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Molly's Magic: Regency Time Travel Romance, Book 2: Regency Time Travel Romance, #2
Molly's Magic: Regency Time Travel Romance, Book 2: Regency Time Travel Romance, #2
Molly's Magic: Regency Time Travel Romance, Book 2: Regency Time Travel Romance, #2
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Molly's Magic: Regency Time Travel Romance, Book 2: Regency Time Travel Romance, #2

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Your life can change in an instant... 

At 24, not only is Molly Ballantine stunning, she has two sisters she loves, and a wonderful career. Then her eldest sister Tara vanishes, and her life disintegrates. 

Molly's life is about to become even more chaotic. She wakes up in a brothel with a man who's too good-looking for her peace of mind. 

Someone is playing a mean trick on her. She seems to be in a reality show. Everyone's in historical costume. 

When Edmund, Lord Langhay, tells Molly it's 1809, she doesn't believe it at first. Then she saves Edmund's life, and she's forced to believe it: she's in Regency England.

Molly soon becomes desperate to return to her own time. She's falling in love with Edmund, the handsome, aristocratic rake, and she can't allow that to happen. She has good reason not to trust handsome men.

Meanwhile, in present day Sydney Australia, Molly's sister Priscilla learns that her sisters have been sent into the past by their stepmother, Devon. She realizes that she may be the only person who can save her sisters, and their father. To do that, she will need to travel into the past herself.

Molly's Magic is the second novel in our time travel Regency romance trilogy. The first novel, Tara's Enchantment, is available now. Both novels can be read as standalones.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJun 21, 2016
ISBN9781533737274
Molly's Magic: Regency Time Travel Romance, Book 2: Regency Time Travel Romance, #2
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    Molly's Magic - Penelope Redmont

    1

    London , 1809…

    The door of her room crashed open.

    Molly sat up, and desperately tried to clear the fuzziness from her brain.

    A deep voice drawled: Hello my pretty — I was told you were a pretty piece, and you are indeed. Tell me you'll be nice to me. For once, I won at the faro table, and I can afford a fine woman.

    She stared at him. He was gorgeous. Huge, and gorgeous. Dark brown hair, and bright blue eyes. His lips quirked in a grin that she was sure won over every woman he used it on.

    She frowned. What on earth was happening here? If her room became any busier, she’d need to install traffic lights. Here was another male in fancy dress, but clean clothes this time. A dark blue jacket, and buff breaches, like riding breeches. He wore a heavy gold fob chain.

    Get out, she said. I've paid many hundred times what this room is worth, so take yourself off.

    He closed the door behind himself, and then chuckled. Now, now. Don't be like that. I'm Edmund. Who might you be?

    She was too tired for this. And she'd given her Armani jacket and jewelry for this room. "This room is mine, I paid for it, so get out."

    Don't be like that. Let’s get acquainted. I’m Edmund. Who might you be?

    She blinked hard, and brought him into focus. He was tall, lean and gorgeous. Male model perfect, and carrying a candle. The candlelight played on dark brown hair, and bright blue eyes. His lips quirked in a grin that she was sure won over every woman he used it on.

    Unfortunately for him, the grin didn't work on her. Molly had been well and truly inoculated against handsome men, so despite the effect he had on her, she disliked him on sight.

    She realized that she had to stand up. Although she sensed that he wasn't dangerous, he was just another handsome fool, she was alone in a strange house, and was far from well. He hadn't even bothered to knock.

    She swung her legs over the side of the bed.

    The man's eyes widened when he saw her legs.

    She stood up, then had to sit down on the bed again abruptly when her head spun. She took a deep breath, and wondered at his odd reaction to her Armani business suit's very proper trousers.

    That annoyed her — trousers. She was now minus the suit's elegant jacket with its ruched sleeves, and duchesse-covered buttons, she thought sourly. She'd loved that jacket.

    Now that he'd closed the door, he seemed content to stare at her.

    She took that time to think, all the while staring at his high cheekbones, and well-shaped lips. Kissable lips. She shook her head to clear the idiocy from her brain.

    How had she got here? The last thing she remembered was her office.

