“And you’ll fail. If I needed controlling, I would’ve come with a remote and an instruction manual.”
Closing his eyes, Étienne pinched the bridge of his nose. “My God. You are insufferable.”
I shrug a shoulder and become silent. After a few seconds, I say, “I don’t like that man.”
“I can tell. But you have to realize I’ve known Asa my whole life. He’s a childhood friend.”
“Does he work for you?”
Étienne nods. “He’s my accountant. Along with Edward.”
I think I’m more upset over the fact that Étienne and I were having a rare conversation where we weren’t lunging at each other’s throats, and Asa burst into the room and ruined that moment. I was given a brief moment of what it was like to be friendly with Étienne, and I want more.
“I’ll talk to him today about how he spoke to you, okay?”
I give a small smile. “You don’t have to do that.”
Étienne shrugs. “He was rude. Keep in mind that he’s someone I have to work with on a daily basis.”
“I know.” My shoulders slump in defeat. “I just want to go home. That’s all.”
“I understand. We’ll continue to find a way the best way we know how. Continue to search through Belgrave. I’ll look through my files and ask around town if any of the names you gave me sound familiar, okay?”
Mutely, I nod.
“Excellent.”
Étienne stands, grabs his jacket from the coat rack, and puts it on. For a second, I admire the way his biceps strain against his shirt before they’re covered up. Before he turns around, I quickly look away. I’m engaged. Not blind, yet I still feel a strange sense of guilt because I wanted to keep looking.
Étienne’s oblivious to my thoughts and walks toward the door. “I have a meeting in thirty minutes.” He arches a brow. “I presume you don’t want to come along?”
“No. I’ll go back to Belgrave.”
I’m no closer to finding a way home. Right now, all I feel is defeat piled on top of more defeat. I know it shows in my eyes. I don’t try to hide it.
Étienne’s mouth opens and closes a few times. Patiently, I wait to hear what he has to say, but nothing comes out. In the end, he opens the door and gestures for me to go before him.
“YOU CAN DO this,” I whisper to myself. “You’re going to find a way back to your time.”
Pretty words, almost encouraging, but when I look around and think of all the things I’m up against, it overwhelms me and steals all of my hope. More than anything, I want to walk out of this room and suddenly be in my world. A place that is not unknown. It’s been a week since the Titanic sank. A week since I’ve finally earned Étienne’s trust. The two of us have tried to think of anything and everything that could bring me back to my time. He’s searched through his files for any of my family member’s names and has asked around Charleston, but he’s come up empty. Things aren’t better on my end. I’ve practically ransacked his office, library, and even Old Serene’s room for a note or picture. Still, there’s nothing.
I’ve never backed down from anything, but for the first time in my life, I’m scared. Scared because I’m unfamiliar with my surroundings. Scared because I have no idea what today will bring.
Doesn’t help that my thoughts are a jumbled mess. And when I try to separate one question from the rest, five more appear. But each one always reverts to the same one—what is the reason for me being here?
Right about now would be a good time for my iPad to appear. If it did, I’d Google until I got the answers I needed. I could search my heart out, find all the facts about this era, but I’d never discover a logical explanation as to how this happened.
I firmly believe that Étienne has something to do with it. The dream, the picture, and the fact that I’m his “wife” are not coincidences.
That feels like the only reliable fact out of all of this.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
I blink, bringing Hannah into focus. She’s standing behind me, staring at my reflection with concern. I wipe my cheeks for any stray tears and take a deep breath. “I’m fine. Just stressed, that’s all.”
In my mind, I pictured getting Étienne to believe me as the hardest task. Anything after would be a cakewalk. I envisioned him pulling out a significant document. Or perhaps it’d be as simple as him saying, “I believe you, Serene.” And poof! I’d be back in my own time. As simple as that, right?
Oh, how wrong I was.
The problem is Étienne’s as lost as I am. The only thing that linked us is the picture. That’s the only clue we have to go off of. I’ve described the photo to him numerous times in great detail, and he swears that he has never taken a picture in front of Belgrave with Livingston.
I’m at a stopgap. I’m trying to think of ideas and ways to go home, but nothing is sticking. My anxiety has been growing like a giant beast, and now it’s making me a shaking mess.
Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like?
I mutter a quick goodbye to Hannah and leave my bedroom. I can’t be in there. I need to move. Moving helps me breathe better. My feet propel me forward, and even though I’ve become more familiar with this enormous mansion, I typically stick to the east wing and downstairs. Each room is different from the last, each designed to take your breath away. In total, there are three floors and seventy-five rooms. The house is one big optical illusion—right when you think there’s no more room, you walk down another hallway and see more doors. I’ve spent the past two days going through every one, including the “maids’ quarters,” as Nat calls them. However, right now, I walk past the stairs, moving toward the other side of the house, toward Étienne’s room.
At least I think this is where his room is. A few times, after dinner, I’ve seen him turn in this direction and go to the second door on the left. I hesitate in front of that door, and instead of knocking as I should, I walk right in.
“I need to talk to you,” I say with authority I don’t have.
