Chapter 6
New York, New York
Emily slipped into a dreamy state of contemplation. The voices of the attendees in the gallery faded away as she absorbed the beauty of the artwork. Marco Allegretto’s paintings were so vivid, they took on a life of their own. Where does the truth lie? In the paintings, or the book, or both? Even if their love affair had been doomed, what an experience to treasure, to be loved and adored like the mysterious woman in the painting. Or the mysterious Iris in the novel. Emily’s Romeos always turned out to be Bozos the Clown or, in Will’s case, a serial cheater. Despite her failed relationships, Emily still yearned for that wondrous one true love. Am I destined to be alone for the rest of my life? Or will I have to wait for the next lifetime to find my soul mate?
An eerie sensation rippled up her spine and she nearly jumped off the bench. The first painting seemed to be moving. Emily wondered if she was seeing things, or if it was a surprise 3D effect of the exhibit? The woman posed in the chair in La Sedia shifted and was now looking directly at her and not Marco, her features becoming more discernible. Instead of the ghostly image that baffled art historians, Allegretto’s beautiful mystery woman began to glimmer with life. Her rich red hair glowed and her emerald-green eyes sparkled.
Emily looked around, wondering if anyone else was seeing what she was seeing, but no one seemed to be paying attention. She couldn’t comprehend it. As the colors in the painting became brighter and bolder, the people in the gallery seemed to fade before her eyes and turn colorless. She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes once more and was shocked to see the painting become even more vivid. Maybe I drank too much last night. Her discomposure intensified as a buzzing sound echoed in her ears. It felt like she was having a stroke. Her pulse throbbed in her temples. Emily could barely move. It was as though her body were frozen in place as she watched the features of the woman transpose and rearrange themselves. The woman’s hair grew lighter until it turned the shade of blonde silk on an ear of corn, and her eye color turned from green to the blue of Delft china. Emily’s throat seized and she couldn’t swallow. As fantastical as her imagination was, there was no explanation for what she was seeing. She might as well have been staring into a mirror. The woman in the painting had become her. Was this a distillation of her dearest yearnings? Or had she gone doolally?
Her heart pounded rapidly in her breast and her ears rang so loudly that it unbalanced her to the point where she felt overcome by vertigo. Her spine refused to support her. She was sure she was about to pass out. Her hands gripped the bench and she steadied herself, forcing deep breaths in and out. One glance around the gallery and she felt the color drain from her face. The world had turned upside down. Around her the museum patrons appeared to become ghostly specters, insubstantial.
Her gaze returned to the painting where Marco’s lips were pressed to the woman’s hand. Shocked, Emily could feel his lips on her own skin. She shivered from head to toe. When Marco turned his head and his blue eyes looked at her, the ringing in her ears rose to a deafening decibel, drowning out her startled cry. “No! This can’t be real. Stop!”
Marco gave her a charming smile and stretched his hand out from the painting, palm out, his eyes beckoning. Emily couldn’t stop what was happening. The practical side of her mind told her to run but a deeper ancient voice as old as time urged her to take his hand. Trust your soul. She placed her hand in his and he tugged her closer, closer, pulling her into the painting itself. She moved through a gauzy curtain of beauty and colors swirling about her like a giant kaleidoscope. The colors were so bright she had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, she had to blink several times. Pitch black surrounded her. Blacker than a moonless night. She trembled from the strange sensation of being immaterial and her hair swirled around her face as she was thrust forward through the darkness. It reminded her of the original Star Trek series where the transporter beamed people to different locations. But that was a TV show, science fiction.
An importunate male voice interrupted her thoughts, echoing in her ears. He repeated, “Aiutaci, ti prego…Aiutaci, ti prego…Aiutaci, ti prego…” Somehow, her mind translated the repeated words. “Help us, please.” Did she understand because of her Italian classes?
How? What did he want of her? Where was she going and how would she get back? Her arrhythmic heartbeat sounded like horses’ hooves pounding the ground. And then she gasped, realizing what she was hearing were in fact horses’ hooves and they were pounding the ground. Her pulse raced and her pumping adrenaline sent out a warning signal to move. But where? Her vision cleared and, in less time than it took to take a breath, she was surrounded by swirling tendrils of fog. A cold rain drenched her and as she stared ahead into the blackness of night, a vehicle swerved past her, and she was splashed and covered with mud. She wiped her face off as best she could. She was in the middle of a road, and another team of four horses with steam spurting out of their nostrils was bearing down on her. They looked like fire-breathing dragons. A scream filled her ears. She heard a man yell, “Whoa!”
