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  Inside where? Her mind shrieked, reminding her just how out of her depth she was. Numbly, she put one foot in front of the other, following Rhys as he started walking again.

  He was holding her firmly, as if afraid to let her go. As they continued on, her thoughts whirled. She was definitely no longer in modern-day America. She was not even in America, judging by the upper-class English accent Rhys possessed.

  Where exactly had the silver spoon taken her?

  Rhys hustled the girl around the last corner. She breathed a gusty sigh of relief as they emerged into open air. His hand lightly brushed one of her breasts as he broke contact with her, removing his arm reluctantly from her waist. The contact sent another jolt through him.

  Reining in his emotions, he escorted her up the hill. He knew tongues would wag if the partygoers caught sight of them, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His only goal was to get Marissa out of the cold.

  He glanced down at her again, curiosity getting the better of him. “May I ask where you are from?”

  “Oh, far away,” she replied absently. She seemed to be staring at something in her reticule. He couldn’t see what.

  “The Americas?”

  She closed her reticule with a snap and a faint shudder. “Yes.”

  “If you are not from London, it is little wonder you are unused to gossip. What brings you to Shropshire?” Rhys found himself hoping the girl was based somewhere locally.

  “I didn’t belong where I came from,” she replied after a long silence. “I—I am not sure I belong anywhere, to tell the truth.”

  He glanced down, fighting the urge to touch her curly hair, to bury his nose in her delectable-looking neck and kiss the hollow of her throat. The fact that she was shrouded in mystery seemed only to heighten her appeal.

  “I can help you fit in,” he told her. It sounded arrogant, but he knew it was true. With his title and influence, he could easily make Marissa feel included.

  “If only you could do that,” she murmured.

  “Do you doubt me?” He wanted to remove the sadness from her voice, replace it with confident happiness.

  She considered. Then, “No. I don’t trust other people very much.”

  Rhys thought of the girl’s suspicion when he’d come across her in the center of the maze. She’d been hurt in the past, her trusting nature burned, perhaps multiple times.

  He was formulating a reply to her when she stopped dead, staring rapturously at the enormous stone house in front of her. Snow was beginning to settle upon the hedges and barren trees of the landscaped garden, softening the harsh lines of branches and leaves. The large windows of his residence threw warm candlelight into the encroaching dusk.

  Rhys wanted nothing more than to fling the doors open, carry her upstairs, and indulge in some privacy with the girl. He forced himself to wait patiently for her next move, knowing instinctively that she shouldn’t be hurried.

  Marissa was very still at his side. “You live here,” she said. It was a statement, not a question, as if she was struggling to comprehend the situation.

  “Montford Hall has been my family’s residence for four generations.”

  “I see,” she said faintly.

  They walked the last little way up to the house, passing the multiple carriages parked on the mile-long drive. Several of the drivers nodded to him, their breaths frosting in the air as they awaited the end of the party. Most of his guests would be staying overnight, but a few lived locally enough to return home that evening.

  Marissa hesitated as they drew close. The sounds of revelry spilled forth. One of the young women inside noticed him standing outside and rushed toward the window, waving gaily. Her eyes widened suddenly as she caught sight of Marissa.

  In the next moment, the door opened and out tumbled half a dozen young ladies. They managed to simultaneously squeal in delight upon sighting him and flash disapproving looks at Marissa. In the space of a minute, he found himself being borne indoors in a flurry of perfumed laughter and flirtatious gloved hands.

  “My lord, you have the most delicious claret! Did you truly import it all the way from France?” The speaker shot a daggered look at Marissa.

  As one, the women converged around him, managing to cut Marissa completely away. Rhys kept an eye on her as she crossed the room to the fire.

  Although he hadn’t yet said more than a few words, they continued to chatter in his ear, snapping fans and fluttering their dresses as they all angled to get near him. The women parted, of course, for his mother, who gave them all an indulgent look before rounding on him. “Rhys! There you are. I had wondered what you were up to. Come, Lady Arabella is here all the way from Northumberland and has been clamoring for your attention for nearly an hour.”