Étienne, who’s standing in front of a mirror, jumps as though I’ve struck him. “What are you doing?”
“I need to talk to you,” I repeat.
The man helping Étienne get dressed gives me his back and continues to polish Étienne’s shoes in silence.
Étienne turns toward me, but not before I see him discreetly button up his black slacks. “Right now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m changin’.”
“Are you self-conscious changing in front of me?”
Because he didn’t need to be. At all. He isn’t gorgeous, but his body is perfection. His white shirt is unbuttoned, and his black bow tie is draped around his neck, begging for a woman to loop the material around her hands and tug him toward her.
My pulse increases at the thought.
“No, I’m not self-conscious,” he snaps. “I’m simply used to getting dressed in private.”
“Then why is that guy in here?”
Étienne glances at me from the corner of his eye. “He’s my valet. That’s his job.”
“Well, I can help you. I have two perfectly working hands.” I lift my hands, spread my fingers, and wiggle them.
It’s a joke, but his valet appears horrified. To be fair, Étienne wore that expression a lot when he first met me, but he’s adapting to my humor.
Right now, he rolls his eyes and looks to his valet. “I can take it from here. I need to speak to Mrs. Lacroix alone.” He arches a brow and smirks.
Mrs. Lacroix.
Little shit. He knows I don’t like that title.
“Of course, sir,” his valet says.
I step out of the valet’s way and wait until he closes the door before I walk deeper into the room. Étienne’s bedroom is decorated in deep navy and gray. A king-size mahogany bed stands to the left of me. My hand curls around the smooth bedpost as I scan the room. There’s a lamp with a red marble glass shade. I’m confident that lamp would sell for close to two grand in my time. His glasse
s are next to the lamp.
Heavy, dark velvet drapes conceal the outside world. I bet it’s forbidden for the curtains to be pulled back to let sunlight pour into his dungeon. Next to the windows is a wooden gentleman’s valet stand.
There’s a lowboy dresser on the other side of the room. It’s polished so thoroughly, I could probably see my reflection on the surface. Very few items on the dresser. A watch. A small glass bowl with cufflinks. A carriage clock. There’s a magazine called the All-Story. I have no idea what magazine that is, but I’m assuming it’s about stories. Like his office, everything has its place, and absolutely nothing is out of order.
“Did you come in here for a reason?”
“Yes.” I move away from the bed and toward the windows. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“About?”
“Talking isn’t the right word. More like vent,” I confess.
“About?”
I throw my hands up and laugh emotionlessly. “About? What do you think?”
His brows pucker as he concentrates on buttoning one of his sleeves. “Have you found anything that can send you home?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Étienne’s head snaps up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I remark dryly. “All I need to do is build a time machine, and I can be home within seconds!”
He exhales loudly and goes back to buttoning up his sleeve. Well, attempting to. All he’s doing is pulling the thread of the button away from the cuff.
“If I’d found anything that’d take me back to my time, I’d be much happier right now.” I sigh and walk over to him and wave his hand away. “Here, let me help. Your paws are too big.”
“Did you call my hands paws?”
I grab his wrist. His skin feels like fire against mine. “Yes. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’re massive, and watching you mutilate that poor button is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“This is why I have a valet. To help me.”
I try to slide the button through the thin slit and fail the first time, so I tighten my grip. I’m so focused on this damn button going into the damn slit that I don’t even think twice when I place his hand on my upper breast. I freeze and stop myself from sucking in a sharp breath.
Étienne doesn’t move an inch. His hand remains pressed against my chest, his fingers slightly curled into a loose fist. He’s so tall that his shoulders become hunched somewhat. They’re so broad, they envelop me, shielding me from the room and blocking out the light. It makes my task harder, yet I don’t utter a word.
After a few seconds, the button slips through. I have to stop the sigh from escaping my lips.
“Other hand.”
Obediently, Étienne gives me his other wrist and boldly places his hand on my chest in the same place as his other hand was. I feel his sharp gaze on me, and it makes me slip up more than once. Can he feel how fast my heart is beating? I bet he can.
I bite my lower lip and concentrate, but it’s pretty damn hard; standing this close, I can smell him. Maybe I’ve been away from Will too long because Étienne smells divine. He isn’t wearing cologne. It’s the smell of his soap that’s putting me into a tizzy.
I’m pathetic.
After the fifth try, the button slides through.
“There. All done.” I all but throw Étienne’s hand back to him.
“Thank you.”
I nod and take a small step back, watching as Étienne continues getting ready. Discreetly, I place my palm against my chest as if that very act will soothe my frantic heart.
“Will it improve your mood if we go over everything we’ve searched through?”
I jolt at the sound of Étienne’s voice. “No. Maybe. I don’t know!”
Étienne leans against the dresser with his arms crossed.
“I mean, I feel like I’m gonna explode. I’m beyond frustrated because I’m searching for a way home, and nothing is happening.”
Étienne doesn’t offer words of support. Not that I expect him to. He’s not the comforting type. He remains quiet, staring in that unnerving way of his. A few seconds of silence and he pushes away from the dresser.
