Friday, January 5, 2001
Surrey, England, UK

The old estate was hypnotizing.

Hypnotizing in a way that she really didn’t understand.

Perhaps it was the sense of permanence—of deep roots in the past—that appealed to her so much.

Since she had no past of her own.

Trixie lingered at its locked gate, looking over the deserted and abandoned home. It had once been owned by the Duke of Wetherell, back in the Regency era, but the duke had disappeared, without heirs, at some point in his thirties, and was never heard from again. The estate had reverted to the Crown, who had usurped the fields around it and left the home itself to decay.

She stared for a while longer at the moldering stone building, wondering of its secrets, and wishing she could explore the old place.

But soon the chill of the January air seeped through the heavy down coat she wore, and she knew she should return to her flat to get ready.

With a sigh, she trudged up the path that led her back into the heart of the small town in which she lived. She’d lived in this town, as much as she could tell, for most of her twenty-five years. She’d been found wandering as a small child near the apothecary, and her parents had never been found. The owner of the apothecary had taken her to the foundling home, where she’d grown up.

There was a deep, ingrained feeling in her that she was meant for something more than what she currently was—a paralegal working for one of the barristers in town. She enjoyed trying to ferret out mysteries behind the cases on which they worked, but she hated the painstaking research and detail work that was required for her job.

Many times, her friends had urged her, "Go to London and be a barrister! Go work for Scotland Yard!" And a part of her really longed to do that.

But she just did not know how to explain her inability to leave the town in which she was found and the estate that decayed along its borders.

Her last boyfriend, during their break-up fight, sneered and told her she was stuck in the past.

"Stuck in the present is more like it," she muttered to herself.

The walk hadn’t been long, and she soon found herself at the squashed building in which she lived. Trixie unlocked the door and entered the hallway, climbing up the narrow staircase.

"Eh, Trixie!" her downstairs neighbor called as she passed him. "Goin’ to that Twelfth Night party, are you?"

Trixie repressed a sigh. Frank Lytell was easily the biggest gossip in town. He owned the small grocery next door to the building in which they both lived. It was like a ritual for him—to stick his nose out and demand to know what she was doing and where she was going every time she entered or left the building. "Yes, Frank," she said, reluctance heavy in her voice. "I do every year."

"Hmph. Not sure why you’re so hung up on the old Victorian parties," he said with his usual frown.

Trixie didn’t bother to answer him, but continued climbing up the stairs. "It’s the Regency era, you old git," she whispered to herself. "You know, the Regent Prince?" She shook her head as she unlocked the door to her flat and entered. "I thought young people were the ones who were supposed to have forgotten history."

She unzipped her coat, dropping it across the back of her sofa, before she headed into her bedroom, shedding boots and clothes as she walked.

Twelfth Night was the long-ago celebrated last night of the traditional twelve days of Christmas—the twilight before the coming of Epiphany in the church. The night was celebrated somewhat like the famous Mardi Gras celebration—a time of feasting and merrymaking. Each party had a King of Misrule, who was nominated as such by finding a bean in his slice of cake, and he would often appoint a Queen to assist him in his revelry.

Primarily, the celebration had been popular in the Regency era and before, but it was still celebrated in some places, one of which was in her town. The Twelfth Night party was sponsored by the local chapter of the Regency Society of Britain. Each year on the last day of Christmas, January 5^th, there was a huge costume ball at the Sykes’ grand house that stood at the end of town. The Sykes had been squires in Surrey as far back as the Regency era and still owned the largest piece of property, save the Duke of Wetherell’s home, in the village. The current Sykes had continued in the family tradition, in one form or another, and sponsored a Twelfth Night party since the first squire did so when Prince George was still the regent.

They’d given the running of the party to the Regency Society several years ago, which had opened up the ball to a wider variety of people. She’d jumped at the chance to go and scrimped and saved each year to have a ball gown made to wear to the dance.

Several of her friends didn’t understand her penchant for a time in history long gone. Most days, she didn’t understand it herself. She’d never been interested in history. She’d slept through most of her secondary school classes on the wars with France, the colonization of the world and Britain’s finest hour in World War II.

But one mention of Prinny, the Regent Prince? She was riveted.

Trixie took a quick sponge bath in her tiny bathroom, being careful not to dislodge the intricate hairstyle she’d paid 50 pounds for. Then she returned to her bedroom and began the arduous task of fastening the old-fashioned undergarments that went underneath her dress. The first year she’d tried, it had been a disaster, and she’d finally called a friend in desperation to help her with the intricate laces of her corset. But now, she’d learned how to do it herself, even if it did take a while to do.

Then, she gently removed the silk dress from its hanger. The excruciatingly boring fittings she’d had to endure had suddenly all been worthwhile when she’d seen her dress—her perfect dress.

It was, as the others had been, of the simple, elegant Empire waist design, with its low, square cut neck. The beautiful folds of blue silk were adorned with black lace around the collar and small black rosettes that peppered the skirt. The short, puffed sleeves left her arms bare, which she then encased in elbow-length black gloves and finished off with a beautifully made black gauzy shawl. The long train had been tacked up by the seamstress so she wouldn’t drag it through the snow on her way to the ball.

In deference to the weather, she slipped on an old pair of black kid boots and put her slippers, half-mask and beaded bag into a larger leather satchel. Then with a happy sigh, she headed toward the front room, grabbed her evening coat and gloves and then left her flat.

The walk wasn’t particularly short, but her car had broken down the week before, and for some odd reason, she’d been reluctant to ring anyone to ask for a ride.

Trixie hurried quietly down the stairs, careful to avoid the last stair that creaked and usually prompted a visit from Mr. Lytell. She opened the door and stepped out into the cold January night and then stopped suddenly.

A stylish carriage, pulled by four beautiful horses, was waiting in front of her flat. Trixie blinked, but the carriage remained. The crests were covered, and there were no other markings on the elegant equipage.

Upon seeing her, a short, well-built coachman scrambled off of his perch, opened the door to the carriage, and with a flourish, bowed before her.

"There must be some mistake," she said with a little laugh. "I didn’t hire any carriage."

"The carriage has been sent for you, madame," the coachman said quietly. "The time is almost upon us," he said, glancing up at the sky before turning his gaze back to her.

Trixie stared at him uncomprehendingly as if merely by looking, she could pull out of him who he was and where he’d come from. But even as the questions burbled on her lips, they died away. The night had a quality of magic about it. And if the Sykes wanted to send out carriages to the attendees of their ball, well…who was she to deny herself the opportunity?

"You aren’t going to murder me and leave me on a roadside somewhere?" she asked, only half-joking as she lifted her skirts and headed toward the carriage.

"Indeed not!" he said in a shocked, affronted voice. The man helped her enter the carriage, in which she sat gingerly, rearranging her skirts to do the least damage to their silken folds. "Enjoy your ride, Madame Cooper. We should be there soon."

Trixie’s eyes widened as he closed the door. Madame Cooper? Her brief marriage to Scott Cooper had been impetuous and foolhardy in the extreme. He’d been a "bad boy" and appealed to Trixie’s nineteen-year-old reckless spirit. They’d married on New Year’s Eve one year as a lark while she was at university. Five days later, Scott was dead—killed in a motorcycle accident.

She never spoke of Scott, whom she’d mourned more as a tragic loss of life than a beloved husband. She didn’t use his name. No one in the town, not even gossipy Frank Lytell, had any idea she’d ever been married.

An icy tendril of fear crept down her spine. Who was it who had sent the carriage? How did they know about her marriage?

Trixie argued with herself for several minutes, half afraid, half excited over plunging forth into the unknown. But the common sense that had been carefully drummed into her during her life by the orphanage’s directors prevailed.

She was about to lean out the carriage and demand answers when she noticed the carriage had come to halt. She heard a low, murmured conversation outside, and then the carriage began a steady forward pace again.

Unable to contain her curiosity, Trixie peeked out from under the lowered curtain covering the carriage’s window. All she could see was snow piled on a long spread of lawn. The sound that the carriage wheels made as they traveled indicated that they were on some sort of gravel-like path that had been cleared of snow.