  “I will speak with her in a moment, Mother.” He turned, scanning the room for Marissa. Had his mother not seen her with him?

  Marissa was by the fire, still dressed in his tailcoat, accepting a drink from a solicitous footman. He saw his mother’s eyes widen as she followed his gaze. She studied Marissa for a long moment before turning to her son, a single eyebrow raised.

  “Rhys,” she began.

  “Ah, there is Lady Arabella!” Rhys quickly strode toward the young woman approaching, his mother’s current favorite future daughter-in-law. As politely as possible, he made the bare minimum of small talk before making an excuse to move away.

  Though it would cause no end of drama, he was determined to see to Marissa’s comfort. He also found her entirely refreshing in comparison to the bevy of perfumed young ladies from which he was expected to select a baroness.

  None of the other women present could hold a candle to her in terms of beauty. But not only that, Rhys found himself wanting to speak with Marissa further, to unravel her mysteries, both mental and physical. Extricating himself from a delicate but persistent gloved hand, he dodged his mother who, by the look of her, was approaching with pointed questions.

  Marissa was no longer standing by the fire.

  “That girl in the tailcoat. Where did she go?” Rhys put out a hand to stop a passing footman.

  “Her, my lord? She went out the front door after having a drink. I thought she was perhaps headed to her carriage. She told me to give you her regrets.”

  Chapter Two

  The snow fell more thickly as the sun dipped below the horizon, yet Marissa was warm enough as long as she kept moving. She stroked the coat Rhys had given her—a genuine, double-breasted, black tailcoat. It smelled of him. Of their kiss.

  If she gave in to her heart’s demands, she would be running back to Montford Hall right now. But her head was still telling her she didn’t belong there, either. How could she? Rhys was a landed, titled man. A baron, at that—she’d overheard one of the footmen talking.

  And there was no way a baron would stoop to associating with a commoner like her, except perhaps if she acted as his mistress. It was tempting, to tell the truth. The burn of his kiss still lingered upon her lips. But she could never share him with another woman, and he wouldn’t want her for a wife.

  Besides, she was too plain next to all those high-bred young women clustered in that palatial drawing room. Every single one of them oozed self-confidence and poise. She’d stood back as they surrounded Rhys, enveloping him in perfume and chatter.

  One had even been so bold as to touch his arm. Marissa had needed to look away before she could admit she was actually jealous.

  Though they’d spent nearly an hour together in the maze, judging by the clock in the drawing room, time had passed quickly. Magically. She’d regretted its ending. The moment they stepped inside, all her concerns and fears came rushing back, almost crippling her with their intensity.

  No, the best thing to do was to leave Montford Hall before she was tempted too far. Surely she would find herself transported back to her own century any moment now.

  Despite the cold, curiosity spurred her onward. How far could she get before this strange spell ended? She wished
she could determine precisely what year the silver spoon had catapulted her into. From her surreptitious examination of the attire at Montford Hall, she thought it must be around 1860. Not a bad decade to be alive, in the scheme of things.

  Marissa did feel a little bit guilty about taking Rhys’ coat. Still, she supposed the garment wouldn’t return with her. Someone would find it in the road and take it back to the baron.

  She flung back her head, staring at the stars in wonder as she walked. Marissa had rarely been in so rural an area. Here, where there were no city lights to interfere with the clarity of the night sky, she could see thousands upon thousands of stars twinkling in the distance. All she lacked was someone to share the experience with.

  Forward. She needed to keep going. She couldn’t dwell upon Rhys. One foot in front of the other. She could rest once she landed back in the 21st century.

