Lady in Lace

Dedication

To the members of the Marcher Chapter

of the Romantic Novelists' Association

with huge thanks

for their support and encouragement

​Chapter One

EMMA WAS ALONE IN THE passage. She hadn't been down here since her first day. She remembered being shown round then, peering into all these museum store rooms. Today it felt different. Was it because it was so late? But surely it hadn't been this gloomy down here before? Or this cold?

A strange shiver danced down her spine. That mahogany door. She hadn't noticed it before. It seemed totally out of place in a museum. But it was real. Solid.

She paused in the act of reaching for the intricate brass handle. She could just about make out her own frozen shape, dimly reflected in the door's fielded panels. There was something ghostly about her fuzzy outline, as if it were half real, half melting.

Nonsense. It was just a door. If she wanted to know where it led, she would have to open it.

Her extended arm seemed reluctant to make that last effort, her fingers unwilling to grasp the cold metal. That strange shiver came again, this time tingling down her arm and into her outstretched fingers. For a single mad moment, she thought she saw... She could have sworn she saw jagged streaks of blue lightning joining her hand to the brass.

Too much wine last night, she told herself sternly, trying to dismiss the weird feelings. Or those mussels. You should never trust mussels.

She forced her rigid body to move. Only a wimp would be frightened off by a dim reflection and a slightly queasy stomach. And she'd promised herself she wouldn't be a coward any more. Hadn't she?

She grasped the handle at last. It was strangely cold, almost icy. She shuddered again, but refused to let go. She began to turn it, to pull the door open.

Immediately, too soon, the door began to swing towards her, as if it had a mind of its own. Under her fingers, the metal began to heat.

Emma gasped in shock and snatched her hand away. In less than a second, the brass had become too hot to touch. It was impossible. Cold... hot... blue lightning? Was she in the middle of some strange dream? Would she wake up soon?

The door had swung open on silent hinges. Expectantly. Waiting for her to step inside. Into the louring darkness beyond.

I am not afraid of you, whatever you are. She had taught herself to conquer her fears. She would not stand here on the threshold, petrified, like some kind of statue.

Damn those mussels, she spat. Her wild words seemed to echo for a second. Then they were swallowed up by the dark silence in front of her. But they had broken the spell. She could move at last. And it would be forward. She was her own woman now. She would not run ever again.

She took two firm steps through the doorway. Into the gloom.

Why was it so dark? A room, even a corridor, should have windows somewhere. Even here in the museum. What was this place?

She stood still, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Behind her was the open door and the dim light of the hallway. In front, nothing. Or so it seemed. Yet she sensed that there was a great space in front of her, as if this darkness went on and on.

For the moment, her eyes were worse than useless. She reached her arms out sideways, feeling for walls. If this were merely a dark corridor, there should be walls.

Her right hand met something soft. Yielding. At her touch, it swung away.

She cried out, Who's there?

The softness swung back against her hand. Pile. Velvet? But not alive at all. She understood that instinctively, even in the dark, for there was no smell of life. It was some kind of velvet wrap, suspended here, swaying at her touch.

Not a corridor, then. A storage cupboard? But why so enormous?

She was beginning to overcome her childish fancies at last. Her mysterious door led to a huge cupboard, big enough to walk into. She put both hands on the velvet and groped her way towards a hanger and a rail, then on to more hangers and more suspended garments: furs, heavy wool, then fine silk and gauze. It was an enormous clothes store.

But whose clothes? This was no way to store museum exhibits.

She was finally beginning to see through the gloom, helped by the faint light from the hall at her back. The racks of hanging garments stretched into the distance and disappeared. As if the rail went on for ever.

She forced herself to straighten her shoulders. She would not be intimidated by a mere cupboard. She lifted her chin and took a deep breath, ready to challenge anything. Anyone.

She could smell the sea.

Impossible. Her mind was playing tricks. It had to be that. Didn't it?

She could smell the sea. As strongly as if she were standing on a beach, with banks of drying kelp and crashing breakers.

Her shoes began to sink into soft sand. Her toes curled automatically, trying for grip. She grabbed for the coat rail, desperate to keep her balance.

The coat rail was gone.

Her flailing arms met wool, warm wool, and warm flesh beneath.

Take care, or you will fall. It was a man's voice, strong and reassuring. It seemed familiar. As did his touch.

