Divine by Nichole van Page B

brothers had demonstrated a proper appreciation for the profundity of its mystery.
    Georgiana tossed a photocopy of the letter onto the counterpane—she had left the original in 2013—and collapsed back into her pillows piled against the headboard.
    After maintaining lady-like posture all day, she felt the tiniest bit naughty slouching on her bed.
    She reached for her tablet and pulled up her My Mysterious Letter list, pondering it for a moment.
    Who did she love to such depth? And when?
    As she had noted in her list, the letter was dated -ber 1813, which meant it would be written sometime between September and December. Given that it was now pushing the end of August, she could write the letter at almost any time.
    If only she felt that kind of emotion for someone.
    . . . love that comes from deep within a woman’s soul . . .
    Shatner. She cared about him—his focus, his energy, his drive—but did she care that much? Perhaps being away from him would make her heart grow fonder.
    Or absence could make the heart wander.
    She chewed on the inside of her cheek and pondered the state of her heart.
    It felt . . . oh, who was she fooling?
    Her heart felt whole and entirely her own. Perhaps she just wasn’t made out for romantic, gushy love like poets described. She felt happy when she was with Shatner, and she loved the idea of the life they would have together.
    That probably described love for her. Other people just waxed more rhapsodic about it.
    So what about her letter then? Did she write it as a lark as James had suggested—a joking expression of poetic love?
    She briefly saw herself seated in Arthur’s study, pen in hand, composing the letter.
    Someone else strolls to her side, leaning over, helping her come up with the lines. Someone with broad shoulders and dark hair, his low voice laughing as they write the ridiculous words of love together . . .
    Georgiana groaned. Yes, she could see it all too clearly. Perhaps the letter truly was just a lark.
    Sighing, she added that point to her list:
Could I have written (will I write?) the letter as a joke?
    The clock on the mantle chimed once. Was it already one o’clock in the morning? Georgiana pursed her lips and looked around her room, the place that had always been her sanctuary.
    The two windows stood open, allowing a cool summer breeze to stir the pale green bed curtains. No fire burned in the hearth, but the room was lit enough by a decidedly anachronistic solar lamp sitting on her bedside table. Much brighter and less sooty than candles.
    The large trunk she had brought through the portal stood open at the foot of her bed. Marc had the ingenuous idea to place the trunk on casters, enabling her to wheel it through along with herself.
    Georgiana had chosen the trunk because it looked quite period, but its contents were anything but nineteenth century. She might be returning from her adventures in the twenty-first century, but that didn’t mean forgoing all the perks of modern life.
    Aside from the solar lamp, Georgiana had brought her phone and tablet, as well as extra batteries and discrete solar chargers for them. She had loaded an external harddrive with a ridiculous amount of information, everything from medical textbooks to music to dress patterns. She even had night vision goggles. All the tools necessary for sleuthing out an answer to her mysterious letter.
    She had the trunk fitted with a false bottom, enabling her to hide all her futuristic anomalies from servants. And she knew of a small window in the attic which would be the perfect stowaway place to recharge all her small solar batteries.
    However, the bulk of her trunk she had dedicated to clothing, all the dresses and accessories made for her Bosom Companions of the English Regency meetings. Even if she didn’t find love, she would be the best dressed young lady in Herefordshire. Right now she was wearing a lovely nightgown of the softest Egyptian cotton with yards of lace. The kind of lace that