  Gradually her brisk walk devolved into a slower gait. Her thoughts seemed to get muzzier the further she went from Montford Hall. From Rhys. Would he have noticed her absence by now? Perhaps he assumed she was returning home in one of those carriages. No…soon he would be long dead, and the only proof of his existence would be a gravestone and a name in a dusty ledger.

  Marissa winced, shying away from that line of thinking.

  Breathless from the cold, she allowed herself to rest for a few minutes, leaning against a low wooden fence. Snow was beginning to fall steadily, settling upon the ground with annoying rapidity. Marissa frowned, hoping the stuff wouldn’t obscure the road, which hadn’t been very clearly marked to begin with. She tamped down a growing anxiety.

  Marissa peered through the deepening gloom. Presumably she’d just reached the end of Montford Hall’s driveway. There was a crossroad just ahead. Two roads branched off, leading in opposite directions. Inconveniently, there were no signposts.

  She stared left, then right, a fog of confusion descending over her senses. Her idea of striking off on her own wasn’t nearly so appealing now, especially since she didn’t seem to be returning back to her own time. Just as she determined to turn back and beg forgiveness from a probably very irate baron, the reticule slipped off her shoulder, falling into the show with a wet thud.

  She suppressed a startled yelp as the silver spoon tumbled out. It bounced onto the left-hand path.

  “Fine. Left it is.” Marissa shoved the blasted spoon back into the bag, sparing it a stern look. “You’ve gotten me into enough trouble. I hope this way leads me somewhere warm. Are you listening, spoon?”

  Marissa trudged forward as quickly as she could force her legs to move. They were beginning to tremble, whether with cold or emotional reaction, she couldn’t tell. Still, she was bound to get somewhere warm any minute now. Her mind repeated that litany until thoughts of Rhys began to crowd the words out, snapping her back to reality.

  How long had she walked? How far? Two miles? Three? Her feet were aching in the flimsy Victorian-style slippers she’d bought last week at one of the college’s Saturday flea markets, but she had to keep going now. Otherwise she risked freezing to death. Marissa bit her lip, refusing to give way to panic.

  She didn’t hear the approaching hoofbeats until the very last second.

  Rhys growled in relief as he caught sight of Marissa’s curvy, tailcoated form ahead of him. Her uncovered head was speckled white with snow and she was clearly very tired. He reined in his horse, coming to a stop just ahead of her.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded as she stared upward with a startled look. “You’re out here in nothing but a dress and my coat!”

  “I—I thought—”

  “Never mind. I am not having this conversation out here in the cold. Come here.” He softened his voice with some effort. The last hour had been absolute hell. Despite his acute worry for Marissa, it had taken ages to extricate himself from the social situation. In the end, he had given considerable offense to several young ladies, narrowly missed insulting his own mother and was most certainly going to be a topic of gossip in London. Especially when they found out he was riding out alone after an unaccompanied, unmarried young woman.

  He’d wasted time riding down to the maze, thinking—irrationally fearing—that she might have gone back there for some reason. Then he’d spurred the horse down the drive as fast as he dared given the treacherous conditions.

  Fortunately, he’d spotted Marissa’s footprints leading left at the crossroads and was able to intercept her before she ventured further into the snowy wilderness. If he hadn’t been aware of her departure, if the snow had covered her footprints before he’d seen them…no, he wouldn’t dwell on those thoughts.

  “I am perfectly capable of walking,” she was saying as he hauled her onto his thigh and tucked one arm firmly around her waist.

  “You are trembling. I’m not letting you walk another step.”

  Once he had situated her to his liking, Rhys put his heels to his gelding and took off at a canter. On his lap, Marissa tensed, yet made no protest. Rhys glanced down at her in approval. He’d have wagered a hundred pounds that every single one of those London chits back at the party would be a gibbering wreck right about now. His respect for—and curiosity about—Marissa rose higher.