Her body knew him. This time, she was not afraid.

She had come home at last.

She had been holding her breath, desperately trying to fathom what was happening to her. Now, relaxing, she breathed in the comforting scents of sand and sea and warm, living man. He smelt of fresh winds and freedom. His touch, where he held her up, was merely a polite support. Yet it was more, too. A caress, a knowing caress, of two bodies that had lain together, naked skin against naked skin.

So familiar. So loved. And yet she did not know him.

She tried to speak, but her throat would not open. She reached for him with her free hand, clutching for his arm where he held her up, and beyond, to the body she longed to find. It was eluding her.

Oh, where are you, my love? she managed at last, in a voice that sounded nothing like her own. Had she really said those words? To a man she didn't know?

His reply was wordless, a soft laugh deep in his chest. Then the contact was broken. The warmth of him was gone.

She was alone.

The ground beneath her feet was solid again.

He was gone. And so was the smell of the sea.

Tears of frustration welled up in her straining eyes. Her lover, her life, the man she was destined for – he had been here, holding her. Then, so swiftly, he was gone.

She peered into the darkness, narrowing her eyes. Surely there was movement, somewhere in the distance? A shadow, a shape. Yes, someone was there. He was still with her.

Don't go, my love. Please don't leave me. She spoke without hesitation this time. Her heart was pounding like a racing engine. It was vital not to lose him. He had to understand that she was his. Always.

That deep laugh again, but no words. She saw the dim shape of a tall man in some kind of tail coat. For a split second, she caught the gleam of something gold before he turned away. And a flash of white teeth as he smiled back at her.

No need for words. His smile said it all. Wait for me, love. We will meet again.

She started towards him, arms outstretched to embrace his beloved form. Her questing hands met another rack of clothes, soft, and full, and yielding. But lifeless.

He had been here, touching her, reaching for her. She could have been safe in his arms. Should have been. But now he was gone. And her heart was empty.

She clung to the rail, racked by sudden shuddering sobs. Nothing she had suffered could begin to approach this searing emotion, this harrowing sense of loss. As if her heart had been torn from her living body and trampled in the dirt.

Under her hand, something scratched her skin.

Beckoning.

It was ridiculous to think that racks of clothes could call to her, but she was prepared to believe almost anything now. She stroked a hand blindly across the hanger. This was a flimsy gown made of something she could not identify. Fairy gauze? Nothing could surprise her any more.

She made to lift the hanger from the rail. It stuck. She leaned closer, determined not to be beaten. It had summoned her, so she would have it.

It smelled of the sea.

For a second only, and the scent was gone. Then the gown came sweetly into her hands, as if it had leapt from the rail of its own volition. As if it were alive.

She brought it to her face, to touch, to caress, to breathe in its elusive scent. Her love came with the sea, and this gown was the link.

The gown's own scent was almost too faint to discern.

It was not the sea after all. It was lavender.

What have you got there, Emma?

She was standing in the passageway, gazing down at the golden lace and gauze draped over her arms. But she had been somewhere else entirely.

Emma? It was Richard, another of the museum curators, one who had begun to feel like a friend in spite of the difference in their ages. Are you OK?

She looked at the golden gown, then at Richard, and then swung round to the wall behind her. Yes, there was a door. No, it wasn't made of mahogany. It was a standard museum door, one she had definitely seen before. It led to the racks where they stored the costume collection in specially controlled conditions. I...I...I'm fine. It was just this gown. It—

His frown evaporated. Oh, yes. That one. Your predecessor showed it to me once. Shame it's in such a state. It must have been stunning when it was new. What date do you reckon it is?

Emma stared at him and then glanced down at the dress. Er, middle to late Regency, I think. Somewhere between 1815 and 1820. She looked again, really looking this time. Just minutes ago, in the gloom, it had been floating on that hanger like woven gossamer in a summer breeze. But the gown in her arms was little more than shreds of golden overskirts, suspended from a fragile lace bodice and a silken petticoat. One puff sleeve was almost intact; the other was a wreck.

I'd have thought it was beyond restoration, Richard said with a knowledgeable nod, but you're the expert. It would be great if you could put it on display. Regency exhibits always pull in the punters. It's all those Jane Austen fans, I suppose.

And memories of Colin Firth in a wet shirt, Emma quipped with a smile, glad to be brought back to earth again.

