Time for a Duke by Ruth J. Hartman
To my amazing fellow authors at Astraea Press who always offer such wonderful advice and encouragement. I’m so blessed to be part of such a wonderful publishing house!
Chapter One
December 2012
"Okay, it's not funny anymore. Let me out. Please?" Izzy took deep breaths, grasping her fingers together until they tingled and threatened to go numb. Her legs and lips would be next. She hated the out-of-control feeling panic attacks gave her. Visiting this old estate had been her first mistake. The second? Trusting the snotty women on her tour group.
She should've known their giggles weren't a good thing when she walked into what they'd assured her was a den. With little light in the room, she'd sucked in a gulp of stale air when the door had slammed shut and the key had clicked in the lock. The room had turned out to be a closet. A small one. Not the best place for a claustrophobic.
Izzy slumped to the floor and tried to calm her rapid heartbeat. Maybe visiting England hadn't been such a great idea, even though she'd dreamed of it for years and used up a lot of her savings to pay for it. All she'd wanted was to have an adventure and learn something new. And somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd secretly hoped for a little no-strings-attached romance. But the way her trip had gone so far, none of that was happening.
Now she was locked in this blasted closet! She tasted salt from her upper lip and knew she'd started to perspire. Hot sweat collided with frigid chills, as her body couldn't decide which way to turn. At times, her panic attacks left her wringing wet. Would this one be the same? Breathe, Izzy.
Clutching her tan chinos with numbing fingers, she grasped at anything she could find in the dark. Her short fingernails snagged on a hole in the knee of her slacks. Had it happened when she hit the floor? Somehow, holding onto something gave her a tiny sense of control, even if what she held on to was herself. Stagnant, dusty air coated her throat and her eyes dampened. The air smelled… old, like her grandmother's trunk in the attic when Izzy visited as a little girl. Had the peculiar odor come from the huge fireplace? She'd been admiring how the stones fit together when the women suggested she check out the "den".
But the smell didn't make any sense. The house had been around for a century, but surely the people who ran the tours kept the building clean. She hadn't noticed it during her sightseeing or even when she was first shoved into the closet. Only now. Was she losing her mind trapped in the small space? How long would it take for someone to find her and let her out?
Why had those wicked women done this? They'd been somewhat catty to her the entire trip. Yet Izzy had been stupid enough to trust them when they'd told her they'd seen something interesting behind the door. Her curiosity hadn't done her any favors. What a dunce.
Izzy strived to be independent in life and her work, so she didn't have many close friends. Since she was mostly alone in the world, she had sought out companionship on this trip though. Who wanted to experience a foreign country by herself, having no one to share it with? Obviously, she hadn't chosen wisely with those witches.
A scratching sound low on the other side of the door caused her to dart her gaze that direction, even though there was barely enough light from the tiny crack by the floor to see much. It made her think of animals clawing, trying to get through the door and attack her. She gasped. What now? Were those women scratching to add insult to injury, or to make her feel even more like an idiot? She wasn't sure it was possible at this point. As she tilted her head closer to the door, she realized she could no longer hear their laughter. What was going on out there?
Her breathing hitched as finding air seemed harder to do. Wheezes and coughs were her companions now. Would she suffocate in here? What would happen to her if she died and they found her body? The only family she had left was her father, and he wouldn't bother to find out what happened to her. As her vision swam and whirled, a vague background noise hummed around her. Voices. Male voices. Who was that?
****
December 1812
Charles glanced at his cat. The animal seemed agitated, swishing her tail as she sniffed every inch of the crack below the closet door. What had gotten into her?
"Nephew! Are you paying attention? Why are you staring at the cat?"