“Do you want to take a walk?” he proposes, not meeting my eyes.
“A walk?”
“Yes. A walk,” Étienne says deliberately slowly, as though he’s talking to an infant. “A walk might clear your head.”
It’s not the worst suggestion. It actually doesn’t sound half bad. Getting outside and taking a few deep, cleansing breaths might be precisely what I need.
I give him a faint smile. “A walk sounds nice.”
Instead of smiling back, Étienne frowns, straightens his shoulders, and clears his throat. “Fine. A walk it is.” He grabs his blazer from the valet stand. Even though it’s humid out, he puts it on. I try not to stare at how his abs become defined against his white shirt. As he walks toward the door, he adjusts the collar of his jacket. The material conforms to the wide berth of his shoulders.
Side by side, we walk down the stairs. Ben doesn’t raise a brow at seeing the two of us and opens the front door. Instantly, I wish I’d put my hair up.
“We should walk down the driveway,” I announce.
“I was thinking of a walk around Belgrave.”
I gesture to the long, twisting drive in front of us. “Look how enticing it is. Listen closely.” I cup a hand around my ear. “It’s saying, ‘Walk me, Serene and Étienne. Walk me.’”
Étienne stops beside me and, with his hands on his hips, shakes his head. “You’re a strange creature.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me since I’ve arrived,” I reply cheekily before I set off down the driveway.
It’s a matter of seconds before Étienne catches up to me.
“How long is this driveway?”
“Almost two miles,” Étienne replies.
“I bet I could ask you how many acres your house stands on and you’d—”
“Before we sold it, a thousand acres,” he cut in.
“Why did you sell off the acres?”
“There was a year of bad crops. My father wasn’t interested in running a sugar plantation. He was busy enough with the shipping company and decided to sell. Which ended up being a wise decision.”
I stop walking and arch a brow. “What else can you tell me?”
“About Belgrave? Everything,” he says confidently. “This is all I know.”
“It’s a beautiful place, but that’s not what I’m curious about. I wanna know how your family earned all this.” I gesture wildly at our peaceful surroundings. “Was it by luck or hard work?”
“Both. My father’s parents immigrated in 1853 from Beauvais, France, with only sixteen francs to their name. My father was a year old. My grandfather, Alexandre, wasn’t a brilliant man, but he was hardworkin’ and persistent. Started workin’ at the docks and wanted to start his own shipping company, but then there was the Civil War. It shattered Charleston.”
I nod anxiously, rapt with attention. These words are better than any history lesson or textbook because it’s his life. His family. His story.
“In 1864, he started a shipping company that grew to be very prosperous.”
“Fascinating,” I whisper.
Étienne glances at me, his skepticism showing. He thinks I’m being sarcastic.
“I’m not joking,” I quickly say. “It truly is fascinating. I mean, the history books have got nothing on you.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “Tell me about the city you grew up in.”
This is the first time Étienne has shown any interest in my life, rather than just the details of my time. It’s shocking, yet refreshing; I’m always the one asking questions. “I grew up in McLean, Virginia.”
He nods. “Is it a busy city?”
“I guess so. My family’s home is on the outskirts of town with lots of space, but it’s nothing close to Belgrave.”
“How do you mean?”
“
For starters, there isn’t this.” I pause dramatically and close my eyes. When I open them, Étienne is staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“There isn’t what?”
I shush him. “Listen.”
He pauses, his brows furrowed. “I don’t hear anything.”
Leaning in, I smile widely. “Exactly. Your era has this peace. In my time, you can hear the sounds of cars driving by, impatient people honking their horns. People are yelling or loudly laughing. We never truly take the time to stop and appreciate the moment.”
Gravel crunches beneath our feet as we continue down the driveway.
“Do you miss your brothers?” he asks.
I glance at my feet. “I do. Especially my brother Ian. Not to say I don’t miss Bradley, I do, but there’s a bigger age gap between us, and he’s so serious and focused. Ian and I are closer in age. He’s silly, and if I need help, he’s always there.”
Étienne remains silent. “And your fiancé—you miss him, too?”
“Of course,” I say, outrage coating my words. I don’t know why I’m so defensive. It’s a simple question. Perhaps it’s because when I first came here, I missed Will so severely, it was a physical ache. That pain is growing dim though, and it’s scary. It doesn’t help that my body is reacting to Étienne in ways it has no business reacting. I’m betraying Will. Plain and simple.
“Of course I miss him,” I say gently.
Étienne looks nervous to ask another question, and I can’t blame him. I just ripped his head off. It’s probably best that he doesn’t ask any more; we need to get back on track and talk about something a little less personal.
“I don’t like that Asa dude,” I blurt.
Étienne whips his head toward me. “Excuse me?”
“That man I met in your office? I don’t trust him. Something seems off.”
“What makes you say that?”
“For starters, he was an ass to me. And he had a cocky smile.”
My answer makes Étienne burst into laughter.
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. And that’s what makes it funny. Because if Asa is suspicious for his… how did you put it? Cocky smile? Then that means Livingston should be on your list of people not to trust.”