    Since he seemed content to stare at her, she took a moment to think. Earlier that evening, she recalled, she'd had a business dinner with a client. After the dinner, she went back to her office to sign some documents which needed to be delivered next morning.

    She rubbed her forehead, trying to remember more.

    The huge offices of Ballantine Industries in Sydney had been quiet. She'd used her keycard, and left the elevator. Most of the lights were off in the common areas. Office doors were closed. As far as she knew, she was the only person on the marketing floor.

    She'd signed the contracts and memorandums on her desk blotter. Then she laid them aside for her assistant to send to their destinations by messenger next morning.

    Tom Carven, she remembered. He'd come to her about a celebrity auction. She closed her eyes for a moment. Tom had sent her a box, an item for the auction.

    The box was on her desk, waiting for her. She recalled that she'd opened the box. And found another box, surrounded by packing peanuts. Inside the second box: a small jeweled globe. A precious thing, studded with diamonds.

    And that was the last thing she remembered. She'd felt faint, everything whirled around her and went black — and she'd woken up here, wherever here was.

    That can't be right… She rubbed her forehead again.

    What's troubling you? Well, aside from your unusual garb, I mean... Not that it's not fetching, but it's not quite what the average sporting female wears. I don't mean to insult you.

    Molly forced her attention back to the strange man in her room.

    His attention was now on her white silk top. Her thin silk top. She felt his heated gaze like a physical touch. Horrified, she realized her nipples were visible under the thin silk and elastane. She folded her arms across her breasts and glared at him.

    This was her room, she thought crossly. She'd given the woman in the dirty green nightgown her Armani jacket and her designer gold jewelry for this miserable room. After being threatened. But she'd felt too ill to do anything about that.

    But she could do something about this fool. Get out, she said calmly.

    Don't be like that.

    The big gorgeous man sat down on the bed beside her. He rubbed his own forehead. Listen, he said confidentially.

    When he leaned closer, Molly smelled spirits. She wrinkled her nose. Good lord, you've really tied one on, haven't you?

    Look at this, if you're concerned that I won't be able to pay you...

    The man pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket.

    Molly stared at his large hand, and at the coins.

    The firelight glinted on gold.

    Gold coins? What?

    She stretched out her hand, then snatched it back.

    It's all right, he dropped a coin into her lap. It's yours, he said magnanimously. Of course I mean to pay you. Do you want more?

    Pay me? Molly picked up the coin, then gaped at him. Pay me for what? She stared at the coin, fascinated.

    A guinea… a yellowboy. Say — thinking it's not enough? Very well, have another one. He dropped another coin onto her lap. And another, if you like. No sense in not doing the thing properly. He leaned closer. Keep it quiet, do, but I've not been to one of the these places before. Don't tell anyone.

    Molly leaned away from the fumes again.

    Suddenly she understood.

    If she hadn't been feeling so unwell, she would have jumped to her feet, and slapped his face. Then broken his arms. And legs. No one call her a prostitute without serious physical damage. You think me a whore! She snapped.

    Eh? He blinked at her. Well — yes.

    Get out!

    He chuckled. All right, he said. Take the bally lot. He tossed the rest of the coins onto the bed. Count 'em. Should be three hundred guineas. Unless I was cheated.

    Slumping backwards onto the bed, he yawned. I'll rest my eyes for a moment, and then we'll do the business. All right? He yawned again, and closed his eyes.

    As quickly as that, he was deep asleep. He began to snore softly.

    Molly stared at him, and then prodded his arm, but he didn't wake up.

    She took a chance, and stood up.

    She waited, but the dizziness didn't return. She must be recovering; the drug, whatever it was, was wearing off. Probably a roofie. Who on earth had slipped her Rohypnol? And when?

    She knew about date rape drugs. If someone had drugged her with Rohypnol, that would account for her loss of memory. However, she remembered getting a cab to Ballantine Industries after the dinner with the client. Surely, if a waiter — or even the client — had slipped something into her drink, she would have felt the effects earlier?

    She stared at the large male slumped across the bed, then glanced at the mass of gold coins. She frowned. She looked at the coins in her hand more closely, disbelieving what she saw.