A few moments later, the carriage stopped, and then the door was opened. The same small man stood in front of her, a respectful gloved hand held out to help her out of the carriage. After a split-second of indecision, Trixie rose from her seat, bending her head to exit the carriage. She took the man’s hand to descend to the ground and then adjusted her dress, checking to be sure she’d taken everything with her from the carriage before looking up.

Her startled intake of breath was loud in the quiet of the January night. For instead of standing in front of the Sykes’ large country house, Trixie found herself at the doorstep of the Duke of Wetherell’s home. Only…it no longer had the air of being deserted and abandoned.

Warm candlelight lit the windows, and the estate looked neat and well cared for. She whirled around in shock. "I don’t understand," she said with a gasp.

The coachman handed her an envelope of vellum before he tipped his hat and scrambled up to his perch. "Go inside," he encouraged her. "You’re expected."

She stared at him uncomprehendingly for several moments, even after he’d urged the team forward and disappeared toward the back of the estate where, she presumed, the stables were.

Trixie swallowed hard, wondering what to do. Finally, her attention was caught by the envelope the coachman had given her. The seal on it was so ornate and beautiful that she was reluctant to break it. She turned the envelope over and was surprised to find her name written in an elegant hand: Madame Beatrix Cooper.

Her nose wrinkled slightly at the formality of her hated first name, but curiosity overtook her, and she finally broke the seal and read its contents:

The Duke of Wetherell requests your presence at his annual masked Twelfth Night ball, Friday, fifth of January. Regrets only.

Trixie’s eyes widened. "The Duke of Wetherell?" she whispered. "But how…?"

Her shocked meanderings were interrupted by the opening of the door in front of her. A tall, imposing-looking butler stared at her in surprise. "Good heavens, milady," he said, his weathered face showing his distress. "You’ll catch your death of cold out here. Please come inside!"

Trixie suddenly realized that she was quite chilled. The hallway just beyond where the older man stood looked warm and inviting. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her skirts and climbed the short set of stone stairs to the door where the man stood.

Once she entered the hallway, she was struck by the enormous chandelier above, completely lit with candles that lent a golden glow over the room.

"May I take your wrap, Madame?" the butler asked politely.

Trixie glanced at him and then nodded slowly. She pulled her beaded purse, slippers and mask out of her satchel. Under the butler’s surprised look, she quickly traded her boots for her slippers and tucked the boots back in the satchel. She took off her coat and handed it and the satchel to the man. "Thank you," she murmured.

As the butler disappeared into a small room she figured was some sort of coat room, she settled her mask over her face, let loose the train of her dress and adjusted her gloves. She tucked the handle of her beaded bag over one arm and clutched the invitation in the hand of the other.

The butler returned a moment later and then held out his hand. She idly wondered if he expected a tip of some sort when she realized his eyes were fixed on the invitation in her hand. Of course. She blushed a bit as she handed him the vellum envelope.

He took it and gestured her to follow him down the long corridor.

As she walked, she kept pinching herself, wondering what kind of dream she had to be dreaming. The duke had vanished in 1816. The estate was in ruins. No one lived there. How could she possibly be treading across what looked like impeccably kept floors? Or walking past large ornate mirrors that were beautifully shined and sparkling in the candlelight?

At the end of the corridor was a large set of double doors. The butler opened them and gestured her inside. And suddenly, she heard the noise and laughter of a large party.

Curious, Trixie stepped into the room and found herself in the middle of a huge Twelfth Night ball.

Her eyes widened. She stood for several moments, barely able to take it all in. The candlelit room was full of glittering, glamorous people, all dressed in the style of the early 19^th century. The women wore various, deep, richly-colored gowns, many shockingly low for the time. She did not, however, see a single white muslin dress, which Trixie knew was the required clothing for any young woman making her first rounds in society. A small frown etched her brow. Somehow, the Regency Society members had forgotten many of the societal rules of the time. Young, single ladies almost always wore white, not colors.

The butler announced in a grand voice, "Madame Beatrix Cooper" as she walked in. Several gentlemen eyed her with interest. The women with which they were standing gave her a head-to-toe look and dismissed her, turning back to their companions.

Usually, by this time, Reginald Sykes would have bustled over to greet her and made the formal introductions to the two or three single gentlemen who came to the Regency Society. Even the torture of having to make small talk with Reginald’s pets would be welcome now. Trixie felt very isolated and unsure of herself in the large ballroom.

Finally, she shook herself and said in a low, fierce tone, "You wanted to see this place, Trixie, and you’re finally here. Whether it’s a dream or not is irrelevant. Just stop worrying and enjoy yourself." She took a deep breath and began to descend the stairs.

And then she saw him.

The golden glow of the candlelight set off a myriad of colors in his fiery hair—gold, copper, orange and blazing red. He towered over the much shorter guests, and his black set of period evening clothes fit as if they’d been tailor-made for him.

Trixie felt every stay in her corset as she tried to breathe. Where in God’s earth did he come from? Her blue eyes were completely riveted to him, following his progress as he made his way across the room. He looked up at one point, and the deep emerald green of his eyes latched onto her.

Her emotions scrambled to keep up with what her brain was telling her. He was making a beeline straight for her.

Across the Room…

James concentrated on breathing. For really, there was little else he could do. After an interminable Twelfth Night, years of waiting for her arrival, suddenly, she was there. And he had five blasted hours. Only five.

But he could not focus on that. Right now, this moment needed to be savored. He had not ever seen her in the flesh. All he had was the small painted portrait of a child and brief flashes in time described to him by the coachman he’d sent to find her twice before.

His eyes never wavered from her as he made his way across the room. The dress was of a fashion of a couple years’ previous, but it mattered little to him. She was full of luscious curves, and he could tell that her hair was thick, lustrous and wavy, even as it was pinned in one of the severe styles similar to those of the ladies around him.

A strange, possessive hunger stole over him as he neared her. Five hours would not be enough time. Not nearly enough.

And now that he’d seen her, James did not know how he would ever be able to let her go.

The journey across the room was agonizing. He willed her, with the focused stare of his eyes, to stay—to wait for him.

Finally, he reached her, giving her a genteel low bow. "Madame Cooper," he said in a low, husky voice. "I am James Frayne, the Duke of Wetherell, and I am uncommonly pleased to make your acquaintance."

The woman seemed unsure of herself even as she sank into an excellent practiced curtsey. "The pleasure is mine," she said softly. Her blue eyes remained on his, though, staring at him with a frankness that was rare among gently-bred maidens. "But sir…I mean…your grace, I just don’t understand."

He itched to touch her. The fresh, sunshiny smell that she exuded only deepened his hunger for her. James took an impulsive step forward, but checked himself, wary of the eyes around him. Despite the excruciatingly slow passage of time for him, it was merely a party for his other guests. He could not damage her reputation beyond repair.

He’d been warned that he would find her beautiful. But the old man had not told him of this visceral, almost painful pull she would have on him. How the urgency of his quest would strike him in a raw ache just by one look at her.

James shook his head as if to clear it and said quietly, "I’ve the fortune of being crowned the King of Misrule this evening, and I would consider it an honor if you would consent to be my Queen."

He waited impatiently—anxiously—for her response. A spark of mischief lit her expressive blue eyes, and she nodded. James could not help the slow smile that curved his lips. "That is settled, my queen," he said firmly, tucking her arm into his. "And I believe our first act as a royal couple should be to dance a waltz, don’t you think?"

Without really even waiting for a reply, James steered her toward the dance floor, Beatrix’s shorter legs working hard to keep up with his longer strides. His hand slid around her waist. Yes. He grasped her hand in his, even as she placed her other hand on his shoulder. The music began and he started to lead her in a waltz.

"You really need to explain to me what’s going on," she finally said, her voice low and slightly agitated. "You can’t be the Duke of Wetherell. He went missing 185 years ago."

His jaw tightened at her statement. "No, he didn’t."

"What do you mean, ‘No, he didn’t’?" she demanded. "I’ve read about him. He gave a Twelfth Night party that went early into the morning. He was seen in the first part of the evening and then disappeared. No one ever saw him again. There were no heirs. The line died out."

James twirled her around, relishing the feel of her curvaceous body against his, trying to ignore the horrible, painful reality that awaited him if he did not succeed tonight. "He didn’t disappear," he said firmly. "That is to say, I haven’t disappeared." He gripped her hand tightly, looking down at her in challenge. "Do I feel real to you? Do I look real to you?"