The horses reared up and Emily raised her hands to protect herself. The world slipped into slow motion and the last thing she saw was the horses’ hooves pawing the air before she collapsed.
Before she saw him, she felt him. Strong arms lifted her, and her face pressed into a broad chest. Emily’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked up into the face of the most handsome man she’d ever seen if only his lips weren’t turned down in a pronounced furious frown.
“Bloody hell, I don’t think I have ever seen anything more stupid. Standing in the middle of a busy thoroughfare on a foggy, rainy night. What in God’s name were you thinking, Madam?”
Anger tore through her like a tornado. “Put me down! I did not choose to stand in the middle of the road. I-I—” What was the sense of telling him how she got there? He’d never believe her. And then there was the fact that her would-be rescuer appeared to be wearing fancy evening attire, which was now covered in mud thanks to her. Better to figure out where she was and think things through before elucidating anymore of her bizarre tale. Besides, she was feeling quite dizzy, and not just from gazing at the man’s handsome face. “I don’t know how I came to be standing here. My memory seems to have left me. I’m terribly sorry to inconvenience you.”
He looked at her with heavily lashed hazel eyes, the grim set of his mouth eased, and his gaze softened. The most delicious deep baritone grumbled, “You could have been killed and I would have never forgiven myself.”
The door of the horse-drawn carriage opened. “Good Lord, Colin,” another male voice commanded. “Get her inside before you both catch your death of cold.”
Colin handed her inside to an older gentleman and a woman who wrapped her in a blanket. Colin followed her in, and the older man tapped his silver-knobbed cane on the ceiling and the carriage pulled forward to the reassuring clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. He had gray mutton chop sideburns and wore a top hat. The older woman, who was no doubt the man’s wife, wore a blue velvet gown beneath a matching velvet cloak with jeweled epaulettes. Emily could only think that these strangely attired people were dressed for a costume party. Or maybe they’re actors on their way to a performance?
“Do you have a name, Girl? And pray tell us how you happened to be standing in the middle of Piccadilly Road on such a godforsaken night.”
London? Piccadilly Road? But that’s impossible. Her back stiffened and she leaned forward and tried to see out of the window, but it was too foggy and dark to see much of anything.
“Arthur, stop badgering the poor girl,” the woman reprimanded. “Can you not see she has had a terrible fright?”
“Helena, what would you have us do with her?”
Emily was beginning to feel like she was in The Twilight Zone. How odd to continue the charade and speak as if you were from another time. Besides, she found it completely irritating to be spoken about as if she weren’t present. But what kept her from speaking up was her growing fear that something was terribly wrong. How could she possibly be in London when only minutes ago she was in New York sitting in the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a bright, sunny, spring day? She stole a glance at Colin and found him silently observing her with his heavy-lidded gaze that she felt sure was meant to disarm his opponents, and most likely his conquests. Calculated. Overly self-assured! Entitled! Fortunately, she doubted he could see the flush of color that crept up her neck. She had felt protected in his embrace, but now she only felt exposed. His eyes seemed to shoot disdainful arrows of mistrust at her. She shot him back a haughty, don’t-mess-with-me look.
“Do with her? We will do what we wished some kind soul would have done for our beloved Daphne.” Helena dabbed a lace handkerchief beneath her eyes to absorb the tears that began to flow with the mention of Daphne’s name. “We will take her home and see to her comfort.” Helena’s gloved hand patted Emily on her knee. “Do not worry, my dear,” she sniffled, “we will make everything all right. You will be comfortable at Hempstead House. Tomorrow will be soon enough to deal with the matter of who you are and how we can help you. How you came to be in the middle of the road is of no concern to me. As far as I’m concerned, God placed you there.”
Emily’s head throbbed from the bombardment of information coming at her. Her discomfort had begun to grow when it occurred to her that Helena, Arthur, and Colin all spoke with a posh Queen’s English accent. They had provided no explanation for their costumes, or this horse-drawn carriage which, come to think of it, was nothing like the open carriages that plied their trade around Central Park. This fully enclosed carriage drawn by four horses, which she could attest to as she’d nearly been mowed down by them, was luxuriously upholstered in gray kid leather, and had brass sconces lit by candles that provided a pale-yellow light illuminating the elegant interior. In the two years she’d lived in New York, she’d never seen another like it. Come to think of it, she’d rarely seen one in London except for some state occasion when the queen or some other royal was using it to display pageantry or upholding tradition. She was afraid to know the truth, but she gathered her courage and asked the question that caused prickly heat to burn her skin, “What year is it?”
