Chapter One
Cunningham Hall
London, 1812
Modern clothes? Check. Time travel watch? Check. The strength to continue what started at the bottom of a whiskey bottle a few months before? Double check.
Though, truth be told, Thomas couldn’t believe he planned to travel forward in time—two hundred years, to be exact—to romp in bed with a wench from the future. He pulled on his cravat and stared at the floor. He could get sex in his own time, but it always carried connotations, as well as expectations, he didn’t want to allow.
He didn’t know if he ever wanted to remarry, and if he dallied with a lady in his time—that’s what he would have to do. Marry the chit.
As the Earl of Cunningham, he defined the epitome of the most sought out noblemen without even attempting to fulfill the cursed role. The mamas of all the debutantes waved their fans—and other more notable objects—in his face every time he turned around. As a result, if he even glanced at one of the chits for more than three seconds, rumors of his impending marriage were whispered into the ears of the ton before he’d managed to finish a glass of the dreadful concoctions they always served at balls.
Worse, since his beloved wife had died in childbirth, he became even more irresistible. Every time he held his son, he missed her. He mourned her still. Loved her, even though she’d been dead a little over two years. He’d tried to move on so many times—most of them involving an empty bottle of whiskey or a charming lady of the night who caught his fancy.
But other women couldn’t compare to his beloved wife. Their impish giggles and vacant smiles left an empty hole in his heart—where love should be. Where he was beginning to suspect love never would be again.
Even so, he figured it was high time to break his dry spell.
To do so without the threat of rumors and a forced marriage, he would travel into the future with the help of a magical device that resembled a tiny clock. A bit far-reaching of an attempt at privacy? Without a doubt. But if it allowed him to enjoy the company of a pretty woman—guaranteed by Madame Eve to whet his appetite—for a few hours without the risk of disease or discovery, thanks to the tight restrictions of the 1NightStand company, he deemed it well worth the extra effort involved.
Releasing a shaky breath, he took one last look at the blurry likeness of the woman waiting for him. Her soft features were pleasing enough, from what he could make out of her face. His shoulders straightened and he grabbed the time-travel watch, studying its intricate gray hands with two circles surrounding the face. The outer ring made him go forward in time, each full turn equaling one hundred years.
When he wished to return home, he would turn the smaller inner ring the opposite direction twice. The inner hands pointed to the hour of his arrival in the future. He set the time to nine o’clock at night, twisted it two complete turns as Madame Eve had instructed, and closed his eyes.
Every piece of his body tingled with small bolts of energy and pain. A bright light flashed across his closed lids—and he saw nothing.
***
Castillo Resort
London, 2012
Lady Eleanor perched on the edge of a chair, in the elegant suite inside Castillo Resort, London, examining all the modern baubles surrounding her. On the nightstand, a clock told her the time with glowing blue numbers. And the bathroom had a contraption which spewed out hot water on command.
Not to mention the flushing chamber pot. She wouldn’t even dwell upon the audacity of such a creation, thank you very much.
She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, tugging it lower in an attempt to at least cover her knees. No such luck. She would have to remain dressed in clothing so scandalous even a harlot would have crossed the street to avoid touching her.
She stole a glance at the clock, her heart speeding up as she realized that any minute now, her date would arrive. She’d decided to throw a moment of delightful fun into her life and arrange a one-night stand with a complete stranger. Placed on the shelf ever since she turned twenty-three…three years before, she’d suffered the dual misfortune of being poor, and in the shadow of three gorgeous, outgoing sisters whom every suitor sought out.
The quiet, shy sister of theirs? Not quite so lucky.
Eleanor didn’t exactly break mirrors with her ugliness, but her spinsterhood had stemmed from the fact that she just…well...blended in. People would overlook her as if she were a potted plant, instead of an eligible debutante. She could have caught the attention of a bachelor or two, anyway, but by the time all her sisters had caught husbands, the money for ball gowns and fancy bonnets had gotten depleted.
It hadn’t helped matters that ever since her first month in society, she’d been obsessed with a man so far out of her reach it was laughable. He’d visited her in her sleep for years, yet in the light of day had no clue she existed. He probably wouldn’t be able to pick her out of a group of women if she paid him to. She’d spent her time in the marriage market comparing each man to him—and deeming each one deficient.
And so came about her life as a spinster.
It didn’t mean she couldn’t have one night of debauchery, as long as she was careful enough to not be caught with her hand in the cookie jar. No one could know about it, for if they did her reputation would be in shreds. Which is exactly why she went and contacted Madame Eve at the 1NightStand service.
No one in the future would know of her precarious situation, or care about her transgression from the shy wallflower she was supposed to be. Afterward, she would return to the doldrums life of a spinster. Back to sipping the spiked punch the unmarried ladies were forbidden from drinking because no one noticed her grab it. It tasted atrocious, but the thrill of doing something she wasn’t supposed to do made the abuse of her tongue well worth it.
A knock broke the silence of the room, and she rose to her feet. She smoothed her skirt, wiping her clammy palms on the slinky material, and walked to unlock the door and swing it open.
In the hallway, stood a man dressed in those odd blue trousers which were in fashion and a black blouse, lacking any sort of buttons, which clung to his every muscle. He looked like he belonged in this century without a doubt—while she felt more like a fish out of water in her short skirt. His arms were bare, letting her admire them without restriction, and his muscles bulged as he shoved his fingers into his pockets.
Does he feel nervous like me?
Forcing herself to tear her attention away from his arms, she met the mystery man’s eyes—and froze. Of all things holy and true, the Earl of Cunningham stood in her hallway, attired in modern clothing. Staring at…her? The wallflower no one ever noticed?