Beatrix stared at him in disbelief. "You look real, sir, but you are not a missing 185-year-old duke."

"That would be a 215-year-old duke. If you’re counting from the year 2001," he corrected her.

"What?"

"Regardless, it matters not," he said, using the next turn to bring her body closer to his. Ah, sweet heaven! James struggled to control his breathing. "Here, in the year of our Lord, eighteen-hundred-and-sixteen, I am thirty. Not 215."

"This is only make-believe," Beatrix said in a gentle voice. "A masquerade. A party. It is not 1816."

"I say it is." He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, God," she said despairingly. "The handsomest man I’ve met in years, and he’s insane." Beatrix shook her head. "Why me?"

A well-spring of delight bubbled up in him. He grinned at her. "You think I’m handsome?"

"I said that out loud?" Beatrix’s eyes widened before they closed, a look of embarrassment on her face. Finally, she opened her eyes, pinning him with a fierce glare. "Look, I may think you’re hot, but that makes no difference to me. You are obviously not playing with a full deck if you think it’s 1816."

James struggled with the modern terminology, trying to make sense of her words. He groaned inwardly. He didn’t warn me about the language. "You think I’m a candidate for Bedlam, then?"

Beatrix hesitated before she said quietly, "People are put away for believing things like that." She tilted her head. "I can understand getting into the period costumes, and God…" her voice trailed off with a tinge of awe in it. "…it’s amazing what you’ve done with this old place, but it’s all pretend."

"Hmmm…" he said as he drew her more closely into his arms, attracting dark looks from many of the couples dancing around them. "You say the Duke of Wetherell disappeared in 1816."

"Yes, at a Twelfth Night party like this one," she replied, giving him a careful look.

"And what happened to his estate?"

"It reverted to the Crown," she said promptly.

James managed to keep the scowl from his face—only barely, however. Prinny’s wanted Ten Acres for years. He turned from his brooding thoughts back to the subject at hand. He had very little time to convince her. "And what became of the estate?"

"I think the lands were used for other things," she said slowly. "And the house was…well…left."

James didn’t even want to think of what had happened to his ancestral home in the hands of the British monarchy, but he still persisted. "Left…?"

"To decay…to ruin," she finished, a regretful look in her eyes.

"And when was the last time you saw this…ruin?"

"This afternoon. I stopped by the gates…" Her voice trailed off again as she looked around the room.

James knew what she saw—polished wood floors that gleamed, ancient family portraits hanging on the wall, luminous chandeliers. A home that was intact, whole and breathtaking. Not a moldering, ancient ruin.

"It’s not possible," she whispered. Her eyes lit on his in an accusing glare. "They’ve been renovating it. Repairing it. Making it what it should be."

He gave her a skeptical look. "And you live in the village nearby, do you not? And yet you’ve seen no men working on its repair? Bringing supplies into the grounds?"

Beatrix fell silent, staring at him in disbelief.

"It’s hale and hearty. Just as it should be. Where I am. Where you should be. In 1816," he whispered in her ear.

8:30 p.m.
Friday, January 5, 1816

The dance had ended soon after the duke’s whispered words. Trixie didn’t know what to think. He didn’t appear to be insane, but then what else could she think from his crazy claims that they were, right now, in 1816?

Trixie walked slowly over to the punch table and gratefully took a glass of the ruby red liquid. She took a sip and was surprised to find that it burned deliciously all the way down her throat. Definitely not the normal cheap wine Sykes serves.

Her eyes immediately slid to where the duke was dancing with a rather voluptuous woman, who was plastered to him like a second skin, despite the impropriety. What kind of Twelfth Night party is this?

A man about her own height walked over and took a glass from the servant behind the table and then drank it down with one swallow before he set the glass back down on the table. Trixie glanced at him before taking another sip of her own punch.

"Damned hot in here, isn’t it?" he said by way of greeting.

"It is rather…warm," she agreed. "Especially if you’ve been dancing."

"Danced a quartet with one of the gels over there." He gestured vaguely in the area of a group of women wearing startlingly bright dresses, who looked more like courtesans than elegant ladies at a ball. "I don’t know what Wetherell’s about, asking women like that to this ball."

Trixie frowned a little. "You know him, then? The duke, I mean?"

The man stared at her as if she’d sprouted three heads. "Of course," he said swiftly. "How else would I have been invited?"

"Why…well…I…" Trixie didn’t know what to say. Finally, she settled on a tentative smile. "Have you known the duke for some time, then?"

"Since Aught-one," he said. "We were at Eton together." He then searched her face with a curious look on his own. "You don’t look like someone he would normally go after," he said.

Trixie’s eyebrows raised in an effortless look of frigid surprise. "Go after?"

"Well, he did make you the Queen of Misrule, didn’t he?" The man’s blue eyes were twinkling as he regarded her.

"Yes," she admitted. "But why do you say that about him?"

The man suddenly looked uncomfortable. "I really shouldn’t be discussing Wetherell with you. I…"

"Oh, please," she begged in a lowered voice. "I really need to understand."

He hesitated and then glanced over her shoulder toward the orchestra, which was beginning another waltz. "Why don’t we dance?" he asked, holding out his hand.

She grasped his hand with her own and quietly walked with him out to the dance floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw James dancing with a different woman, equally as voluptuous and equally as beautiful as the previous woman. But she could feel his eyes on them as he danced.

"We really haven’t been formally introduced," he said, keeping her at a proper distance from him. "Terrible oversight on my part."

Trixie looked up at him in consternation. "Oh, right. I’m so sorry. I forget some of these rules sometimes. The introductions and all."

He gave her another odd look before he said, "Yes, well, I’m Farthington. My estate is in Berkshire."

"I’m Trixie…uh…Cooper," she said, faltering over the never-used name. For some reason, caution prevented her from blurting out her real last name. As she was whirled around the room, it occurred to her that the assembly was quite extensive, much larger, in fact, than she’d ever seen it. She had yet to see the Sykeses, which was quite strange, and Trixie found that there was not a recognizable face in the whole assembly. Something was wrong, and she was determined to figure out what exactly that was.

"Cooper…" he said in a leading voice. "I don’t believe I’m familiar with that name. From where do you hail?"

"Right here in town," she said, trying to keep her answers brief and as uninformative as possible.

"In town," he repeated, looking at her with a frown on his pleasant face. "You mean in the village?"

"Yes, yes, that’s right," she said with a bit of impatience.

"And your husband…?"

"He died shortly after we were married," she said brusquely. At his taken aback expression, Trixie realized that she was coming off in a manner she wasn’t intending. A flush started creeping up her cheeks as she said, "My apologies. I…am not comfortable speaking about my husband."

He turned her and shook his head as he did so. "It should be I who is apologizing. I am prying. Forgive me."

"No, please." She gave him a small smile. "We should make a clean slate of it and start again. All right?"

"All right," he agreed.

"So," she said, trying not to glance at James as she was turned again around the room, "you mentioned that I was not normally someone the duke would go after. What did you mean by that?"

Farthington hesitated, glancing over to where the duke was dancing before he said, "You seem like a lady, ma’am. Not a…well…a fancy piece."

"A fancy piece…" Trixie said blankly before realization swept through her. She could feel her face burning brightly. "A fancy piece?" she said in a loud whisper. "What kind of party is this?"

A rather wry look crossed Farthington’s face. "Surely you knew?"

Trixie looked around the room, pieces falling into place. Almost every dance had been a waltz. The men and women danced a lot more closely than what she’d read about being approved of at the time. All of the women were older, most likely all were married or widowed. Trixie turned shocked eyes to Farthington. But she found, instead of being appalled, she was rather fascinated. "I’d heard about these kinds of parties," she said in a low voice. "But I never thought to be invited to one."

Farthington began to chuckle. "You look rather intrigued, madam."

"I am," she replied. Her blue eyes began to dance with mischief. "I say! Being the Queen of Misrule suddenly takes on a whole new meaning at a party like this!"

He laughed out loud at that. "I suspect that it does, Mrs. Cooper. I suspect that it does."