Richard raised his eyebrows. Well, he was a man and well past forty. He probably wouldn't understand how that iconic TV adaptation could feed fantasies, more than twenty years on.

A fantasy? Was that what she'd had? It had seemed so real. You didn't smell lavender in fantasies, did you? Or the sea? Or—?

She banished the image of white teeth and glinting gold to the back of her mind. She was a serious woman, with an important new job here. And a whole new life.

I'm going to have a look at it under the lights in the research room, she announced in her best reliable-colleague voice. Need the magnifiers to see exactly how bad the damage is. We might be able to do something. You never know. She turned and started along the corridor. Then she remembered how late it was. There's time before we have to lock up, isn't there? she called over her shoulder. Richard, as the longest-serving curator, was responsible for locking up the museum at the end of the day. He replied with a cheery wave.

She was still examining the gown when closing time actually came. She wanted to weep over it. Under the magnifiers, she had discovered, with a shock, that at least some of the rents were not caused by age or vermin. Some of the gold lace had been cut. Someone – someone out of their mind, surely? – had taken a knife or scissors to this fairytale ballgown and deliberately shredded the overskirt. Someone had wanted to be sure this gown could never be worn again.

Someone hateful.

She leaned back in her chair and began to muse on the owner of the gown. The museum had no information about who she might have been. It would have been someone rich, perhaps aristocratic. Young, but not too young. Really young girls wore white ballgowns in those days. This one probably belonged to a married lady. A rich, young, married lady. Was it her husband who had destroyed the gown? Had he found her in some compromising—?

Emma? It was Richard, doing his final rounds to check everything was locked away. Oh. I didn't realise you still had that gown out. He muttered a curse. I've locked all the stores. He glanced across at the clock on the church opposite the museum. He was due to meet his wife and baby daughter immediately after work, Emma knew. He wouldn't want to keep them waiting in the cold. It was spring, but the wind was bitter.

Emma leapt to her feet, conscience-stricken. It would take a good ten minutes to open up the stores again. I'm sorry, Richard. I lost track. Look, it's about time I took a turn at locking up, anyway. Has everyone else gone? When he nodded, she said decisively, Fine, well, leave me the keys and I'll finish doing the security checks after I've put this away. I know how to set the alarms. You can rely on me.

He chuckled. You do realise you'll have to be first in tomorrow if you have the keys? I thought you weren't a morning person?

She smiled at him. It's amazing what caffeine can do, you know.

He looked relieved as he tossed her the huge bunch of keys. "See you tomorrow then. Early. Very early." He was still smiling as he left.

Emma laid the keys on the big round table and sat down again to gaze at the gown. Silence settled. Richard had switched off most of the lights. It was like being on an island of light surrounded by darkness.

She could smell the sea.

Rubbish. She was nowhere near the sea. It must be simply that idiotic idea of being on an island. Islands were surrounded by sea, not darkness. So she had fancied she smelt it. Was she going down with something, maybe?

She touched the back of her hand to her forehead. It felt normal. Well, it would, wouldn't it? You could never feel your own fever.

Get back to work, Emma Stanley, she told herself. You are supposed to be a sensible, dependable, professional woman. Put the gown away, lock up the building, and go home. You can always check your temperature once you're there.

It didn't matter if she had a temperature like a furnace tomorrow morning. She was in charge of the keys now. No matter what, she would have to be here early enough to open up.

The clock of St Mary's struck the half-hour.

Shocked back to reality, Emma gasped aloud. How long had she been sitting here in the research room, marvelling at the shredded beauty of the golden gown?

She shook her head in disbelief at her own strange behaviour. She had won the job of regional costume curator because of her innovative but level-headed approach to planning the future of the collection. Her ideas and passion had persuaded the panel to overlook her patchy employment record. Yet here she was, barely a few weeks into her new job, and without a single level-headed thought in her mind.

She was seeing things, and feeling things, and, most outrageous of all, smelling things that could not possibly be real.

She lurched to her feet, toppling her chair in her haste. She had to put the gown away safely in the storeroom. But first, she would put a little distance between them. To catch her breath. She would go and change into her travelling clothes. A splash of cold water on her face and neck might help, too. Anything to bring her back to reality.