Three pairs of eyes widened, and the posh people exchanged surprised glances.
“My dear, it is 1892 and the fifty-fifth year of our blessed monarch, Queen Victoria’s reign.” Helena’s face was awash with worry as she gently suggested, “I fear you may have suffered a concussion when you fell. How are you feeling? Are you injured in any way?”
“Is this some sort of joke?” Emily replied, indignation battling with mounting fear.
“By jiminy, this is not good, Colin. I daresay, she could be as mad as hops.” Arthur eyed her as if she might be a new species of insect.
Emily bit her tongue in time to stop herself from blurting out that Queen Elizabeth was the current monarch of the British Isles. “I’m terribly sorry, I’m not myself.” Whatever their peculiarities, they seemed like good people who meant her no ill intent. Looking down, she shuddered when she realized her sleeves and dress were caked in mud. She snuck a glance at Colin. How must she look? But what did it matter what her rescuer thought? He’d hardly said a word and merely glowered in the corner of the cab. And now his handsome face was in shadows, smirking at her she felt sure. All she knew was he’d lifted her as if she were a feather and she couldn’t help but feel his muscled chest and the strength of his arms. Oh, don’t be a prat, what am I thinking? She needed to focus on where she was and how she got here. And how in the hell am I going to get back?
The carriage made a turn, and the clatter of horses’ hooves grew louder. “Colin, my good man, will you stay for a glass of port while we sort things out? We’ll ask Graham to clean that mud off your dinner jacket and coat before it dries completely, and those stains set.”
“Yes, Colin, my dear, do join us. After all, you are the hero of the day.” Helena’s fondness for the man was evident in the warmth of her tone.
Colin leaned forward, his gaze burrowing beneath Emily’s skin. She shuddered as goosebumps tickled her arms. Helena clucked like a mother hen and wrapped the blanket more snugly around Emily’s shoulders. The older lady clearly thought Emily was shaking from the cold and not because of Colin’s penetrating eyes.
Colin raised his brows, and a slight smile tweaked his lips as if daring Emily to protest. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” his deep voice rumbled.
Copyright © 2022 by Tema N. Merback
Lost in Time #1
Can a cynical fashion editor in modern-day Manhattan find true love in Victorian-era London?
Welcome to book 1 in the phenomenal new series Lost in Time by the bestselling author Belle Ami.
Emily Christie, a British ex-pat fashion editor in NYC, yearns for the kind of love depicted in literature and art. When Emily and her two “besties”, Jenee and Gabriella, attend an exhibition of Renaissance artist Marco Allegretto at the Met, Emily can’t help but be drawn into the ethereal beauty of his trio of paintings, The Three Stages of Love. Each painting features Allegretto with his muse and lover, a beautiful and mysterious woman with long red hair. Although her identity was lost to the winds of time, she was the inspiration for the heroine in The Time Traveler’s Lover.
The bestselling novel devoured by Emily and her friends in their book club tells the heartrending story of Iris Bellerose, a young woman in World War II Paris who is flung back in time to Renaissance Florence where she meets and falls in love with Allegretto.
If only the novel were true!
When Allegretto suddenly comes to life in the first painting and takes Emily’s hand, she’s stunned right down to her Manolos. But Emily is shocked beyond imagination when Allegretto flings her back in time to Victorian-era London, where she quite literally lands at the feet of Colin Remington, the heir to the Marquess of Danbury.
Colin is investigating a series of grisly murders of young women, one of whom was his fiancée, Daphne Carmichael. Emily, who bears a striking resemblance to Daphne, is shaken by this strange coincidence. Desperate to unravel her predicament and desperate to stop the murders, she and Colin join forces.
But how will Emily manage her growing feelings for the impossibly attractive Lord Remington, and how in blazes will she ever get home?
Romance Time Slip [Dragonblade Publishing, Inc, On Sale: August 9, 2022, e-Book, ISBN: 9781958098455 / ]
Belle Ami is an accomplished pianist, world traveler, skier and gourmet cook. She lives in Calabasas, CA and is currently finishing her sequel to The One entitled The One and More,the second novel in her (The Only One) series. She also has a self-published novel in another genre that was awarded Finalist for a major book reward.
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