9:00 p.m.
Friday, January 5, 1816

James felt as if the dance would never end. He had politely asked women at his ball to dance—for he was, if nothing else, a polite host—and each woman had taken it as an invitation to something more.

He glared daggers at his old friend, who was currently squiring Beatrix around the floor. He had so little time. The clock was rapidly turning toward midnight, and he had been forced to do what was expected of him and dance with his female guests, while Farthington had immediately gravitated toward the one woman on whom his future relied.

God knew what the idiot was telling her about him.

Finally, the strains of the music came to an end. He gave a short, shallow bow to the woman he was dancing with and murmured something noncommittal when she suggested he "misrule" her somewhere else in his home. James quickly escorted her to a group of her friends and made good his escape.

He tried to walk in a nonchalant manner back over to where Farthington was talking quietly with Beatrix, but he rather thought that he was rushing, as eager as a schoolboy.

"Wetherell," Farthington greeted him with a nod of his head and a knowing look on his round face.

"Farthington." He bared his teeth at his friend in something resembling a smile. James itched to push the man backward bodily. He had to talk to Beatrix. He was running out of time, and the man was keeping him from doing so. He suppressed the urge, chalking it up to nervousness of how his time was running out. James was not willing, however, to admit to himself that the huge snarling beast inside him had anything to do with jealousy.

He turned to Beatrix with a gentler look and smile, bowing with a gentlemanly flourish. "You appear as if you have enjoyed yourself dancing, Mrs. Cooper."

"I have, your grace," she replied with a smile of her own. "Lord Farthington, especially."

James slanted a dark look at Farthington, whose smile merely grew larger.

"I thank you for the compliment, Mrs. Cooper," Farthington replied, his blue eyes twinkling. "But it is I who have enjoyed myself the most, I believe."

"I thank you," Beatrix replied with a curtsey.

How absolutely adorable. James was ready to throttle both of them. His emerald eyes narrowed. "The supper dance is about to commence. Would you do me the honor?"

Beatrix looked up at him, laughing, but something that must have shown in his expression stopped the laughter on her face. She stared at him for a moment, took in a breath and then nodded.

As James took her arm, he glanced over at his friend, whose face was positively gleeful. James glowered at him as he led Beatrix out to the dance floor.

The strains of another waltz began, and James started to wonder if the great Creator of the Cosmos had a vendetta against him. The slightest brush of her hand in his, even through their gloves, sent a wave of heat through him. He had never felt this level of primitive possessiveness before. Events were spiraling so quickly out of his control that he knew not what to do.

Beatrix raised her eyes to his, looking at his face in speculation. "Lord Farthington mentioned that you went to school together."

"Yes," he replied, barely paying attention to the words, as he was concentrating solely on the way her curvaceous body felt against his. "We were at Eton together."

"The class of Aught-One," she mused. "I suppose that means 1801."

He glanced down at her. "Yes. 1801." His lips quirked upward. "Do you suppose we finished Eton after two hundred years in the first day or two of 2001 instead?"

"Not unless you were both incredibly stupid students," she retorted.

A grin flashed across his face. "Well, perhaps Farthington."

Beatrix gave him a long look. "I thought Lord Farthington was very nice, and he certainly didn’t seem stupid at all."

James hid a frown as he whirled Beatrix in a circle. "Is that all he told you? About Eton?"

"No," she replied. Beatrix peered up at him through her lashes. "He also expressed surprise that I would have been invited to a Twelfth Night party such as this one."

Damn. "Farthington talks too much," James muttered.

"Oh, I thought he talked just the right amount," Beatrix said cheerfully.

"You do, do you?" he replied with a sigh. "Why am I not surprised by this?"

"So, which of these fancy pieces will you be spending the night with?" Beatrix asked politely, her blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

James looked at her in shock. "Pardon me?"

"No, I won’t pardon you," she replied, still in the same, damned cheerful tone. "I’ve never been to party full of fallen women before." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Speaking of that, do I qualify as a fallen woman?" She leaned in closely to him and whispered, "I have slept with a man before. Does that help?"

A strange mixture of exasperation, laughter and desire pulsed through him. James executed another neat turn, trying to think of an appropriate response to her outrageous question. Were all futuristic women like her? God help the men of 2001.

"Cat’s got your tongue, does it?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.

"No," he retorted. "I’m trying to find an adequate response and failing miserably."

"Well, you let me know when you’ve found one," she replied with a merry smile.

James wondered again exactly what he’d gotten himself into. Even as he struggled to find a way to respond to her sallies, he found that he was enjoying himself immensely.

Finally, the last notes of the music died away. As Beatrix fell gently into a curtsey, he bowed and then tucked her arm in his and led the way to supper.

His chef had outdone himself again that year. The table groaned with a variety of succulent dishes from roasted chickens to potatoes and puddings. Every kind of delicacy one could hope for or imagine.

But even as he seated Beatrix and returned to the table to fetch the two of them plates of food, he barely even noticed what he was putting on each dish. His mind churned anxiously as he tried to determine what he was going to say and how he would say it. It had been difficult for him to believe the truth when it was first presented to him. How would Beatrix’s reaction be any different?

He repressed a groan as he made his way through the throng of his guests to return to the table where Beatrix waited for him. He had to think of something. And quickly.

11:00 p.m.
Friday, January 5, 1816

The din in the large room was loud, but Trixie found that it was as casual as any other large party she’d been to. The masks everyone wore seemed to promote a sense of unbridled freedom among the guests. She didn’t consider herself a prude, but she had to admit she was rather shocked at the expressive displays of affection going on about her. Many couples were kissing openly; others were using the crowded room as an opportunity to caress their partner as well. She wondered if the Regency era balls had truly been like this. Trixie took a sip of wine, trying to ignore the gnawing sense of disappointment growing inside her. Somehow, she had pictured the environment being much more like Pride and Prejudice than Peyton Place.

Pride and Prejudice brought to mind the famous Mr. Darcy. She wondered if he’d been half as handsome as the Duke of Wetherell. Trixie swallowed a piece of chicken, barely daring to look at the striking, virile man sitting next to her. For Trixie, time seemed to stand still. She barely heard the din of conversation around her. All she was aware of was the heat of his body brushing up against hers and the deep hum of connection she felt with him.

She wished words would come, but she suddenly felt shy and awkward. Farthington’s words played in her head, and she couldn’t get the thought out of her head. Why did he ask me to this ball?

For James, however, time was slipping through his fingertips—rushing him toward what seemed to be its foregone, predetermined conclusion.

And knowing her laughter, the feel of her lush curves against his body and the sight of a glimmer of shared mischief in her eyes was going to make his endless Twelfth Night a new level of hell for him.

He pulled out his timepiece from his pocket and tried to repress a groan. Eleven o’clock. He had one hour to convince her. Only one.

James tried to repress his panic and leaned over to Beatrix, asking in a low voice, "Are you finished eating?"

Beatrix popped the last bite of her Twelfth Night cake into her mouth, chewed it with every expression of enjoyment, swallowed and then gave him a wide smile that lit the blue eyes sparkling under her half-mask. "I am now."

Despite his agitation, James could not help but chuckle. Never had he seen a young lady attack life with the enthusiasm that this one did.

He got to his feet to pull out her chair, forcing the men who were seated at the table to rise as she got to her feet. A soft smile curved Beatrix’s lips, and she motioned for them to return to their seats.

James gently grasped her elbow and began to steer her toward the back of the room, rather than through the ballroom from which they’d come.

"Where are we going?" she asked under her breath as they weaved through the tables, nodding and smiling at people they passed.

"Somewhere private where we can talk," he said quietly.

Near the back of the room was a small door. He stopped her in front of it, taking a quick look around the room at the other guests before he grabbed a lit candlestick from the table and slipped a key from his pocket, unlocking the door and propelling her through it.

James closed the door behind him, turning the lock and replacing the key in his pocket.

The only thing inside was a winding staircase. Beatrix looked at him, a question in her blue eyes. "We go up?"

He nodded. Then, he hesitated, long-drilled manners dictating that he wait on her. She gestured him toward the staircase with a dry look on her face. "You seem to know your way around here much better than I do. Plus, you have the candle."