A few minutes later, Emma was smoothing her navy pencil skirt onto its hanger. That suit had been a good buy, in spite of the high cost. Creases fell out of the material when it was hung up and the cut flattered her figure, even though the suit was now a little loose. She had lost a lot of weight during the long months of her hellish divorce, but she had resolved to fix that. From now on, she would eat regularly, and properly. She had a new career and a bold new life, and she was going to make a success of both. There was no one trying to control her any more and she would never, never let it happen again.

She took a step back and gazed at her reflection in the long mirror. Much too thin, but otherwise not bad. Her dark red hair, definitely her best feature, was piled on top of her head in loose curls, in vague imitation of the Regency styles she had always admired. Her new gold underwear looked classy and flattering.

A strange coincidence that she had chosen to wear gold today, the same colour as that amazing Regency gown. Almost as if she had been meant to try it on...

Barely a minute later, Emma found herself back in the research room with the damaged gown in her hands. It would do no harm to try it on, just for a moment or two, just to see how it looked. And then she would return it reverently to the store room and never be tempted again.

The bell of St Mary's began to toll. It was almost seven. Where on earth had the time gone?

All the same, it was not too late just to... With infinite care, Emma started to push an arm into the undamaged sleeve.

Blue lightning shot along her arm. It should have burned, but instead it was freezing cold. A moment later, Emma felt a whoosh of icy air howling through the room, like the bitterest Arctic gale. The noise was even worse than the cold. It sounded as if some hideous giant was sucking the life out of everything, swallowing it down into consuming darkness. Emma cried out in terror. At least, she tried to. But her voice was sucked into the void along with everything else.

She was in the dark. She was falling.

And she was alone.

Chapter Two

IT WAS MUCH TOO DARK to see where she was. But it smelt small, enclosed... and wrong. What was so different?

Emma took a deep breath and tried to conquer her fears. She had no idea where she was but, as with that mysterious cupboard filled with racks of clothes and disappearing sandy beaches, it was somewhere other-worldly.

Candles. That was what she could smell. Burning candles. Had there been a power cut, maybe?

As her eyes began to adjust to the pervasive gloom, she took a tiny step forward. Something hushed against her ankles. A long, full skirt.

But I wasn't wearing a skirt. Just underwear. How can I have—?

Automatically she touched her hands to it. And realised at once what she was wearing. She could feel the undulating textures of lace. She was dressed in that golden gown and somehow, impossibly, it was whole again.

She was having a nightmare. This wasn't possible.

She swallowed hard. What on earth was she going to do?

Her eyes were finally adjusting to the gloom. She made out a curtained window and a wooden door, ever so slightly ajar. A glimmer of light flickering through the crack suggested there was someone in the room beyond.

Emma gulped. Her heart began to race. Now what?

She heard a rumble of voices from beyond the door. Male voices. Or one male voice, at least. Did she dare?

It was a dream. Only a dream. Whatever might appear to happen in a dream, you were always fine again when you woke up. So it wouldn't matter if she went in there. Nothing could actually happen to her.

She wasn't brave enough to throw the door wide open, though. Instead, she eased it open a fraction more. Enough to hear what was going on. And, if she put her eye to the crack, enough to see.

She had to choke back her gasp of astonishment. She closed her eyes, trying to stop her dream in its ridiculous tracks. But when she opened them again, it was all still there. And still real.

She was staring into an enormous, and opulent, bedchamber. It was brightly lit. And very warm. There were candlesticks on the mantelpiece and silver candelabra on spindle-legged tables around the room. A huge log fire was crackling merrily in the grate. Heavy green velvet curtains, matching the ones around the raised tester bed, were drawn across one wall, presumably concealing floor-to-ceiling windows.

All of that was obvious from the first quick peek. Emma's sensible self was saying that her dream had taken her back into history, by a couple of centuries or so. Her sensible self was wittering on about period furniture and priceless Georgian silverware.

She was not listening to a word from her sensible self. Her gaze was riveted on the tableau in front of that blazing fire, where a youngish female servant stood, holding a water can of polished copper and staring longingly at the back of a man, naked from the waist up, sitting in a bath.

He'll be naked from the waist down, too. Emma's thought came unbidden, and certainly not from her sensible self.

The man was soaping his hair, massaging his scalp energetically, the muscles in his shoulders and arms working. From the back view, he had a very fine body – lean, lithe and strong. Young, probably. And he seemed to have a fine head of hair, though it was difficult to be sure of the colour, or the length, under all that lather.

