Waltz in Time by Eugenia Riley
$3.99
From #1 Kindle Bestselling Time Travel Romance author Eugenia Riley, a HOLT Medallion Winning Book!
She waltzes across time as a matchmaker, only to fall in love with the groom . . .
Stephanie Sergeant has returned to Natchez to live with her sister
Sam in the splendid antebellum mansion both inherited from Great-aunt
Magnolia. But there is no peace at Harmony House. The grand estate is
haunted not only by an ever-fretful Magnolia, but also by a gaggle of
ghosts from the late-nineteenth century, including the spirits of a
lovelorn former governess and her five rambunctious charges.
Stephanie learns that the governess, “Miss Ebbie,” died of a broken
heart after falling for the children’s widowed father. Determined to
save Ebbie’s life and restore peace in the household, Stephanie soon
embarks on an amazing waltz across time, straight into the arms of a
dashing Southern rogue!
Stephanie is astounded to find herself transported to the year 1878,
where she meets Ebbie and the children. But she is even more
flabbergasted to find herself the instant romantic quarry of her
devastating host, Andre Goddard. Stephanie knows she’s been sent across
time on a mission, to save Ebbie’s life by matching her up with Andre.
Can she transform the shy spinster into a bold and alluring creature who
can capture Andre’s eye, while keeping him at bay in the meantime?
But Stephanie finds that the more she tries to pair up Ebbie with
Andre, the more the sexy scamp and his five adorable children gravitate
toward her. In the battle to save Ebbie’s life, will Stephanie lose her
own heart instead?
Waltz in Time is an enchanting full-length time travel romance of
approximately 112,000 words. Author Eugenia Riley is the acclaimed,
bestselling author of numerous historical, contemporary and time travel
romances, including A Tryst in Time and Bushwhacked Bride. She has
written for publishers including Avon, Bantam, Warner, Harlequin and
Dorchester.
An Excerpt from Waltz in
Time by Eugenia Riley
Lost in time in the romantic Old
South!
Andre was standing
in the shadows of the veranda, sipping brandy, when he heard the
clamor in Stephanie’s room. Seconds later, one of her French doors
banged open, and he observed Stephanie doing a silly little dance
with a fireplace broom before bursting outside. In amazement, he
watched her wriggle her way down the veranda, all the while bent over
thrashing with her ridiculous little broom, her derriere bobbing
becomingly.
He watched her
turn at the sound of his laughter, regarding him in shock, wisps of
hair trailing enticingly about her face. "Are you practicing
some quaint new housekeeping technique, Madame Sergeant?" he
called.
Stephanie was
taken aback by the sight of him in the moonlight, his shirt partially
unbuttoned, a snifter of brandy in his hand, and merriment glinting
in his eyes. Embarrassed, she stammered, "I—I didn’t see you
standing there."
"Obviously
not," he drawled, "or you doubtless would have swept me out
of your way, too."
Stephanie had to
laugh.
Andre drew several
steps closer, eyeing her in mingled amusement and perplexity.
"Madame, you are forever delighting me with new aspects of your
character." He nodded toward the broom she held. "Tell me,
are you so obsessed with cleanliness that you would resort to such
absurd measures? I’m sure we’ve a full-size broom somewhere down
in the butler’s pantry."
Stephanie
chortled. "I guess I must have looked pretty silly."
He eyed her
intently. "Silly is not the word I would have chosen, but you
definitely intrigued me."
"You don’t
understand. I was sweeping a mouse out of my room."
"Ah," he
murmured. "Heaven help the poor rodent that crosses the path of
the formidable Madame Sergeant."
She cast him a
scolding look.
He offered her his
snifter. "Here, have a drink to calm yourself."
Propping her broom
against the house, she waved him off. "I assure you, I’m no
swooning woman with a bad case of nerves."
"On the
contrary, you appeared on the verge of apoplexy just now, so I
insist." He pressed the snifter into her hands. "Besides,
this is quite an excellent French brandy."
After slanting him
another chiding glance, Stephanie lifted the snifter and took a slow
sip, feeling a decadent thrill to be sharing the same glass with him.
"You’re right—it’s wonderful." She handed the snifter
back, feeling a new twinge of excitement as their fingers brushed.
"Now if you’ll excuse me . . ."
"But I don’t
excuse you," he replied.
Stephanie felt her
hackles rising. "Look, if you’re planning to lecture me again
regarding Henry Robillard, you can just forget it."
Andre whistled.
"Why would you assume I was going to lecture you again?"
"Because
you’re always trying to interfere in matters that are none your
concern."
Andre shook his
head. "Those who live under my roof are none of my concern?
Whence do you hail, Madame, that you’ve acquired such peculiar
notions?"
Stephanie fought a
grudging smile; she supposed that, from the perspective of the
typical nineteenth century male, he had a point. "I guess in
some ways, I must seem odd to you."
He offered her a
conciliatory smile. "Why don’t we just try to call a truce for
now?"
"A truce?"
She flashed him a superior look. "If you’re so anxious to
establish peace, is that why you left the tin of bonbons in my room?"