James looked down at the candle as if seeing it for the first time. With a sheepish look, he began his ascent up the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Beatrix followed him. She picked up her skirts, carefully making her way up the stairs behind him. James kept climbing slowly, trying to concentrate on what exactly he would say to her once they reached a quiet place where they could talk. But the words wouldn’t come. All he could think about were the minutes that were ticking away as they walked up the stairs in silence.

Finally, they reached the second floor and another door which led to his chambers. He unlocked the door and held it open, letting Beatrix precede him into the room. She entered the room and then stopped still, nearly forcing him to run into her.

"This is a bedroom," she said.

"Yes," he answered her in a careful tone of voice. He moved around her and over to the lamps on the hearth, lighting them from his candle. "It’s my bedroom."

"Exactly what do you think is going to happen here?" she demanded, her eyebrows rising to her hair.

"Nothing untoward," he assured her. At her continued skeptical expression, James said desperately, "I need to explain to you. I need to make you understand." He gestured toward an elegantly carved chair that had been his grandmother’s. "Please. Sit."

Beatrix gave him another suspicious look, but took the chair he indicated. He did not sit himself, but began to pace around the room, ever conscious of the dwindling time.

"I wonder where I should begin." He gave her a distracted smile before he resumed his pacing. "This will seem so very fantastical to you." James broke off and shook his head. "Perhaps I should just begin, as they say, at the beginning." He took a deep breath and said, "My parents both died of a fever when I was ten years old," he said in a low voice. "I was an only child with no siblings, and I suddenly became a duke. A title and position I didn’t want."

Beatrix’s face softened. "I’m sorry," she whispered.

He nodded shortly, acknowledging her words, but turned quickly again to his tale. "My father, fortunately, had been very astute in his choice of a steward. Simon Sutton successfully kept the estate safe, even prosperous, while I completed my schooling and attempted to learn exactly what being a duke meant.

"When I came of age, Simon worked with me to ease me into my role as duke. By the time I turned thirty, I felt in good command of my properties, my seat in the House of Lords and all the other responsibilities to which my dukedom entitled me. I owe Simon a good deal."

"He sounds like a wonderful man," Beatrix said.

"He is," James replied simply before returning to his narrative. "Things were going quite smoothly until about a week ago." The thought of what had happened just after Christmas still had his heart pounding with anxiety. "We had just finished celebrating Christmas. My few family members were in residence for the holiday and were planning on returning home the following day." His eyes darkened in remembrance. "A solicitor came to visit me. He was an elderly man. So elderly that I thought one good wind would finish him off. I thought perhaps he had some legal documents that related to my great-uncle’s estate, which had recently suffered some crop losses."

James stopped at this point, taking a deep breath and running his hand through his copper hair. Beatrix gestured at him. "But he wasn’t there for that reason?"

"No," James said flatly. He raised his emerald gaze to meet her blue one. "He told me that I had been betrothed to a little girl…hardly more than a baby…the year my parents died."

Beatrix’s eyes rounded. "Betrothed? As in engaged to be married?"

"Yes."

"But you were only…what…ten? When your parents died?" Beatrix looked at him, horrified. "How could they tie you to a little baby? And what possibly could her parents have been thinking?"

A smile quirked on his lips at that. "’Tis a rather common thing in our time—betrothals arranged by parents."

"Not a common thing in mine, I will tell you," she said stubbornly. "You wouldn’t catch me standing for some sort of nonsense like that."

"Ah, but therein lies the rub," he said quietly. "’Tis you my parents betrothed me to."

James hadn’t been certain what the young woman’s reaction would be to his revelation, but he found himself rather impressed by the arousal of her temper.

"What?!" she demanded, jumping to her feet.

"That, my lady, was precisely my reaction," James said dryly.

"That is ludicrous. I live in the 21^st century. I’ve never known my parents." She stared at him in incredulity. "I’ve been married to someone else. You can’t possibly think…"

"Consider my situation," he retorted. "A 30-year-old duke who was betrothed to a baby as a ten-year-old. And not only is he betrothed to this child, but the child, now woman, had been stolen from her parents at the tender age of three."

Beatrix’s eyes, if possible, grew wider. She sank back into the chair and just stared at him.

"Imagine if you will, being confronted in your study by a very old man, who produces a document of which you’ve never heard, informing you that you are engaged to be married. The little girl from the time in question had been stolen from her parents for nefarious purposes unbeknownst to them, and the elderly man believes the little girl was transported nearly two hundred years into the future and left there."

"He’s mad," she whispered.

"Precisely what I said. Vociferously. Several times." James began to pace again. "I rang for Manton to throw the man out." He stopped and turned to look at her, a haunted look in his emerald eyes. "And then the man said something I will never forget."

Trixie leaned forward, her eyes riveted on him. "What did he say?" she demanded.

"’On Twelfth Night, your time will align with hers. You will have until midnight to convince her of the truth of my tale and to return. If not, you will disappear, never to be heard from again.’"

Beatrix had paled at his words, gripping the arms of her chair as she gazed at him in horror. "I don’t understand."

His hands shook a little as he tried to put words around this terrible curse with which they’d both been stricken. "In 1816, Twelfth Night is a Friday. Apparently, for some reason, when Twelfth Night is a Friday, a chasm opens in time." He took another deep breath and continued, "On that night, I am able to visit any other time where Twelfth Night is a Friday."

"Time travel?" she asked, a dumbfounded look on her face. "You must be joking."

"I wish I were," he said, his voice growing desperate. "You were kidnapped and taken from your parents in January—a year where Twelfth Night was a Friday—and you were deposited into the year of 1979." James ran his hands through his hair, wondering how to make the story any less outrageous to her ears.

"This is mad," Beatrix whispered. "You’re insane."

"I feel as though I am," he muttered. "After Manton all but threw the man out of my home, I went back to my life as normal. My relatives returned to their homes, and I threw my annual Twelfth Night ball on the 5^th of January."

"On a Friday," she said, her eyes locked on his.

"On a Friday," he repeated grimly. "And I have not left Friday, January 5, 1816 for a very, very long time."

"So…you mean to tell me that you’re reliving the same day over and over again," Beatrix said slowly.

"Yes," he replied. "And I have visited every Friday, January 5^th between 1816 and now 2001." He shook his head. "I didn’t even find you until the year we reached 1979."

"But if you found me in 1979," she asked, "and I was supposedly kidnapped from 1816, why didn’t you bring me back?"

"I didn’t," he replied, "because you were still a child. You weren’t kidnapped in 1816. You were stolen from your parents in 1798. I had to wait until you were as close to the age you should be in 1816 as possible."

"This makes no sense." She squinted her eyes and peered at him closely. "You’re drunk, aren’t you? You’re making all of this up."

"No, I’m not," he snapped. "I’m telling you the truth. On a certain Friday, January 5^th—Twelfth Night for us both—our times collide. You were deposited into the year of 1979—a year where January 5^th was also a Friday, also a Twelfth night. I had a Twelfth Night party on Friday, January 5^th in 1816—a party which I am forced to attend in one long, horrific, never-ending evening until I can convince you to return with me to 1816. I can send my coachman after you in any year in your present in which January 5^th is a Friday—to try to bring you back."

Beatrix stared at him, dumbfounded, for several seconds before she swallowed and said hoarsely, "Let me get this straight. I was…stolen…from my parents in the 1800s..." She noticed his intention to interrupt her and corrected herself, saying, "…in the late 1700s, and I was brought to 1979 for some strange, terrible purpose of which you do not know. And this man has…what…pronounced some sort of curse on you until you bring me back to 1816?"

"That covers it rather succinctly," he said tightly.

"And how, exactly, are you supposed to get me back to your time?" she demanded. "Do you have some special time machine? Some magic wand of some sort?"

James closed his eyes, wishing he had a machine or a wand—anything where he would not have to say the next words to the woman in front of him. "We…" The sudden dryness of his throat nearly choked him. He cleared it, saying in a rough voice, "We have to honor the betrothal."

"We have to get married?" Beatrix looked at him as if he were crazy.

He felt insane—as if he were running off the edge of a cliff with no wings with which to fly. "I…well…we have to honor it. I have to agree I will marry you, and you have to agree…"

"…that I will marry you."

