Saving Lord Avingdale: Love in Time, #2

By Lisa Kumar

Maryanne loves being invisible, and her job as a time-traveling research scientist fulfills that desire. But when her invisibility transmitter malfunctions, the worse possible person—the Marquess of Avingdale—finds her. Handsome and debonair, the marquis shows interest, but his death is the reason she traveled back to 1813 England. When he forgoes a tryst with a married woman that would’ve proved deadly, Maryanne fears she’s changed the handsome lord’s future by ensuring his survival. 

Jonathan Blakely, the Marquess of Avingdale, is on his way for an assignation with his latest lover when he spies the intriguing, yet socially awkward Maryanne at a house party. She’s crass in the most endearing way, but she’s keeping secrets—ones he is determined to find out. The more she avoids him, the more he’s compelled to solve the enigma she presents. What he doesn’t wager is that doing so will transport him to a new world of wondrous inventions and tie him to Maryanne in a way he never thought possible. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Kumar
• Release date: Apr 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524271367

Lisa Kumar

I'm a wife, mother, and romance writer who grew up in small-town Indiana. I studied psychology in college and have worked off and on in the mental health field over the years. I now reside in the suburbs of Chicago with my husband and our two sons. When not spinning tales of romance and fantasy, I can often be found with my nose buried in a book. I also love going for walks with my youngest son and taking Zumba classes. One of my stories, Bound to the Elvin King, won Ind'Tale's 2015 RONE award for best Sci-Fi/Fantasy.  You can find me on: Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/lisa_kumar Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/lisankumar

Book preview

Maryanne loves being invisible, and her job as a time-traveling research scientist fulfills that desire. But when her invisibility transmitter malfunctions, the worse possible person—the Marquis of Avingdale—finds her. Handsome and debonair, the marquis shows interest, but his death is the reason she traveled back to 1813 England. When he forgoes a tryst with a married woman that would’ve proved deadly, Maryanne fears she’s changed the handsome lord’s future by ensuring his survival.

Jonathan Blakely, the Marquis of Avingdale, is on his way for an assignation with his latest lover when he spies the intriguing, yet socially awkward Maryanne at a house party. She’s crass in the most endearing way, but she’s keeping secrets—ones he is determined to find out. The more she avoids him, the more he’s compelled to solve the enigma she presents. What he doesn’t wager is that doing so will transport him to a new world of wondrous inventions and tie him to Maryanne in a way he never thought possible.

Dedication

Thanks to my family and friends for always supporting my writing endeavors.

Chapter 1

Maryanne snuck down the shadowed hallway, the rug underneath muffling her footsteps. Her kid slippers didn’t make much sound, anyway. But she couldn’t be too careful.

Warm air drifted through the open windows. The temperate weather of this August week was something she appreciated. Back home, the sterile atmosphere wasn’t as rejuvenating as the countryside air from 1813 England.

She shook her head. Now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Her mind needed to be squarely on her mission, not on mundane things like the weather.

Noise floated from the ballroom, telling her she was in the right area of the sprawling country manor. Being that close meant she needed to find a hiding spot. Though discovery was unlikely, she couldn’t risk it.

She withdrew the little handheld computer/invisibility transmitter from the reticule that hung from her wrist. A quick check of Barringford Manor’s floor plan proved she was in a prime location to scout out her quarry. If her calculations were right, Lord Avingdale should be making an entrance into the ballroom, if he hadn’t already. He wouldn’t remain there for long—or at least so the journals had said.

Then, it was only a matter of time. The familiar adrenaline welled up in her chest. She loved challenges—and history. Her job married those two loves together. She didn’t even have to interact with the natives to experience it, which was fine with her. She recorded history, not interfered in it.

As a research scientist, she investigated the mysteries that confounded humanity. Or more aptly, she sleuthed out the mysteries that rich people contracted her department to solve.