He chuckled. "You
seem to be suffering from the delusion that some mysterious person
keeps visiting your room."
"I know you
have."
He regarded her
sheepishly. "Madame, as I’ve stated previously, I do regret
our little disagreements. I’d like you to realize I’m really not
so terrible a fellow."
"Yes, you’ve
convinced me you’re a saint," she quipped back. "But now
I must go in."
He touched her
arm. "No, please stay for a while."
"Why?"
she asked, intrigued and disarmed.
He shook his head
wonderingly. "You really don’t know, do you?"
"No, but I
could guess."
"If you
guessed, you’d be wrong," he stated.
"Would I?"
Stephanie crossed her arms over her bosom. "You know, I’d love
to be wrong about you for a change. So tell me why I should stay."
Turning toward the
railing, he made a sweeping gesture. "Because it’s a sin to
turn one’s back on so beautiful a night."
Caught off-guard
by his words, Stephanie stared out at the picturesque moonlit
grounds. She watched the foliage stir in the breeze. The light was
exquisite, and the scent of the air was intoxicating. The night was
incredible, she had to admit it. And he was right—she hadn’t even
noticed.
Andre moved closer
to her. "Look, Madame. See how beautiful the moon is, and watch
the light dance on the Spanish moss. Hear the whistle of the wind and
the sawing of the crickets, smell the jasmine, the roses."
Stephanie felt her
senses stirring at his words, along with an unexpected tenderness,
and twinges of regret. How long had it been since she’d taken the
time to gaze out at a beautiful night? But could she afford to do so
with him so temptingly close? Remembering how they’d both almost
lost control in his office earlier that day, she didn’t think so.
"Yes, the
night is lovely," she acknowledged, her voice quivering
slightly. "But I mustn’t linger."
"Why? Does a
night like this bring memories of your departed husband? Does it make
you sad?"
Amazed by his
insight, and feeling a rush of bittersweet emotion, Stephanie
nonetheless shook her head. "My husband would never have wanted
me to look at a beautiful night and feel sad."
Andre nodded.
"Then he was quite a noble fellow."
"Yes, he
was."
He edged closer
still, regarding her wistfully. "The night can bring out secret
yearnings, you know."
His words, while
tantalizing, put Stephanie in a half panic. "Look, I really
can’t be having this conversation with you."
He touched her
shoulder. "Wait. You have no real idea what I’m talking about,
do you?"
Bewildered, she
could only stare at him.
Once again, he
gestured out at the grounds. "When I was young, my family lived
in a big house south of town. In the evenings, all of us used to
gather on the front gallery, and Mama would read to us children."
"How
charming," she murmured.
"She’d also
tell stories of our family history, of her and Papa’s travels. On
spring or summer nights, we children used to play on the front lawn.
We’d lie in the grass on our backs, smell the magnolia blossoms and
look up at the stars, even dream of how we might visit the heavens."
Stephanie found
her gaze drawn up to the sky. The images he spun were entrancing.
"I hear you
read to my children now," he went on. "Did anyone read to
you when you were young?"
"Of course,"
she replied tightly. "My parents did."
Gently, he teased,
"And what was the stern Madame Sergeant reared on? Perhaps
lectures on household efficiency, or mastering one’s schedule?"
She rolled her
eyes at him. "Certainly not. My parents read me Perrault and
Hans Christian Anderson, the Arabian nights."
"Ah, fairy
tales. Then we shared some of the same stories."
"I suppose we
did."
"And there
was also a time when Madame was more fanciful, no? That is, before
you became preoccupied with agendas and rules, and silly little
brooms."
Stephanie couldn’t
answer him. She was fighting an unexpected lump in her throat.
Andre looked
toward the sky. "As a boy, I used to gaze up at those heavens
and imagine myself gathering stars in a big basket."
"What a
beautiful image."
"And you? Did
you have such yearnings?"
Stephanie
hesitated, realizing this conversation could stray easily into
dangerous territory. She looked up at the sky, and felt poignant
memories welling up. "I’ve never gotten to travel much.
Sometimes when I was young, I used to stare up at the night sky and
wonder what it would be like to see the moon and those stars from
another perspective—like standing in the Piazza San Marco in
Venice, or on the Left Bank in Paris, or in the Strand in London."
He reached out to
touch her cheek. "I’ve been to all those places, Stephanie. I
could take you there."
She shut her eyes.
She dared not answer him.
"Stephanie,
look at me."
She opened her
eyes to see him gazing at her soulfully. The night swirled about
them, like a sensual blanket enfolding them, pulling them closer.
"What do you
yearn for now?" he whispered.
Oh, he could be
devastating! Even as her heart thrummed out a passionate response,
she knew she dared not answer honestly.
"I—I think
it’s time for us to call it a night."
Surprising her, he
only smiled and sipped his brandy. "Pleasant dreams, Stephanie."
Unsteadily, she
turned and reentered her bedroom. Already she very much feared her
dreams would be of him . . .
Copyright © 1997
by Eugenia Riley Essenmacher
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