James was amazed at the rapid-fire of emotions that flashed across Beatrix’s face. The one that settled was the one he liked the least. A mocking, cynical one.

"Marry you," she repeated. "So, we have to go to a courthouse and get married?" Beatrix demanded. "How exactly do you propose to do that? If what you say is true, and we have to get married by midnight, we have to find a person to marry us. You supposedly disappeared in 1816, and they certainly aren’t going to believe you are who you say you are in 2001. And I supposedly disappeared in 1798. How are you to convince anyone that I am who I say I am in 1816?"  She shook her head. "This is insane."

"I didn’t say we had to get married immediately," he countered. "We have to sign the betrothal agreement."

"The betrothal agreement…"

"Yes." He got up and retrieved a parchment from his dresser and returned. "You just need to sign this. I’ve already signed my agreement to it."

Beatrix took the paper from him, glancing at it before turning suspicious eyes back to him. "This is madness. I sign some paper, which, in your time, basically gives away all my rights to you." At his chagrined look, she gave him a grim smile. "I work in the legal profession, your grace, and I am well familiar with old betrothal agreements from some of my classes at university. I sign, you get my dowry from my parents, and you give them a settlement. And it’s very difficult for me to get out of this without a huge scandal."

"It wouldn’t be like that," he said firmly.

"No?" Beatrix shot back. "And how would it be? Even if this were true, which I don’t believe it is, how am I to survive in 1816? Where I know no one but you? I have no clothes, no money, no family and no friends. If I broke off an engagement with the Duke of Wetherell, I wouldn’t be received in polite company." Her blue eyes narrowed. "And because I’m a widow, everyone would speculate that you’d slept with me and tired of me. They’d be congratulating you for escaping my money-grabbing clutches."

Ice coated his insides at her words. "No," he said hoarsely. "That’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t do that to you."

"You wouldn’t have to. The people in the Ton would do it for you," she said angrily. "And that’s if this cock-and-bull story were true in the first place!" She shook the betrothal agreement at him. "What does this really mean? What are you asking me to sign?"

"I told you. It’s a betrothal agreement," he said, wondering frantically how he’d derailed his quest so quickly.

Beatrix glanced again at the document, scanning its legalese. "Is this some kind of joke?" she demanded. "Did someone put you up to this?" Her face paled. "You set all of this up, didn’t you? You found out that I loved this period of history. You sent the carriage and set up the ball. And it was all a lie." Her fury was a sight to behold as she rose from her chair and stalked over to him, pushing against his chest. "You knew I was an orphan. And you used that to tempt me?"

"No, Beatrix," he said desperately.

"Don’t call me that," she said in a low, shaking voice. "You used me. You tricked me. All for a good laugh." Her blue eyes blazed at him. "You men are all alike. All of you!" With that, she stomped over to the door and threw it open.

"Please, I implore you!" James ran after her, hurrying down the dark hallway. He grabbed her arm. "Beatrix, please."

Beatrix shook off his grasp and leveled him with a furiously cold stare. "Don’t touch me."

Within a few minutes, she’d reached the hallway, disappearing past a shocked Manton into the coat room to retrieve her coat and boots. James followed her, trying to keep her from leaving. "Please. Just talk to me. I can explain."

"Oh, you’ve explained well enough, your grace," she bit out. "I don’t want any more explanations from you. Not now. Not ever!" With that, she wrenched open the door and stepped out onto the porch.

James tried to run after her, but it was as if he’d dashed head-on into a brick wall. He stumbled backwards, falling to the floor.

Manton hurried over to him, a distressed look on his face. "What shall I do, your grace?"

"There’s nothing you can do," he said in a defeated, resigned voice. "Not until 2007."

Outside…

Trixie strode angrily down the pathway toward the gate that led back to the village. "Who the hell does he think he’s dealing with? All his pretty promises and his beautiful party…all stupid male lies." Her pace began to slow when she realized he was no longer following her. "How could he do that to me?" she said to herself, tears welling in her blue eyes as she walked. "What is it about me that men just want to get something from me? To make a joke of me? Can’t it ever be something more? Something romantic? Something…lasting?"

She stopped in front of the tall iron gate, thinking forlornly of her sojourn there just a few short hours before. That time, she’d desperately wanted to see what was on the other side of the gate. This time, she knew what lay beyond the gates, and she couldn’t wait to return to the village. Back to what was real. Normal. Sane.

Trixie grasped the handle of the gate and pushed it down. And before her eyes, the strong iron bars in front of her began to disintegrate. A deep orange rust traveled up from where her hand grasped the handle.

With a little squeak of shock, she let go of the handle, and the rust vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

She stared at the gate for several moments and then grabbed the handle again.

Again, the rust began to travel up the iron bars, decaying and destroying as it went. Trixie yanked her hand away again, breathing heavily. "Oh, my god," she whispered. "Oh, my god."

And James’ hoarse, terrible words replayed in her mind.

On Twelfth Night, your time will align with hers. You will have until midnight to convince her of the truth of my tale and to return. If not, you will disappear, never to be heard from again.

"The Duke of Wetherell disappeared in his thirties," she said to herself, panic and agitation filling her. "But that’s insane. He can’t be the real Duke of Wetherell."

Trixie stared again at the gate. She gingerly touched one of the bars and felt her finger start to sink into the iron. With a pathetic little scream, she wrenched her hand back.

Her mind was in complete turmoil. Ever since she’d stepped into the ballroom that night, she’d felt as if she were Cinderella. There was something magical about the ball, the dance and the man who had crossed a crowded room to get to her.

She closed her eyes in an agony of indecision. You promised yourself you’d be cautious.

Scott had died in a reckless, senseless accident that had made her determined to give up the wild way she had been living. She’d buckled down and become successful, hard-working and a well-liked member of society.

Who never fit in and never felt free.

"But who says that he offers freedom?" she whispered.

Dresses, painful hairstyles, God knows what kind of diseases…an unfriendly society where women were second class citizens who couldn’t even vote…

Trixie took a deep, shuddering breath. "It can’t be true."

But the bars belied her words.

She opened her eyes and looked back toward the house—a house that would be hers if she agreed to marry him. A place that would be home. A home with him.

Trixie dwelled for a few moments on the duke’s easy smile and his handsome, freckled face and the glorious mane of fiery hair atop his head. He was so quick-witted and fun to talk to. And he’s an orphan, too, her stubborn brain reminded her.

The thought of that man disappearing—for all time—grieved her suddenly in a way Scott’s death never had.

Before she even realized what she was doing, Trixie had picked up her skirts and turned, taking off in a dead run back for the house. She reached the porch and grabbed the handle of the door, desperately willing for its gleaming knob not to rust before her eyes. Miraculously, it stayed firm under her fingertips.

Trixie pushed open the door, bursting into the hallway, where she saw James sitting on the floor, his head in his hands, despair resting heavily on his shoulders.

"James," she said urgently, snatching one of his hands with hers.

He looked up in shock. "Beatrix?"

"What happens if I leave?" she asked.

"You return to your life," he said carefully, his eyes searching her face.

"And what happens to you?"

"I stay at this party. Until I can try to contact you again."

"When? When can you contact me again?"

"In 2007," he said. "When January 5^th is a Friday again."

"And I age?" she demanded, even as she tugged him to his feet.

"Yes," he said quietly.

"And you don't?"

His eyes met hers and she realized the truth of what he said. He would be doomed to forever be thirty, stuck at a Twelfth Night party, while she lived out a half life in the present. Never knowing how it would have been with him. Never knowing what reckless adventure lay ahead in her return to the past.

Trixie looked over his face, so grave and solemn, still covered with his gilded half-mask. And suddenly, she knew that whatever might lie ahead, no matter what dangers they might encounter, she wanted to face them with him. She tightened her hand around his. "Come on," she said urgently. "We don’t have much time."

James looked thunderstruck for a moment before he finally was galvanized into motion. Keeping Trixie’s hand clasped firmly in his, he dashed off toward the stairs, back down the darkened hallway toward his room.

The lamps they’d left burning were still flickering on the mantle, lending a soft golden glow over the room. Trixie tried to calm the butterflies in her stomach, wondering if this all could possibly, truly be real.