    She flipped the coins in her fingers. That couldn't be right. She was holding George III spade shield guineas. Each guinea was twenty-two carat gold. She had to be mistaken, but the coins were heavy enough.

    The fire had died down, leaving the small room much darker. She needed more light, and recalled the candlestick on the chest of drawers. It was the work of a minute to toss another log onto the fire, and light a candle. The candle glowed softly.

    She knelt in front of the fire where the room's light was brightest, and turned one of the heavy coins in her fingers.

    Her father, Thomas Ballantine, collected old coins, and had several spade guineas in his collection. A spade guinea's denomination was 21 shillings, and each one was made of 22 carat gold. Molly had paid attention to them, because he told her that spade guineas were the first machine-struck gold coins.

    As she stared at the coin, she recalled that spade guineas had been minted in England from 1779 to 1815. They had a portrait of King George III on one side, and on the other side, a crowned shield of the Royal Arms. The shield looked like a spade, hence the name, spade guineas.

    And this man claimed to have three hundred of them… She stood, and picked up several more coins from the bed. Each was a spade guinea.

    When he'd slammed open the door, he'd said: Hello my pretty — I was told you were a pretty piece, and you are indeed. Tell me you'll be nice to me. For once, I won at the faro table, and I can afford a fine woman.

    Spade guineas… Faro?

    She looked around the room. No. She shook her head. No, no, no… Such things didn't happen, other than in novels and movies.

    And yet, without even trying, she could well imagine herself in the early 19th century. She looked around the room. And at the big man sprawled on the bed, who was dressed in an elegant blue coat, snowy cravat, embroidered yellow waistcoat, and buckskins.

    She stood, so that she could take her phone out of her pocket. The sight of the phone relieved her — she was still herself.

    But there were no bars. No signal. She tapped out a number anyway.

    Nothing.

    It was a trick. Someone had set her up… She had to admit that whoever had organized this joke had done it well. Her sense of humor came to the fore. Chuckling to herself, she collected the gold coins from the bed, and counted them into stacks on the chest of drawers.

    Yes, there were three hundred of them. Somehow the big man lying across the bed in fancy dress had found them. Or stolen them. Was he a thief?

    Not that it mattered. She yawned. She was tired, and she needed to sleep. He was sprawled all the way across the bed. She didn't fancy sleeping on the floor. She'd paid for this room, dammit. She doubted that she'd be able to wake him.

    She sat on the bed, then laid her head on the pillow. If she tucked her legs up, she needn't touch any part of him.

    Molly had just closed her eyes.

    The door slammed open again.

    "All right, Langhay — we've found you now. Get up. You're going to die — but I've never killed a sleeping man yet."

    What? Molly sat up and gaped at the two large men in the doorway.

    More large men in a room she'd paid for? This was becoming ridiculous.

    A large man leaned against the doorway.

    The other man had come into the room. He was just as large as the first man, and had a beard. He stood three feet from her, and looked down at her. He folded his arms across his chest, and grinned.

    The log on the fire was burning well. The firelight and candlelight revealed that the two large men were dressed similarly to Edmund. However, where Edmund's garb was tailored, theirs wasn't.

    The man in the doorway held a knife.

    What the bloody hell do you want? Molly asked. She was more than a little peeved. She'd paid the woman and her accompanying goons for this room, with not only her Armani jacket which she loved, but also with her designer jewelry. Next, Edmund had blundered in, and now these two.

    Later she wondered why she hadn't been afraid. She decided that it was because none of it was seemed real. And yet it was.

    The knife glinted. The man grinned at her, and bowed low. Ma'am, I'm Roger, and that ugly brute is Chaz. You're lovely, he said, staring at her unabashed. Be patient, my sweet. We're about to relieve you of the company of Lord Langhay. I'll be happy to enjoy whatever he's paid for... Stow the gold, Chaz.

    Molly kicked Edmund. Wake up! She snapped. You're being robbed.

    To her surprise, Edmund woke up and sprang to his feet.

    Lovely, she thought. Three men fighting in one small room — and with a knife. This could get very ugly.

    Who hired you? Edmund asked. He didn't sound concerned. If anything, he sounded bored.

    Get the gold, Chaz.

    Chaz grinned at her, then went to the chest of drawers, and scooped the gold into a sack.

