cravat to his gleaming black shoes. In his drawing room, he encountered his butler, Brady, and asked, "Is my solicitor here?"

"I'm afraid not, Your Grace," Brady answered. A wiry man in his mid-fifties, he had been with the family for decades; Henry could remember when the man had had a great deal more hair.

"Well, that is a confounding nuisance," Henry said. "A gentleman is always at the proper place at the proper time."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Do not delay breakfast. He may join me if he deigns to arrive."

Brady retreated, and a maid soon brought a tray of hot rolls, butter, an orange, and tea to the drawing-room table. A minute after that, Brady returned and set down a much less welcome silver tray heaped with letters.

Henry cleared his throat. He rarely made personal inquiries, and felt awkward doing so now. "How is your wife, Brady? Is she well?"

Brady's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You are very kind to ask, Your Grace. She suffered a chill last week after getting caught in the rain, but she has quite recovered."

The Duke of Cumberland had once suggested that Henry's father shouldn't have permitted the butler to marry and occupy the nearest cottage to the house. Then again, the Duke of Cumberland had recently been attacked with a poker by his own valet, so perhaps there was something to be said for indulging one's servants.

"And your daughter-Mary, is it?" Henry asked Brady. "She is also well?"

"Yes, Your Grace, Mary, though we call her Molly. She is very well indeed, thank you."

Henry nodded, having his own reasons for confirming the girl's Christian name. Charlotte had been fond of her, and had spoken once of settling an allowance on her once she came of age, the better to attract a good husband. Henry had recalled this two weeks ago when he'd overheard the butler telling the head housekeeper about his daughter's upcoming eighteenth birthday.

This was why he'd arranged a meeting with his solicitor. It rarely occurred to Henry to do something so charitable, and he found it supremely irritating to be delayed in doing so.

Henry poured a judicious measure of cream into his tea and eyed the daunting pile of letters. "I receive more invitations by the day."

"There are only a few weeks left in the London season, Your Grace," Brady said.

And apparently, society believed the time for grieving was long past. "One would think my lack of a wife was a national emergency."

Brady allowed himself a smile. "I believe that is the prevailing opinion, Your Grace."

Henry had three sisters, all much older than him, with titled husbands and healthy children, whom he'd not seen since the funeral, over two years before. His deceased parents had succeeded late at producing an heir, and his mother had died in childbirth. Henry's title and the estate would go to a male cousin who lived in Yorkshire. Each of his sisters would inherit a small fortune. And a portion would support his new foundation, the World Astronomical Society.

Barring the matter of Brady's daughter, it was all settled to his satisfaction. But he was constantly urged to attend balls and recitals, where unmarried ladies of breeding age could be paraded in front of him.

Henry picked up the card on top. It was an invitation to a ball from none other than Lady Vail, whose last letter he had not answered. He dropped it again as though it were contaminated.

"Lady Vail was one of those shrews who tittered behind their hands about Charlotte," he told Brady. Their spiteful gossip had made its way back to Henry. "Saying that her stone collecting was eccentric, and that she wasn't pretty." Charlotte had told him her own family considered her merely handsome enough, with her straight brown hair, deep-set hazel eyes, and square jaw.

"The duchess was a great beauty, Your Grace, if I may say so," Brady said, with his natural Irish charm. "Shall I tell Mr. Wilke you still plan to meet him in the library at ten thirty?"

Henry sighed. "Remind me, Brady. Why did I hire a painter, again?"

"Because the headquarters of the World Astronomical Society in London will have its grand opening soon, and your colleagues insist it must be graced with your portrait."

Henry hoped that the group would support astronomers, mathematicians, and physicists across the globe, particularly ones with limited personal means, for generations to come. And if the work of one of these fine minds aided his own pursuit of the mysteries of time travel, so much the better.

Brady added, "And an engraving from the portrait can be used in official publications, which will encourage more scientists to join-"

"Yes, yes," Henry groused. "Did I not ask Mr. Wilke to paint the background first?"

"He has already done so, Your Grace."

"Very well. That will be all."

Brady inclined his head and retreated.

Henry found at the bottom of the small pile a welcome letter from a colleague in Padua. He tore it open and scanned the man's new thoughts about light and motion. Neither the handwriting nor the English was good, but Henry was intrigued and tucked it in a drawer of his writing desk for further consideration. Then he composed a reply to the first invitation.

My dear Lady Vail,

I would not have you think that you were forgotten. On the contrary, I often reflect upon those vicious words with which you maligned that paragon and angel who was my wife, and I assure you that I would sooner light myself on fire than spend a moment in your company.

Please accept this expression of my sincere sentiments,

The Duke of Beresford

He folded the note, addressed it, and secured it with red wax and his family's signet seal: a lion showing its claws. He set it on the tray of mail to go out, then headed to his library, leaving the other invitations unanswered.

Any lady would love his title and his wealth, but there could be no one now, in England or abroad, with whom he could share the kind of connection he'd shared with his wife. No matter how many balls, dinners, and recitals he attended, he would never fall in love again.

Two

Rose Novak, the maid of honor, felt a pang of wistfulness as her friends Emily and Griffin kissed on the Grand Staircase of the Chicago art museum, amid cheers, raised cell phones, and applause.

What would it be like to have a man kiss you like that? A good man. Rose had dated plenty of the other kind.

Daniela Huerta, the short, dark-haired bridesmaid next to Rose, leaned closer. "I'm so glad I didn't have to wear shapewear." The bridesmaids, as well as the bride, were wearing medieval-inspired green gowns with scooped necklines and bell sleeves. Naturally, Rose loved the witchy vibe.

"Me too," Rose whispered. Being on the plump side, she probably would have, if they'd been given some kind of spaghetti-strap slip thing. "The last time I did, I had so much trouble getting out of it, I accidentally punched myself in the face."

Daniela snorted. The just-married couple finally came up for air.

Rose stepped forward to give her best friend her bouquet back, murmuring, "That was beautiful. And you look perfect."

Emily's gown had a black bodice and lavish gold embroidery. Only a few people knew that green and black had been the colors of Griffin's noble house, back when he'd been a knight in the early fifteenth century.

Emily gave her a quick hug. "You're the best maid of honor ever." Behind her, Griffin nodded, beaming.

Rose's heart warmed. It always felt good to be able to help.

A petal had fallen from Emily's floral crown onto her dark brown hair. Rose was wearing her own chaotic light brown curls in an updo, out of the way. She plucked the petal out of Emily's tresses and tossed it in the small tote bag she'd turned into a wedding emergency kit.