"Are you certain?" he asked huskily.

She hesitated and then looked up at him, her wide blue eyes honest and rueful. "Is anyone ever certain?"

"You…" He swallowed hard, forcing himself to hold her gaze. "You don’t have to do this."

Her face gentled and she smiled. "I know."

Trixie strode over to where the parchment lay on the floor and picked it up, placing it on the small writing desk he kept in his room. "Do you have something to write with?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at him in inquiry.

Silently, he opened a drawer, picked up the bottle of ink and removed its stopper and handed it to her. Then, he pulled out a quill and nib and handed those to her as well.

She looked at the quill blankly for a moment before she laughed weakly. "Oh, my god. A quill." She looked ruefully at him. "I suppose I’ll have to learn how to do this, won’t I?"

The process of her attempting to write with the quill would have been humorous if they both had not been so painfully aware of the time ticking away. A few splatters of ink later, Trixie had managed to sign her name.

"Beatrix Belden," he read over her shoulder.

"That’s my real name," she said firmly. "My legal, full, real name. It’s the only thing I remember from my past." Trixie set the quill down and looked at him. "What happens now?"

He shrugged, looking as hesitant as she felt herself. "I don’t know. I’ve never succeeded before."

Trixie looked at him for a moment and then reached up with a gloved hand, caressing the edge of his mask. "I haven’t even seen your whole face," she murmured with a little laugh.

In response to her words, he tugged off the gilded mask and tossed it carelessly to the floor. "Better?" he asked.

Her blue eyes searched his face, noting its strong masculine lines and sensuous lips. Her mouth went a little dry. "Much," she said huskily.

"And yours," he said. "I want to see your face." Before she could even grasp the mask, he reached forward and pulled it off, his emerald eyes hungrily roaming her newly exposed face.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

The words were loud in the quiet of the room. But for Trixie, they seemed so right. She suddenly wanted, more than anything, to feel his lips on hers. Even if the whole night was a huge farce and she became a laughing stock, she wanted to know what his kiss felt like.

James tugged off his gloves, tossing them aside. She mimicked his actions, freeing her hands from the covering of their long, black encasings.

If she’d thought his touch was electric when his gloved hand had grasped hers, she was totally unprepared for the stroke of his lean, strong fingers against her bare skin. He caressed her cheeks, her forehead and even the short, stubborn slope of her nose. Then, he brought his face to hers, hesitating briefly as he rubbed his thumb along the fullness of her bottom lip.

Trixie closed her eyes, amazed at the sensations that shot through her at the simple touch, and thus was not prepared for when his lips closed over hers.

His kiss began a slow torment of agonizing desire in her. He nudged her lips open and deepened the kiss, and the desire increased sharply, overwhelming her. The more he kissed her, the more she wanted. She pressed her body against his, completely consumed by the need to be as close to him as possible.

His hands roamed down her back to cup her rear end, pushing her even more closely to him, before James finally broke off, letting his forehead fall against hers, his breathing harsh and ragged. "Beatrix," he whispered. "My Beatrix."

Her eyes met his. Her name had never sounded more beautiful.

And then, the clock struck twelve.

James awoke, but was reluctant to open his eyes. Every day had been the same. His valet opened the door and brought him a morning cup of coffee, freshly brewed. And a copy of the Times would have the news of the day there in front of him.

The news was always the same.

He heard the creak of the door, and a moment later, his valet entered the room, pulling open the curtains, light streaming in from outside. James could hear the tinkle of the china as Tregarth settled the tray at its usual place on the table near his bed.

"Good morning, your grace," Tregarth said in his usual brisk tone. "Breakfast will be ready soon." With that, he left the room.

James finally gathered up the courage to open his eyes…

…and found himself alone, again, in his bed.

A swift wave of pain washed over him. "It couldn’t have been a dream. It was real."

James turned over, shutting his eyes, as he replayed images of Beatrix in his head. Her blue eyes had lit with a fire he knew had to have been mirrored in his own. The reality of her lush curves had far exceeded his imagination. She was sensuality embodied. The silky texture of her hair, the delicious wantonness of her mouth…

It wasn’t fair.

A sense of hopelessness pervaded him. How would he survive six years more until he saw her again?

He heard the door open again, and he tugged the coverlet more firmly over him as he said in a miserable tone, "Go away, Tregarth."

"Who’s Tregarth?" a very feminine voice demanded.

James’ eyes flew open, and he sat up, looking over in shock to where Beatrix stood in the doorway of the long unused duchess' room, wearing her rumpled dress from the night before, looking tousled, sleepy, and frankly delectable.

It took him a moment before he found his voice. "Beatrix?"

Her grin began to spread across her face. She ran over to the table and grabbed the newspaper, waving it in his face. "January Sixth, 1816. We did it!" she yelled happily and jumped onto the bed, her face only inches from his own.

James took the paper from her and glanced at it, not willing to believe until he saw it with his own eyes. "By God," he murmured incredulously. "We did it."

Beatrix grabbed the paper from him and tossed it aside. "Ah! I can’t believe it! I’m in 1816!"

"Are you sorry?" he asked, an anxious look in his emerald eyes.

She hesitated before she replied, "I’m sorry for my friends—and my boss—who will never know what happened to me." But then she said, "But being with you?" She shook her head. "I’ll never be sorry for that."

He gave her a small smile. "I’ll try to make it up to you." He slanted a glance at her and said, "I’ll even call you Trixie, if you want me to."

She glanced at him a little shyly. "When you say Beatrix…well…I must admit it’s growing on me."

James felt a sudden surge of joy unlike any he’d ever known. He wanted to hug her—to be with her as intimately as possible. Down, boy, he chastised himself. Not yet. Not this soon. Instead, he gave her a lopsided smile. "So, now what should we do?" he asked.

Beatrix looked suddenly uncomfortable and a bit anxious. "My parents. You said…I was taken from them. Are they…" She swallowed before she looked up at him. "Are they alive?"

He hesitated. "I don’t know. Like I mentioned last night, I didn’t take the man seriously until it was too late." James grabbed her hands in his, squeezing tightly, before he said, "But we will ascertain what happened to your parents. I promise you."

Beatrix nodded and then fell silent. He wished he could do more. The itch to hold her was so strong that he was having a great deal of difficulty to simply sit and try to provide comfort to her.

The quiet had gone on for such a long time that Beatrix’s voice seemed loud in the room when she said, "I need to find a place to live—and soon."

James looked at her in surprise. "What?"

Beatrix met his shocked gaze with a steady one of her own. "It’s 1816. Women of good homes and reputation do not stay in houses unchaperoned with unmarried men. It isn’t done."

"No," he said firmly, not liking the idea of her leaving him for any length of time.

"James, you’re being ridiculous," she replied.

"No. I won’t have you disappearing on me again," he said stubbornly. "You’ll stay here." At her disapproving look, he hastened to add, "I won’t have any company. No one will know you’re here other than the servants. And they won’t gossip. They’re extremely loyal and discreet."

"I’m sure they are, but that doesn’t mean a thing. A delivery person…a guest who stops by unexpectedly…" Beatrix gestured to her wrinkled dress. "I don’t have any other clothes. What exactly do you expect me to do?"

"My cousin," he said suddenly. "I have a married cousin. Her husband is currently serving a diplomatic post in the Netherlands. Juliana will be at loose ends." At her uncertain expression, he continued his arguments. "It will take time to figure out what to do. Juliana can help in a number of ways—least of all, adorning you in the fashion of 1816." James flashed a smile at her before he sobered and grabbed her hands again with his own. "I don’t want you going anywhere."

She looked at him closely before she finally acquiesced with a sigh. "All right. If she will come, I will stay." Beatrix grinned impishly at him. "I suppose there are some good things that will come of this. It will give us more time to figure out what our next move will be."

He had been so busy staring at her expressive face that he had been blindsided by her change of topic. "Our next…move?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Well, we’re going after him, right?" she demanded, raising an eyebrow at him. "The man who kidnapped me and started this whole mess?"