    You think I'll let you take the gold? Edmund asked.

    Molly gaped at him. He's got a knife, she pointed out.

    Get behind me, he said conversationally, and stay out of the way. I've got a knife too.

    You're going to fight him? Let him take the spade guineas!

    I might, if that were all they want. They mean to kill me.

    He didn't sound concerned, Molly thought.

    He was insane.

    There'll be no fighting. Take his money, and go, she ordered Roger.

    Roger leaned forward, and stared at her. Look, Chaz — what have we here? Whatever are you wearing, my sweet? As I live and breathe, trousers. You look very good. I've never had a woman dressed like a man before. This is your taste, Langhay?

    They were concerned about her trousers? Molly couldn't believe it. She shook her head. This is a small room. If you're determined to fight, do it. Take the money, and go out into the street — you can fight there. And be arrested, she thought, when people see you.

    She stared at the two men as hard as they stared at her. That made six people, she thought, all of whom were dressed in 19th century garb. Had she found herself in a reality show?

    Whatever… the knife. No reality show she'd ever heard of involved fights with weapons.

    All three men continued staring at her. She clenched her toes, and her hands. Idiots.

    Edmund ignored the other two men, as he looked her up and down. He stepped towards her. Before she could stop him, he fingered the material of her top. Smooth… it's silk, he said. Very nice. Who made it for you?

    Really? She asked. You're concerned about what I'm wearing?

    He winked at her. We'll discuss it later. He turned to the two men. Leave now, and there's an end to it. I will not set the Runners onto you, and you won't be hanged.

    Roger flipped the knife in his hand. Kind of you. Mind you, remember that you are foxed, and we're not. We'll get a hundred guineas when we kill you.

    Ma'am, get behind me, and stay out of the way.

    Molly did as Edmund asked. Then she shook out the tension in her arms, and focused. She practiced Aikido, a Japanese martial arts style, but never outside a gym. It looked as if she would be able to put her skills to work.

    Edmund was fast. He launched himself at Roger, and grabbed the hand holding the knife.

    As he did so, Chaz moved toward Edmund. Molly leaped at Chaz, and snatched at his hair, which was conveniently tied in a queue. She yanked hard. Chaz stumbled, and tried to right himself.

    Molly tripped him over her outstretched leg. He fell backwards.

    When Chaz landed hard on the wooden floor, Molly kicked him in the temple.

    Unfortunately Edmund chose that moment to step backward. He tripped over Chaz, and fell against Molly.

    She landed on the floor with a thump, underneath Edmund.

    Get off me! She gasped.

    Edmund's entire weight was on her back, so she couldn't see what was happening, but she guessed that Edmund still had hold of Roger's knife hand, because the weight on her back increased.

    She couldn't move or breathe. All she could hear was heavy breathing, and the blood thumping in her head. By the time the weight removed itself from her back, she was close to losing consciousness.

    Someone yanked her up by her belt, then tossed her onto the bed. I told you to stay out of the way!

    She recognized Edmund's deep voice as she struggled to regain her breath. She'd be bruised all over.

    When she sat up, she saw Roger lying peacefully on top of Chaz, and Edmund propped against the wall, breathing hard.

    Idiot, she said, and tried to get off the bed.

    Something red dripped down her arm.

    She stared. Hell, she'd been stabbed by the fool with the knife. Give me your cravat.

    Edmund stepped across the room, and lifted her arm. You've been stabbed, he said stupidly, staring at the wound.

    Cravat, Molly said shortly. Not only was he drunk, he was also simple-minded. She moved her arm. It wasn't broken.

    When he didn't respond, she repeated, give me your cravat, Edmund. It'll be cleaner than these dingy bedclothes. If I wipe my arm with them, I'll get an infection.

    She waited patiently until understanding came into his blue eyes. You want my cravat, he said.

    Anytime you're ready, she said, not trying to keep the sarcasm from her tone. Anytime this week, would be good. You might pick up that knife too, and hide it, so those fools don't get ideas when they wake up.

    She ached all over, she thought, as he watched him remove a diamond stick pin, then unwind his cravat. She blinked. The neckcloth had to be several yards long.

    She pressed

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