Part of the history her client sought should be walking down the hall in the next fifteen minutes. Typing on the tiny touch screen, she brought up an image of a portrait. As she took in the painted subject, a beep seeped into her consciousness. That didn’t sound like a noise that could be produced in this century. She frowned. In fact, it sounded suspiciously like... A glance downward proved her fears right. Her stomach lurched to her toes. The malfunction light for the invisibility transmitter flashed bright red against the now solid display in her hand.

She cursed and gazed around the hallway. Good, no one around. But who knew when that could change. Now was the time to try to fix the transmitter. She banged it against her leg. Nope, didn’t work. So much for her brilliant, fail-safe method of handling technology. She scowled down at it but then bit her lip as worry pummeled her.

What should she do? She’d be visible to anyone who happened by, and even though she wore period garb, she wasn’t looking forward to any run-ins with the locals. She wasn’t equipped to handle the people of this age—or people from any age, including her own. That was why her position suited her so well.

She prided herself on her mantra of no local interactions on missions and hadn’t failed at that yet. But a little voice in the back of her mind told her there was a first for everything. She stuffed the annoying auditory hallucination into the depths of her mind and fumbled with the transmitter until she hit the communicator button. Please, let it work.

Hey, Maryann, how’s the mission going? Carson, who was Director of Mission Support, asked, his voice blasting through the speaker. She jumped a few inches in the air. With a shaking finger, she tapped the screen to lower the volume.

Mindful of being too loud, she spoke in a loud whisper, It’s not. The transmitter in this piece of junk computer isn’t working.

What did you do to it?

She scowled at the accusation. I told you guys not to skimp on these devices and go with the cheapest company.

Okay, okay. Point taken. So you’re visible now?

She rolled her eyes. Yes, clear as day. Get me out of here.

Only the clack of a keyboard sounded over the interdimensional connection for a few seconds. Ah-ha, here it is. You’re not due to come back until another two weeks, which would be a Saturday in the era you’re stuck in. We can pull you out, but you know that’ll take time—a week or more even. Until that time, you still have to blend in.

Bitter disappointment hit her like a physical blow. That was what she’d feared. Blame it on government bureaucracy at its best. Officials from the Interdimensional Office strictly controlled the complicated process that was at Intellitravel’s heart. The person funding the mission project, as well as their money, was the only thing that mattered to the government-funded business she worked for. It really didn’t matter how big or small the case turned out to be, because even the smallest missions came with a hefty price tag.

She sighed. I’ll stay. Just make sure you retrieve me by the original set date at the latest. Blending in with the natives won’t be any picnic, so I don’t want to prolong it.

You’ll be ready to go. I promise.

Good.

You have their currency on you?

Her back stiffened. Of course.  What did he think she was? A rookie?

Her mind turned toward another problem. While she had some money, she wasn’t sure how much good it would do her. If she still were invisible, she could’ve helped herself to a spare bedroom or sofa in the manor. But that was no longer an option.

Do we have any contacts close by I can crash with? Given the time period and the fact I don’t have a servant or chaperone handy, people will talk if I stay at an inn by myself.

Let me check into that, and I’ll get back to you.

She’d heard that line more than once. How long will it take?

A few hours.

Okay, it better not take longer.

Carson laughed. Yes, Ma’am. His voice turned serious. Be safe and take no unnecessary risks.

Her take risks? Had he forgotten whom he was talking to? I won’t.

Yeah, I guess you’re the last research scientist I need to tell that to. Safe is your middle name.

If his tone were any indication, he might as well have said boring. Well, nothing was wrong with safe...and boring. They fit her like a glove, after all.

Got to go, Carson. Her voice came out more husky than she liked, but she chalked it up to nervousness over the situation.

Without giving him time to respond, she hit the communicator button to end the call. Someone could wander down the hall at any moment and catch her while she was on the device. Such a thing would be disastrous if she couldn’t destroy the computer before it fell into the wrong hands.

She needed a hiding place, but the two nearest doors proved locked. Rooms closer to the ballroom might be unlocked, but with her luck, people would already be in them—or would want to be.