James hesitated. "I rather thought that I would…"

Beatrix interrupted him before he had a chance to finish. "Let me make this very clear, your grace." She put her face right up next to his. "I may have been born in this time, but I grew up in the 20^th century. Where women have the right to vote and to be anything that they want to be." She scowled at him. "I gave up my life there to come back here and put things right. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be some sort of subservient little wife that you hide in a country estate somewhere while you go do whatever it is that men in this time do."

James stared at her. Her brash, forward, bluestocking little self would certainly stand out in the time she found herself in. Really, in any time she found herself in. His lips twitched. He couldn’t wait to see what everyone would make of her.

"James," she said in a warning tone.

"Whatever you want," he said agreeably.

Beatrix gave him a suspicious look. "Did you even listen to anything I said?"

"Every word," he said with a grin.

"Then tell me what I said," she insisted stubbornly.

"You’re a forward, cheeky girl who wants the vote," he teased.

Beatrix laughed and pushed against his chest before she grew serious again. "I want to be your partner in this," she said firmly. "This guy screwed us both. And for some reason, someone thinks that the two of us together are stronger than the two of us apart. So, we need to work together. Understand?"

James wrestled with himself. It didn’t sit right with him…letting a woman into such a dangerous situation. But she had been dropped as a small child two centuries into the future, and she’d survived.

She’d earned the right to seek the man out.

He finally sighed and nodded. "We’ll work together."

"Completely?" she demanded.

"Completely and utterly," he said as he tapped the edge of her nose.

"You won’t go getting all chivalrous on me," she said, her blue eyes searching his face.

"I can’t promise to not try to protect you," he said firmly. "A gentleman always looks after his lady."

Beatrix considered that for a moment before she nodded. "All right. I’ll go along with that." She pointed her finger at him. "But remember I still call my own shots. Do you understand?"

Call her shots? He gave her a puzzled look.

She sighed. "The language thing is going to be an issue with us, isn’t it?" She tapped her cheek and then gestured at him. "I call my own shots. Make my own decisions." Beatrix raised an eyebrow at him. "You aren’t my husband, you know."

He digested that, a slight frown etching his brow. Not your husband yet, you mean.

"So, you want to disregard the betrothal, then?"

Beatrix glanced at him, her lips twitching. "Don’t be hasty, your grace. I just meant that you seem to be a guy who likes to be in charge. With your being a duke and all, it probably comes naturally to you." She raised her eyebrows as she said, "But I’m used to making my own way in the world. And I don’t like people telling me what to do."

He relaxed a little and began to smile. "So, if I told you to do something, what would you do?"

"Probably the opposite," she said cheerfully.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Oh?"

"I’m contrary like that," she said with a little shrug of her shoulder.

"Let’s try something and see," he said, a gleam in his emerald eyes.

"All right," she replied. "Go for it."

James considered her and then said in a low, husky voice, "Kiss me."

Beatrix stared at him for a moment and then groaned. "That’s not fair!"

"One thing you’ll learn about me, Beatrix," he said with a wicked smile, "is that I never play fair."

Beatrix struggled with herself for a few seconds and then slid off the bed.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, grabbing her arm to keep her from leaving.

"Well, I told you I never do anything I’m ordered to do," she said with an impudent smile.

James stared at her for a moment before he turned her hand over so that the soft, silky underside of her arm was exposed. Gently, he kissed her wrist and then let his tongue flicker ever so softly against the beating pulse under her skin.

Beatrix shivered a little, her eyes never leaving his.

He stroked whisper soft caresses—his fingers against hers. All innocent, tiny little touches. Nothing too forward. But he knew from past experience they were anything but innocent.

After several moments of these barely there touches, Beatrix scrambled up on the bed, took his face in her hands and kissed him. A deep, passionate kiss he felt down to his toes. James could barely breathe by the time she’d broken off the kiss.

"Anything else?" she asked, her tone low, rough and setting his blood to boiling.

Mutely, he shook his head, wondering suddenly how long he’d have to wait until he could make her his.

And I thought my Twelfth Night wait was interminable...

Beatrix slid off the bed again and gave him a wink. "I never play fair either, your grace."

With those words, she hurried back toward the connecting door between his rooms and the long-unused ones of the duchess.

"Good God," he finally marveled to himself. "Good God and bloody hell."

Happy, joyous, bubbling laughter welled up inside him, demanding to get out. For a long time, the future seemed grim, horrendous and never ending. But now that that the calendar had finally gone forward to January 6^th, the future seemed full of endless possibilities.

All because of a little spitfire who called herself Trixie.

Twelfth Night was finally over.

And his future…their future could begin.

Merry Christmas, Cathy!  I hope you enjoyed your story, even if it wasn't strictly in December.  But I figured that the last of the twelve days of Christmas could count as a Christmas story.  *grin*

Thanks to Steph H and Dana for helping me make the story the best it could be.  I appreciate you ladies!

A few notes, as usual...

Trixie Belden® is a registered trademark of Random House Books. These pages are not affiliated with Random House Books in any way. These pages are not for profit.  Images of Trixie Belden and the Bob-Whites of the Glen are © Random House Books and are used respectfully, albeit without permission.

I love time travel stories, but there are always problems with continuity and the possibility of your head exploding trying to understand them.  Hopefully, anything like that is miniscule in nature and can be merrily ignored if there.  *grin*

I also owe many famous stories and movies for their time travel/different worlds ideas.  A few of them are Kate & Leopold, Groundhog Day and the Chronicles of Narnia, among others.

A lot of terminology here that may confuse the reader as much as James was confused by Trixie.  "Reverting to the Crown" refers to the order of succession in the U.K.  Normally, the title and lands owned by a dukedom (or other aristocratic title) is inherited by the oldest surviving male heir in a family.  If there are no heirs, the line becomes extinct, and all property is "inherited" by the current British monarch.

A barrister is an equivalent to a lawyer in the U.S.

The Regency era is a period of time during which Prince George (later King George IV) reigned in place of his father, who suffered from mental illness and was deemed unfit to rule.  This technically was during the years from 1811 to 1820.  It has also been expanded to cover eras of fashion between the Georgian and Victorian eras.  (Named for King George and Queen Victoria respectively.)

Prince George was the "regent prince" and was known colloquially by the nickname "Prinny".

There is a Regency Society in the U.K., but not in the vein that the society in this story is made of.  I based this on a U.S. Regency Society chapter in Minneapolis, who has a Twelfth Night party every year.  Whether there is a Regency Society similar to this in the U.K., I do not know.

Squires were usually the largest property holders in an area, sometimes with a title, sometimes not.  They often served as a type of law enforcement/judge as well.  More about this title can be found here.

Most carriages of the Regency era that belonged to titled aristocrats had the family crest on the side of the carriage.  These could be covered with flaps to prevent the crests from being seen and recognized.

Vellum is a substance, usually made out of some kind of animal skin, and used for writing paper or books.

Stays are flat strips of steel for stiffening corsets.

Eton is a public school for boys, established in 1440 by King Henry VI of England.  You can find more about the school here.

A "fancy piece" is essentially a prostitute.

Aught derives from the word "naught", which means zero.  Thus, aught-one would be '01.

Pride and Prejudice is a famous novel by Jane Austen written in 1813 and was a rather pointed commentary on social mores of the time, as well as being a love story.  Mr. Darcy is the curmudgeonly hero of that story.

Peyton Place is a 1956 novel by Grace Metalious, which has become rather synonymous with a soap opera kind of plot, as the book has many twisted soap opera-esque type of plots going on.

The Ton is the "top two thousand" familes of the elite British aristocracy and has become generally known as the upper crust aristocrats who populate that social circle.

The Times is London's famous, oldest and still running newspaper.

A bluestocking is a derisive term used to describe a woman who was too learned--1790, derisive word for a woman considered too learned, traces to a London literary salon founded c.1750 by Elizabeth Montagu on the Parisian model, featuring intellectual discussion instead of card games, and in place of ostentatious evening attire, simple dress, including Benjamin Stillingfleet's blue-gray tradesman's hose in place of gentleman's black silk, hence the term, first applied in derision to the whole set by Admiral Boscawen. None of the ladies wore blue stockings.  From the Online Etymology Dictionary.

Thanks to the really awesome birdie who helped tweak my graphics and set this lovely page up for me.  The photo is from istockphoto.com.

Any errors are all mine. Just so you know. ;)