Pour the water over my hair. Slowly. I need to get rid of this soap. Crisp instructions, delivered in a rich baritone. This man was used to giving orders.

The maid raised the can a little higher – she seemed to have good muscles, too – and began to pour. A little, then a pause, then a little more as the man stroked away the soap. It took a while, but eventually the can was empty and the man's hair was clean. He ran his fingers through it, pressing out the excess water and combing through the tangles.

The servant's task seemed to be over. She put the can on the floor beside the bath and moved away. But as soon as the man could no longer see her, she wiped her damp hands down her skirts and began to unbutton her bodice. In a trice, the buttons were all undone, and she was exposed to the waist.

What kind of place was it? And why was a female servant attending a man in his bath, anyway? Had this absurd dream transported her into a brothel?

Emma was shocked. But not shocked enough to stop looking. This fascinating dream was turning into something like a scene from a film, and a raunchy, X-rated one, at that. What's more, it was getting to her. Heat was beginning to flare in her gut. She had to see what would happen next. And she had to see the man. All of him.

I don't care if it is a brothel. It's my dream. So I'm entitled to see.

The man glanced sideways, as if looking for the missing servant, shrugged, and rose to his feet in a single athletic movement. Fetch my towel, woman, he snapped, holding out his hands to the warmth of the fire. When the servant failed to obey – she did not move an inch towards him, but she did plaster an inviting smile on her face – he stepped out of the water and turned to look for her. He was frowning. I said—

A look of total astonishment replaced his angry frown. A split second later, an even blacker frown took its place. There was something more in his eyes, too. It should have been anger, but Emma was almost certain it was not. Frustration? Resignation? But why?

The man and the servant stared at each other for a long, long moment. The maid had thrown her shoulders back so that her ample breasts gleamed in the firelight. She intended to entice, clearly, but the man made no move towards her. Nor did he do anything to hide his nakedness. He let the girl feast her eyes on his body, which was as beautiful as any classical statue, to Emma's mind, and waited for the servant to get the message. His body was not reacting at all to the merchandise on offer. The maid's smile, so eager at first, faltered. Her mouth fell open. Then she started to babble incoherently.

Enough. Cover yourself, woman.

Sir, I only wanted to—

You don't have to tell me. I've heard it too often before. You wanted to find out what it was like to be bedded by the 'Greatest Lover in London'. He smiled sourly and gestured towards his drooping genitals. As you can see, the so-called 'Greatest Lover in London' has no interest in women who throw themselves at him.

Head bent, the maid had begun to fumble with her fastenings, dragging the halves of her bodice together over her nakedness. She was scarlet to the roots of her hair, Emma saw, and her fingers were trembling. But she was not totally cowed. She muttered something under her breath.

You spoke? he said very softly.

Emma had never heard anything quite so haughty. Or so menacing.

Evidently, his tone caught the servant on the raw. Aye, I did. She jerked her head up and stared him full in the face. Her embarrassment had faded. She looked to be livid with anger. Think I'm not good enough for your bed, don't yer? 'Cos I'm only a servant. If I'd been one of yer high-and-mighty lady friends, you'd have thrown up my skirts quick enough. You're a—!

He stopped her with a contemptuous gesture. "I wouldn't touch a duchess if she threw herself at me as you have. Whatever I may be, you are no better than a harlot. Now, get out of here, before I toss you out." He took a single step towards her.

She gasped and fled.

The man gave a snort of mirthless laughter and padded across the carpet after her. In a second, he was lost to Emma's view.

He couldn't walk out of the room, surely? Not stark naked. Emma eased her door open a fraction more. She had to crane her neck to see the other door. The panicking maid had left it open and Emma could make out a gloomy corridor beyond.

The man shut the outer door quietly, pressing the flat of his free hand on the panel of the door, as if to ensure it was well and truly closed. He shook his head. At the folly of women? Then, with a sigh, he turned the key in the lock.

Emma started to shrink back into her hiding place but he spun round with sudden decision and started for her dressing room. Had he suddenly remembered there was another door to be locked against predatory females?

After barely a couple of steps, he stopped dead. This time, the expression of astonishment came and stayed. Emma, he breathed. Then, with joy in his face and in his voice, Emma. Emma, my darling, you've come back to me.

It was impossible. How could he know her name? And what was she to do