A door shut, and soon the soft thud of footfalls headed her way. Nerves froze her for a moment, and her pulse geared into overdrive. Where to hide her now visible self? Her gaze landed on something in an alcove adjacent to her. Aha! She dove behind the potted plant, belatedly noticing a problem. Its skimpy leaves hid nothing. She shrunk down as much as possible, not that it did much good.

The footfalls soon materialized into the form of a man strolling down the hall. Self-assurance leaked from his pores, and his gait screamed he was lord over all he saw. Basically, the kind of male she tried to stay away from. She was geek, and he was jock. Even with the millennia that separated them, some facts couldn’t be overlooked.

As he came closer, the light from candelabras on the wall shone on his face, revealing every defined feature on his face. Black hair swept down over his forehead, lending him a rakish look that fit the period perfectly. Tight breeches and stockings outlined the strong muscles of his legs. His tailored blue tailcoat fit snugly through broad shoulders and lean torso.

Something about his face drew her gaze again. She gasped as realization slithered up her spine, and she glanced down at the device in her hand. Her gaze stayed riveted to the screen.

It was him—the Marquess of Avingdale. A melon-size lump formed in her throat. He looked so alive and gorgeous, it seemed a shame.

The footsteps stopped, and the air in her lungs disappeared. Lord Avingdale more than likely now stood in the vicinity of her plant. Dread formed in her stomach as she looked up. Yep, there he was in all his lordly glory.

Lord Avingdale stared at her with eyebrows drawn together. You, what are you doing behind that plant?

Me? A nervous laugh bubbled from her lips, but she had enough remaining sense to slip the computer into her reticule. I’m looking...for something. Her statement came out a question, and she closed her eyes. This so wasn’t going well. And that would be?

Her mind spun for a reasonable explanation. I dropped my reticule, and some of my coins spilled out.

He regarded her with a piercing gaze and reached out a white-gloved hand. Let me help you up, Miss....

She flushed under his perusal—and the fact his clipped English accent did funny things to her stomach. Avoiding his gaze, she took his hand without thought—something she never did. Though they both wore gloves, his touch seemed to sear through skin and down to the bone. It was a delicious feeling, not a disgusting one like she’d feared, and had her tingling in the most disturbing way.

He effortlessly lifted her to her feet but made no move to release her. She licked her dry lips, trying to get her hormones to settle down. Her other hand itched to make sure her mousy brown hair lie in its proper coiffure, but she rammed that feeling down. She wasn’t here for a beauty contest or even to impress anybody. Good thing, because she’d lose on both accounts. 

Terrance. Which was her real last name, but using it here couldn’t hurt.

He gave a bow that dripped insolence and laid a kiss on the back of her hand. Jonathan Blakely, Marquess of Avingdale at your service.

If the touch of his fingers had sent jolts through her, the feel of his warm lips through her glove nearly electrocuted her. She smothered a groan. Her mission stared her in the face, her motto of no interaction long gone, and she could barely get a coherent thought in. What was worse, she barely cared about any of it if she could bask in his presence. Time to stop the madness.

Bracing herself, she spoke in her strongest voice. Lord Avingdale. She executed a small curtsy, aware she was probably murdering the movement and that they’d circumvented protocol by not being formally introduced. But since she wasn’t from this century and hadn’t planned on meeting anyone, let alone her quarry, she was going to play it cucumber cool.

You are here for the ball?

Yes. So far, so good. Her act was holding up.

Where is your chaperone?

Sweat wove its way down her back, and her act threatened to crash and burn. Why all the questioning? Couldn’t he just leave? Did he have a tryst to attend? The longer he stood here talking to her, the longer he delayed what must happen.

If he didn’t get a move on, the results could be disastrous. She didn’t want to rewrite history, only record it. Focus, Maryanne. Where could your chaperone be? In the ballroom...or maybe in the card room. From the journals some of the ball attendees and house party guests had kept, she knew there was a card room.

And does she know where you are?