  Unbidden, the image of the fortune-teller flashed through his mind. Meeting the old woman had been entirely happenstance. He and his younger brothers had been riding through the hills in Wales when they had stopped near her cottage to let the horses breathe. When she’d invited them in, they wound up sharing their bread and cheese with her in exchange for her telling their fortunes.

  Rhys could still easily conjure up her scratchy old voice. She’d stared at him, wrinkled and wise, as she made her proclamations. In the eerie atmosphere of her tiny cottage, the words seemed to hold a curiously strong power.

  “You will meet the right woman for you during the next winter affair you host. Ensure that you do not let her get away, for you will never see her again if she leaves, nor will you ever be truly happy in love. For the rest of your life you will regret what you let go.”

  Rhys glanced down at the curve of Marissa’s cheek. He was certainly attracted to her physically. Would she make a good baroness? He barely knew her.

  “Are we going back to Montford Hall?” she asked. Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. “I—I think you forgot to turn down your drive.”

  “We will not return there tonight. I keep a cottage nearby. It’s closer than the Hall, and far more private.”

  “P-private?” she squeaked.

  “Unless you fancy plunging back into that mess of perfumed femininity and making small talk? I certainly do not.”

  “A…good point.” She subsided for the rest of the short journey, passive in his arms. When he dismounted, he led her into the barn, keeping one hand on her and the other on the horse’s bridle. He wanted to keep her within arm’s reach in case she inexplicably bolted again.

  “Go inside, Marissa. I’ll see to the horse before coming in. There is some food in the cabinets if you feel hungry.”

  As he unsaddled his gelding, Rhys couldn’t help but admire Marissa as she walked away. She had a particular sway to her hips that was incredibly enticing. He took a deep breath, realizing her allure was going to torment him all night long—the cottage wasn’t very large, so they would probably have to share the same bed.

  Lately, he had begun to think he was almost immune to any womanly charms. His dalliances were growing fewer and fewer, whereas once he’d had an almost insatiable appetite for women. Of course, being a baron in his own right, he could have almost anyone he wanted. But that brought its own problems, of course, with girls vying for his attention—and money.

  Marissa’s complete lack of attention to his title was like a breath of fresh air.

  Rhys tipped some oats into the horse’s trough and straightened up. It was time to go inside and get some answers out of the girl.

  The interior of the cottage was comfortable enough, although the a
ir was chilly. Marissa knelt by the fireplace, chucked in some wood, then stared around in discomfiture. How did one start a fire in the 1860s? Flint and steel? Most people banked their fires, didn’t they? She didn’t have the luxury of a head start, but there was a pile of kindling next to the larger pieces of firewood. Dubiously, Marissa made a little nest of twigs. It had been years since she’d last gone camping.

  Marissa found flint and steel on the mantelpiece. Kneeling, she struck the two together. Her first few sparks never found purchase. The next set fizzled out. Finally, after a shower of sparks and a few judicious puffs of air, she’d produced a passable fire. With immense satisfaction, she watched it grow from strength to strength, taking hold on the dry log. Flicking the switch on a heater suddenly seemed tame in comparison. For a few moments, she simply sat and stared into the flames, glad of the warmth.

  “Well done.”

  Marissa glanced up so quickly she nearly overbalanced. She caught herself, rising to her feet and meeting Rhys’ gaze. There was something odd in his expression.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. Then another thought occurred to her. “Have you been watching me this entire time?”

  He shook his head, absently scraping melting snowflakes from his dark hair. “Only after you kindled the first flame. I must say, I’m impressed. The ladies I tend to associate with would never have taken it upon themselves to kneel down and start their own fire.”

  “If you want something done, do it yourself. My father always told me that.” Marissa eyed him, uncertain what to do next. She was again struck by the fact that Rhys was incredibly handsome. She couldn’t help but surreptitiously admire the striking effect of his dark hair and blue eyes. Although he wasn’t a basketball player—was basketball even in existence during the Victorian Age?—he must have been pushing six feet. He definitely towered over her, and she wasn’t all that short.